


A Knight's Watch

by DolorousEdditor



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), R plus L equals J, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 42
Words: 669,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolorousEdditor/pseuds/DolorousEdditor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow is forbidden to take the black by his father. Instead he sent to squire for a famous knight, beginning a long arduous journey that causes him to cross paths with characters he never would have. Along the way he learns truths long hidden and discovers love in the most unlikely of places.<br/>All of this in the shadow of the War of Five Kings and the coming of the Others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was inspired by and most of the characters come from George RR Martin's A Song of Fire and Ice book series. I gain nothing from this. Nothing I say.
> 
> I only give permission for my works to be on AO3. If you upload it elsewhere, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will... be angry with you.

**EDDARD**

Some men treated honor and vows as mere words. That was not his way. Nor was it Jon's.

“Please father!” 

“No, I’m sorry Jon but I forbid it.” He sighed to speak the words.

Much and more had been denied Jon throughout his life and as much as it bothered Ned to deny the boy yet again, he couldn’t allow this to pass.

_It wouldn’t be fair._

“It’s not fair!” Jon shouted, his mood swinging to a rarely shown rage.

 _So much like me,_ he thought,  _Benjen said so again at the feast._

“No one would ever question that you are the boy’s father Ned.” Benjen had whispered to him after the feast. “No one.”

The Great Keep had been silent and mostly empty after welcoming Robert and the royal family to Winterfell last night. The silence had been as comforting then as it was now as Ned did not want this conversation to be heard by the wrong ears. Even in his own solar they had to be cautious so Ned had given orders to the household that he and Jon were not to be bothered. Not even Maester Luwin, who had helped come up with this plan in the first place, was there.

He also didn’t want an audience for what he was about to ask Jon as it shamed him a bit. It was an unbecoming and unfair task to put to Jon when the boy only ever strived to be as honorable as possible.

_If only the honorable path was always so clear._

“Father, if I can’t go south with you, and if you say that Lady Stark won’t have me in Winterfell, where else can I go but the Wall? Uncle Benjen says I would serve well there…”

“He also says that you are too young to know what such a choice means. And I’m inclined to believe that he is right.” Ned reached for his son but the boy shrugged away from his touch.

He sighed.

“And you are wrong about so much else.”

“You mean I can stay at Winterfell?” Jon asked, eyes almost hopeful.

“No.” Eddard replied. “I’m sorry, but no. You are my blood Jon, not Catelyn’s. I cannot ask her to care for you. It would be an unfair thing to do to her.”

The lad looked ready to say something to that but he was cut off by Ned’s raised hand.

“You are still meant to go to the Wall though. You will leave with Benjen and…”

“I can take the black?”

“Do not interrupt me.” He said sternly. “You were raised better than that.”

It was easy to forget Jon was almost a man grown when he still acted like such a boy at times. Such discourtesy on the journey Ned and others had planned for him couldn’t be allowed. Jon was as well treated here in Winterfell as he could make it but the rest of the realm was not so kind to bastards. A lack of manners to the wrong person could go very badly for him.

It could get him killed.  

“I am sorry father.”

“You must do more than be sorry. You must remember your lessons Jon. I still forbid you to take the black. Instead, you will be representing me in your travels… and those of Tyrion Lannister’s.”

Jon’s face twisted in shock and confusion.

“He has a mind to travel onwards to the Wall while the rest of his… family… go south. As Warden of the North, I’ve promised him an escort for his journeys through it. You will be that escort Jon. See him safely to the Wall and back again to Winterfell.” He paused, deciding to delay the truth a bit longer. “Then you will seek me in the capital.”

“But you said I wouldn’t be welcome at court.”

“No, the Lannisters might take offense to my bastard at court but if all goes as I hope, you won’t need to be worry about that. You’ll be off somewhere else soon enough. To squire for some lord or his son, far away from King’s Landing.”

“Squire?” Jon’s face lit up for a moment, his head probably filling for a moment with boyhood tales of knights and gallantry about such men as Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Serwyn the Mirror Shield, tales that Ned knew Bran and Sansa would often be enraptured by as well.

Just as quickly his face fell though.

“Who would want me? I’m too old to squire and… a bastard besides…”

“Some of the finest knights who have ever lived started off little better.” Ned almost smiled to say so, what came next was no happy matter.  “I’ve been named Hand of the King Jon, which means I speak with the King’s voice and act in his stead when needed, an honor some might say. In truth, I didn’t want it when Robert offered to me. I don’t want it still, the tasks life sets out for us are often surprising and difficult, challenging us in ways we never thought to prepare for.”

He stared carefully into Jon’s eyes, ones so much like his own and he felt a smile pull at his mouth when Jon nodded in understanding.

“If Robert is going to foist this hardship upon me, I will use it to do some good for my blood. I believe it is easily within my power now to find a good knight who can take you as a squire.”

Jon was hanging on his every word, his eyes glimmering in gratitude and it made Ned feel like a fraud. For the words weren’t his. In truth, the idea had come from Maester Luwin’s counseling the night before.

“If you must go south to investigate Jon Arryn’s murder, you must not do so openly or it could lead to your own end, my lord. It may be best if you are seen to have an ulterior motive for accepting the position, something to busy whisperers about.” Luwin had pulled on his chain as he always did when deep in thought before continuing. “Finding a knight to take on your bastard son would be an ideal rumor. Your reputation for being an honorable man, well-earned as it is, will make such an act believable. A welcome distraction and a cloak for your true intentions.”

“Jon should not be protecting me.” He’d said at the time.

_I should be protecting him._

_I must protect all my family._

_‘Promise me, Ned.’_

“You think I could be a knight?” Jon’s face was still filled with doubt but a cautious hope shone through as well.

“I do.” Ned reached for the boy again, this time being permitted to grasp his shoulders and gaze down into Jon’s face, which bore the same long features as his own. His was a Stark face, none could deny that. “I think you could make a fine knight Jon. I’ll help you all I can but truly, this is a chance for you to make a life for yourself. Knights can even make their own names you know…

“I wouldn’t have to be a Snow? I could…” Jon’s eyes widened some at the thought. “But who would I serve? Where would I…”

“Those are questions for me to answer when you arrive in King’s Landing.” He patted the boy’s shoulders. “I want this to be a new start for you Jon.  I want you to have a life where you’re not held to account for my… sins.”

_For my dishonor._

The thought made him realize he could wait no longer.

“Jon, there’s more.” He released his hold then and backed away some. “I must command something of you and you must tell me now if you can do it. If you cannot, I must act quickly.”

“Anything father, you know that.” Jon spoke so earnestly that it made Ned feel all the worse to put this on him.

“The Lannister.” He almost spat the name. “Ride with him. Protect him as long as he is in our lands. Show him all the courtesy and respect he is due.”

“Of course.”

“And watch him.” Ned said quietly, as if the gods should not hear the dishonorable task he set before the boy. “Listen to what he says. Know to whom he speaks. Learn why it is he is lingering when the others have left.”

The meaning of what Ned was asking him slowly dawned on the youth.

“I am to spy on him?”

When he nodded, Jon’s face darkened in anger again.

“Is it because bastards are the seed of sin? I’m expected to be good at doing such a foul thing? Is that why you can’t ask Uncle Benjen…”

“Benjen is a man of the Night’s Watch, and as such he takes no part in the affairs of the realm.” He sighed. “To do such a thing could mean his head.”

_I sent him there to save his head._

“I’m sorry Jon. It must be you.” He continued. “For reasons I can’t say, we must be wary now. Our family may have enemies in the realm…”

“The Lannisters?”

“Perhaps.” He could not risk telling the boy more, in case he was discovered. If Jon was ignorant of the truth, Ned had hope that he would not be hurt for knowing nothing. “Can you do this Jon? If you cannot, tell me so now. I will not think less of you.”

Jon waivered some at that. His eyes began drifting over to where Ice lay scabbarded above the hearth. Eddard had often cleaned the blade in front of Robb and Jon, espousing the importance of honor even in the darkest of times.

_As father once did for Brandon, Benjen and I._

_Lyanna always carefully listening as well._

“Doing this will help keep my- the others, safe?” Jon asked.

“I would not ask if it wasn’t so.”

Jon straightened then, like a guardsman ready for inspection.

“Then I will do as you as you command of me Lord Stark.” He said before adding, softly. “Father.”

Ned fought the urge to embrace him then. He was asking the boy to act a man and he could not rightfully ask so much and still treat him like the boy he’d watched grow up in Winterfell. Instead, Ned offered his hand, thinking of the little babe he had brought to his home so many years ago and shaking the hand of the man who was about to leave it.

On a path not of his choosing.

“It would be a monstrous crime, Ned.” Benjen had said earlier that morning, in this very room. “To allow him to make such a choice when he knows nothing-”

“It’s his life Benjen. Why can’t the Night’s Watch shelter him as it does you?”

“Because he’s never been allowed a chance to truly live. I lived a fine enough life and eventually, I made my own choice to take the black and offer myself to the Watch. Jon probably hasn’t had a choice at anything in his short life.” Benjen’s good nature disappeared then. “You chose this path for him.”

“Should I have abandoned him?” Ned had slammed his fist down onto the table, spilling the pitcher there. “Abandoned him to the same fate as his mother? Could you have done so?”

“I love him too Ned. Not as much as you but the love is there.” Benjen had softened some at his questions. “And I’m asking you, as his father, forbid him this. Let him know the world and… and its secrets. Let him know that much before he makes such a choice. Be his father in this.”

As Ned gazed into Jon’s eyes, eyes he found so familiar, he remembered his reply to his brother.

_“I will always be Jon’s father.”_

“I knew I could depend on you.” Ned clasped another hand over top of the boy’s, holding it firmly. “You must be careful. Trust only those who deserve it. Stay true to yourself and remember all you’ve learned here. Most of all, stay safe. I can rest easy so long as you promise to do that.”

His heart willed all that to be so yet he needed more. Ned needed his son’s oath.

“Promise me, Jon.”

 

**JON**

 

 

The wilderness stretched before him in a never-ending landscape of dark forests and rolling hills. It was as if the whole of the world lay ahead of him, his eyes roaming across mysterious lands that would take him weeks to ride through.

And Jon wanted to do so very badly. To put on a black cloak and ride forth into that wild abyss. To know what lay beyond the end of the world. Let other men make their names in battle or songs, Jon could make his in this land.

He could make it his land.

“One last look lad?”

The man’s voice startled him. It shouldn’t have, as Jon had grown quite used to it over the weeks they’d spent together. He was even more accustomed to the awkward gait the dwarf walked with and the lopsided smile he offered as he approached from the winch lift.

“Great minds think alike.” Tyrion’s crooked grin widened even more as he joined Jon in staring out at the great expanse before them. “I’ll live my whole life and probably never see anything quite as beautiful as the view from atop this miserable chunk of ice.”

Jon thought the Lannister right on that score _._ From where they stood atop the Wall, the view had often enticed him into riding off into that mysterious unknown.

 _Uncle Benjen is somewhere out there, right now,_ he thought _, serving in this noble calling._

_Not like me._

“I saw it first with my uncle, before he left.” Jon said, the memory warming him against the wind. “I called it beautiful then too.”

“As a man who has actually bedded a wench or three, the Wall probably appreciates my praise more.” Tyrion shivered, untying a skin of wine from about his waist.

Uncorking it and drinking deeply, he then offered it up to Jon before speaking again.

“Your friends in the hall asked after you. It appears you’ve gained quite the following here. You’ll be missed.”

“They’ll miss my help in truth.”

The small group of Night’s Watch recruits he’d befriended during his weeks at Castle Black had rarely treated him differently for being a bastard, and the change had been nice. Grenn and Pyp were lowborn themselves and had arrived at the castle the same time their own party had. Despite his words to the Imp, Jon did appreciate their asking after him. He had grown fond of their company too, finding them good lads to pass the time with.

Their master-at-arms was a different story.

The first words Ser Alliser Thorne had spat at him set the tone for their dealings since.

“Is the Wall now a place for bastards to holiday? We are in worse shape than I thought.”

The knight was a cruel man who Jon soon realized would rather see his trainees bloodied than learn anything of value about arms. To his shame, at first he’d thought Grenn, Pyp and Toad and the others as being quite pathetic. None of them worthy of serving in the Watch beside his uncle Benjen as far as Jon had been concerned.

That had been his jealousy speaking, his thoughts unworthy of their sacrifice. For these boys were able to serve and he was forbidden to do so which and it bothered him intensely.

What bothered him even more though was Thorne’s cruelty and harshness towards them.  Knights were meant to protect those who could not protect themselves. Thorne appeared to enjoy beating on his trainees though. Jon began to pity the poor recruits almost as much as he disliked the knight.

It had been Tyrion who suggested he help them.

“I see your face as they train. You take no more pleasure in seeing that sunken cunt beat those boys than I do.” Tyrion had said while watching Thorne mistreat the recruits one day. “So do something about it.”

“It’s not my place to tell Ser Alliser how to train…”

“Perish the thought, him being a knight and you a bastard. He’d take suggestions from you as well as he would from some spoiled dwarf.” Tyrion had chuckled. “What I meant, was rather than telling him how to train those boys, show them yourself how to survive his training.”

It had been a fine idea. Between their meals and watches, Jon gave each of his friends lessons at-arms, just as Ser Rodrick had done for him and Robb as boys. It would never make them proper warriors, but the tips and tricks he showed them could spare them some of the worst Thorne had to offer.

Now on the Wall, he swelled with a queer pride as he told Tyrion how well they’d been doing.

“They’ll make fine men of the Watch one day.” He offered. “Maybe they’ll even become skilled enough to beat a knight.”

Tyrion chuckled some.

“See what a bastard and dwarf can do together? Why, I believe this partnership could see to the building of a second Wall!” Tyrion pointed south.

“Men on one side, women on the other. Of course, the good men of the Maiden’s Watch…” Tyrion pointed at the two of them. “Their sworn duty would be to keep the fairer ones safe. And warm!”

Jon’s laughter echoed down the ice, the wind carrying it far and away.

The Lannister was good company.

The thought saddened Jon even more to think on, so instead of speaking he drank more of the wine to hide his guilt. How Tyrion found southron wine here at the Wall was beyond him, or how a man as short as the lordling could drink so quickly.

“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you boy. You’re the bastard of a lord. Your very existence is awkward for nobles so why make it easy for them? Living life as a nail up the arse of men like Ser Alliser could be a fine life indeed. Of course, there are finer men than him to torment back south.” He jerked his thumb back the other away. “I for one am glad you won’t be taking the black. You do your father wrong, blaming him for sparing you this. I’ve known many knights and I think you’d make a fine one. A somber one for sure, but truer than most.”

Tyrion’s kind words rattled him. For the Lannister had been good to Jon and even patient when Jon acted too much like a boy. He liked how Tyrion spoke freely with him, without a care for appearances. He’d even been there to comfort Jon when news came of Bran waking.

_He said I’d be true._

_But I’m not true,_ he cursed _, oh father, why did you ask this of me_?

“My lord… you speak too kindly. I only hope to become a man- an honorable man one day. Mayhaps knight but…”

“But you feel guilty because you’re to be spying on me?” Tyrion turned his skin upside down and frowned at the lack of wine spilling out.

Jon’s mouth was frozen open and not due to the cold.

His father’ words came back to him.

“I do not trust him Jon. But I trust you to see what he does.” His father’s words in his solar had hung in the air awkwardly between them. Jon had thought to spy in such a way was dishonorable and father had agreed yet he believed it necessary to protect their family. “It is not entirely without honor, you will be an escort in truth. As you watch the Lannister so too will you guide and protect him through our lands. There is honor in that… still, I’m sorry Jon. I ask this of you because it can only be you, and I know you will not balk.”

 _I didn’t balk,_ he lamented _, I was discovered._

Tyrion’s announcement had left Jon speechless but the man himself was more concerned with quenching his thirst. The dwarf tossed the empty skin aside and held out his hand for Jon’s, which Jon blankly handed over.

“My lord I’m not…”

“I swear, if you learned your skills at lying from Ned Stark, he is going to have a rough time as Hand.” Tyrion shook his head and eyed Jon with disappointment. “Jon, come now, it was an obvious ploy, clumsy even. You’re too good a lad to be a spy. Every time we spoke of why your father sent you with me, your awkwardness laid it all bare. If you laughed you’d look guilty, when you smiled, the same. It must have been hard for you to come to like me.”

His face burned with shame that he had failed so miserably at his task and Tyrion laughed.

“I take no offence. In truth, I’m flattered Lord Stark thinks me worthy to be spied upon. To be such a threat to the Warden of the North…”

“Well… I wouldn’t be too flattered… they only sent a bastard.” Jon grumbled and Tyrion laughed heartily.

“I have to ask though, being found out, does that change your plans?” Tyrion asked with curiosity, offering the wine to him. “Do you still intend to go south with me?”

He nodded, taking the drink.

“My father expects me to do so. I am meant to squire, not to be a sworn brother. And I cannot be at Winterfell so long as he’s in the south.” Jon took another drink before admitting the truth. “Lady Stark would not have me at Winterfell without him.”

“My good fortune for it.” Tyrion snatched back the skin. “I’ll be happy to share the road with you south.”

“Truly? Even after…”

“Especially after.” He grinned at Jon’s disbelief. “I enjoyed your company before. With this laid bare, I can only imagine how much your demeanor will improve. It’ll be like trading a sullen goat in for a more even-tempered donkey. You’re a good man Jon, a poor spy, but a good man.”

“As are you Tyrion Lannister.” Jon spoke without thinking, and offering his hand as if by reflex. “I’d name you a friend.”

The dwarf’s mismatched eyes widened and he stared at the hand almost shocked. To be honest, Jon was surprised he’d done so, yet to do otherwise felt wrong somehow, especially considering that the man had forgiven his dishonor.

Tyrion shook off his bewilderment and took Jon’s hand.

“And I, Jon Snow, I name you friend as well.”

The wind had whipped around them then and they retreated to the shelter of an icy parapet to continue drinking. They talked of foolish things, such as the benefits of lions versus wolves and the like.

“See, I would’ve much rather been a bastard than a dwarf. I mean, look at how well your father treats you!” Tyrion had said as he went to the edge of the Wall. The man was good and drunk, and tottered some as he began to piss off its side. “Winterfell is a rather drab place if you ask me. It’s good of Lord Stark to arrange differently for you."

“I told you, he had to do it. Lady Stark…"

“Allowed more than most ladies ever would have. You were raised within the castle walls, not begging outside of them. That’s better than most bastards get.” Tyrion laced his breeches again and tottered towards him. Bundled in furs as he was it made a funny sight to Jon and he almost laughed drunkenly.

“Giving you the honor of escorting a royal guest through his lands and arranging you to squire somewhere south… my father would have me cleaning his privy before he wasted his influence in such a way.”

“I’d rather be here, at the Wall.” Jon grumbled before he let the truth slip bitterly from his lips. “Or in Winterfell.”

“Well, we’ll be stopping there on our journey south.” Tyrion leaned against him as he drained the last of the wine. “I told you, I’d had a thought to helping your brother…”

It would be good to see the others again. Jon didn’t have a chance to properly say goodbye to Bran as they’d left before he woke up and Lady Stark had tainted the visit otherwise. Now that his brother was awake it became his heart’s desire to see Bran’s eyes open again, to see the boy smile and speak. He wanted to tell Robb of his travels too and the thought of the reunion had him looking forward to the return trip.

That night though, after Tyrion and he retired to their beds after finishing the last of the wine, Jon worried over what would happen when he returned to Winterfell. Should he tell Lady Stark or Robb that Tyrion had discovered his true reason for escorting him? Would they know to ask of it? What if father had sent word already of who Jon was to squire for?

_What if Lady Stark won’t let me within the castle?_

The idea made him angry. As he drifted off to sleep, he imagined riding to Winterfell one day, an armored knight, pledging his service to House Stark and serving his father and brothers in all they needed. In the wine-soaked haze of his dreams, half-formed names of what he would call himself when he would no longer have to be a Snow kept popping up.

The next morning Grenn and Pyp came to see them off.

“Keep your arm up, you’ll be a fine ranger if you remember that.” Jon reminded Grenn before turning to Pyp. “Watch your foe’s eyes, they’ll always tell you what’s coming next.”

“It’d be better for us if you stayed.” Pyp shook his head but smirked as he glanced over Jon’s shoulder. “Thorne won’t be sad to see you leave though.”

He jerked his head and Jon followed his gaze towards the frowning knight across the yard.

“I wonder if anyone has ever seen that fucker happy.” Grenn grumbled.

“Don’t worry about him. Both of you watch out for each other.” Jon shook their hands in turn. “And help those who come here as I tried to do for you.”

As he walked towards the party of riders he was to travel with, Jon turned to gaze up at the Wall again. He had to tilt his head at an awkward angle just to see the top.

_I like the view from up top more._

Tyrion was upon his horse already, slumped over his saddle groaning. Jon’s head hurt some but clearly the Lannister was suffering the worst of their farewell to the Wall. Yoren of the Night’s Watch was laughing at the dwarf’s woes.

“I know a stew of roots and pig guts that would put you right back in good spirits, m’lord.”

“Oh that sounds delightful, but I'll try your Yoren stew another time perhaps.” Tyrion groaned. “I feel I’ve already got a belly full of something similar, waiting to be tasted again. Are we to be off now lad?”

Jon nodded as he climbed upon his horse and gazed again at Castle Black.

He could have lived here, been a sworn brother. Served the realm. That would have been enough for him, Jon thought.

“I hope to see this place again one day.”

“You have as little hope for your future as that?” Tyrion smiled. “Maegor’s teats, we need to find you a wench.”

Jon’s thoughts stayed on the Wall even as Tyrion continued on about the importance of him knowing a woman. He imagined it would have gone on for some time longer but soon enough the riding got the best of Tyrion and he let his own Yoren stew fly off the side of his horse.

Watching that made Jon question his future with the southrons.

_What kind of life is there for me in the south?_

Gazing back at the Wall.

_What life could I have had there?_

“Jon…Jon quick, grab a bowl.” Tyrion moaned. “I’ve got more than enough Tyrion stew to share.”

A fine life it was so far.

 

**JON**

 

 

“You see my good bastard squire, the trick to bedding a serving wench is always pretending she is taller than you.” Tyrion raised his mug towards the serving girl making her way about the patrons.

The inn was small but lively and Jon felt it to be the best place they had stopped on their journey.

It was full of freeriders, bowmen, traders, and women, all heading the same way to King’s Landing, just like Jon. While they all sought glory or profit from the Tourney of the Hand, he only sought his father and the next step to becoming his own man.

They were four days north of where the Kingsroad and Highroad met according to Tyrion. The dwarf seemed as eager to get to the capital as Jon.

“Oh to have city whores and good wine again! Not to say the local fare doesn’t have its own charm.” Tyrion looked at a pretty woman who was busy haggling with some hedge knights. The man could spot a whore a mile away and swore they had a scent as well. "Not the kind of hedge I want to see on a woman, personally."

“Do you miss your golden privy as well?” Yoren laughed to himself as he scratched his greasy, lopsided head.

Tyrion ignored him and grabbed Jon’s sleeve.

“You like that one? The redhead?” He breathed ale upon Jon’s face and he looked to where the dwarf’s eyes had set upon a serving girl a few tables away from them.

She was a young girl, older than him for sure but pretty enough. Her hair was more of a light red, nothing like Lady Stark’s or Sansa’s auburn, whose red-hair had more of a rust tinge to it. He thought it looked pretty enough though. What had caught his eye was the sweet smile on her face and the warmth of her eyes as she’d brought them ale.

Her dress showed less than the other women in the inn and she had smiled at him a few times as she’d passed.

“She’s no whore boy… that one you’ll have to use those famous Stark charms upon.” Tyrion continued. “Yoren, do we have any snow to throw at the girl?”

He shook Tyrion away from him and stared at the table. The situation reminded Jon of when Theon would tease Robb and him for never taking liberties with the serving girls. He would always say that they would never be men until they had, but Jon could not do that.

He would father no bastards.

“Take no offense boy, I think she likes you, that much is certain or why else has she has ignored me?” Tyrion japed before his tone suddenly changed. “Quickly now, gaze at her and let her see you looking. Make her feel like she’s the only girl in the room.”

Jon did as he was bid but staring at the girl and waiting for her to see him was just as awkward as he thought it would be. Yet as soon as he thought to stop, she caught him looking.

“Don’t look away, keep your eyes on hers.” Tyrion hissed as if he knew Jon’s first instinct was to avert his gaze. “By the gods Jon, if I had a face like yours, I’d hide it from no wench!”

The ale must have given Jon the courage to heed his friend because he did keep looking. Her eyes gazed right back at his and he was rewarded with a smile before she sheepishly bowed her head and carried some tankards away from a table.

“See! Now, to bed her you must get her to share in some wine with you…” Tyrion began to speak of bawdy things and the memory of Theon teasing him came back quickly.

“How will you ever father a bastard of your own if you don’t get a girl Snow?” Theon’s words echoed in his ears and he flushed in anger.

_I will father no bastards._

He shook his head and rose from the table.

“No my lord. I will leave the tending of the women to you. I will check to see if Ghost is well.” He turned and walked away before either man could respond.

It was a poor excuse but it allowed him to leave the cramped inn for a bit.

Beyond the door, the night air was warmer than Jon thought it had any right to be. Cool enough, but still somewhat unsettling to him as much of journey south had made him feel.

He’d seen more people on the road between this inn and the Neck than he had seen during the entirety of their ride from Castle Black to the Neck. When they’d emerged from the Neck’s swamps, a queer feeling had come over Jon. He was leaving the north for a long time and it felt wrong somehow, as if his place was there.

_It’s a foolish way to feel._

_My mother was likely from the south._

He walked away from the noisy inn and across the road it straddled, towards the dark field beyond. Jon could make out an outline of some hedges and a few trees but little else as there was no moon on this night.

Jon put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, the sound disappearing into the darkness.

After a few moments he did so again and was about to do whistle for a third time when Ghost finally appeared from the shadows. As the direwolf came before him, Jon saw blood about the wolf’s mouth and wondered which poor beast fell prey to his friend.

“Well, at least you seem to be doing well in the south.” He bent down to stroke Ghost’s white fur. “Don’t you miss the north too? Don’t you miss your brothers?”

Jon couldn’t help thinking about the north with his wolf before him.

When their party had come to Winterfell, it was plain that something was amiss.

For one thing, it had been Robb to greet them instead of Lady Stark. While Jon had been happy to see his brother, he wondered if the lady’s absence was because of him. She’d made it clear he wouldn’t be welcome at the castle with father gone.

Yet that didn’t explain Robb’s obvious anger with Tyrion. His brother’s greeting in their father’s hall had been discourteous and his manner towards the Lannister worsened by the moment. Had Bran not been carried within, Jon wondered if he could have held his tongue much longer. The sight of his little brother alive and awake made him smile and Bran smiled back.

“I am so happy you awoke little brother. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you did.” Jon had said as he held the boy’s hands.

“It’s okay, I’m just glad you’re back! It’s been so boring here without the others and with mother…”

“Bran!” Robb’s sharp cry had cut off whatever their brother had been about to say and Tyrion seemed as confused as Jon. The parchment in Tyrion’s hand reminded Jon of what it contained and he saw a chance to improve the mood in the room.

“Bran, Lord Tyrion made something for you that I think you’ll like.” Jon gestured to Tyrion who unveiled to Robb and Maester Luwin the special saddle that would allow Bran to ride again.

Things did improve some after that. Bran’s face had lit up at the thought of being able to ride and the boy’s smile lightened the room and made everyone seem glader as it always did. Robb had even seemed embarrassed at his harsh manner towards Tyrion.

It didn’t last long though.

When Rickon came into the hall with Shaggydog, Grey Wind and Bran’s unnamed wolf, they had bared their teeth and moved to attack Tyrion. Jon had been too shocked to move as Tyrion stumbled or he would have tried to help. Theon made a jest at the dwarf’s expense and it had fallen to Ghost to intercede. The direwolf moved between Tyrion and his brothers, baring his teeth in warning and shaming Jon for not protecting the lord as he had been charged.

After that, Tyrion had opted to stay in a nearby inn rather than bed at Winterfell overnight. Tyrion had not asked Jon to join him there but he declared that he would, to the shock of his brothers and Tyrion alike. He did beg a moment alone with his brother and the lord had agreed to await him without.

“Jon, Maester Luwin told me what father tasked you with but stay here with us. There’s much you need to know…” Robb had seemed troubled as he spoke and Maester Luwin had cleared his throat, giving him pause. “We missed you, the boys missed you and we would hear of your tales of the Wall.”

“I can’t.” Jon had said despite very much wanting to do as Robb asked. “Our father bid me to escort Lord Tyrion through the North, then to travel on to the capital. I’d fulfill both my duties, and I’d be a poor escort if I took a better roof than him.”

“He was the one who refused Winterfell’s hospitality…”

“After being treated with such discourtesy, I cannot blame him.” His words had stung Robb but he continued for he knew his brother to be better than such. “The wolves almost attacked him Robb, in our father’s hall…”

“Never would it have offered poorer meal.” Theon joked and he earned baleful glare from Jon. “When did you become a Lannister, Snow?”

“I assumed the Starks would treat guests with the same dignity as hostages.” He snapped back, which made Theon curse and Robb bristle. “What was that Robb? Truly? Father would never have treated a guest so!”

“He is no true guest!” Theon argued.

“Keep your tongue.” The maester warned and Jon decided to press the matter.

“No true guest? We must wait to offer bread and salt now? Father never insisted on…”

“Enough!” Robb didn’t just shout the word. He commanded it, like father would. “Do not lecture me on how to run my castle Jon! I am the Stark here, not you!”

“Robb!” Bran had called out and the anger in Robb’s face burned as he glared at Jon.

Then it suddenly seemed to drain away, and Robb looked as he did whenever he’d accidently hurt his partner while sparring. But they hadn’t been sparring, and Robb was right. He was the trueborn son of Ned Stark and he was the Lord of Winterfell in their father’s absence.

Jon was only a Snow.

“I apologize my lord. The castle is, of course, yours and I won’t presume on its hospitality. I’ll be following our father’s commands and bedding outside the walls tonight.” He’d tried to sound calm but he probably failed.

He hugged Rickon but the boy seemed to take more interest in bidding farewell to Ghost. It went worse with Bran, who wept as they embraced.

“Please stay Jon…”

“I can’t, my place is elsewhere… I love you Bran. Stay strong and listen to Robb.”

Turning away from his little brother was the hardest thing Jon had ever done and he felt tears coming into his eyes too. This might be the last time he saw Robb and Bran and Rickon for a very long time and the thought troubled him.

“Jon, I didn’t mean…” Robb said as stepped in his path.

“You were right. You’re the Stark in the Winterfell and I’m but the Snow outside.”

The words were harsher than he meant but it was true nonetheless. Robb embraced him but it was awkward and the moment ended quickly.

It was not how Jon would have liked leaving his family.

Yet that’s how it had to be. Tyrion’s party had left the next day and he’d spent much of their journey reflecting on the queer visit.

As he sat outside the southron inn petting Ghost, Jon realized that he missed Winterfell and his family more than he thought he would. Winterfell had been his home, his safe haven, for his entire life and Jon wondered where his home would be now or whether he would even have one, knight’s often lived on the road as part of their duties after all. Jon was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the girl approach until she was almost on him.

“M’lord said you’d be wanting this.” A soft voice came from behind him. He jumped to his feet to find the pretty red-haired serving girl standing there, a tankard of ale in one hand and a plate of raw meat in the other. “He said you’d be wanting to feed your wolf. I think he was playing a jest on me but he gave me the coin so here I am with your elk haunch… oh!”

Her nervous smile turned into a look of terror as Ghost emerged from behind him. The tankard and plate of meat fell clattering to the ground as her hands went to her mouth.

“It’s a monster!”

“It’s alright! He won’t hurt you!” Jon yelled but Ghost leapt forward.

The girl cried out and made to run but tripped on her skirts. She fell backwards and raised her hands up to protect herself. Instead of attacking, the white wolf ignored her completely, opting instead to eat the dropped meat. The girl was clutching her chest with white knuckles and staring wide-eyed at the wolf as Jon came to her side.

“He won’t hurt you.” He offered her his hand and tried to sound reassuring. “Are you alright?”

“It… it… won’t hurt me?” She was still staring at Ghost but clutched his offered hand like a claw.

“No. He’s mine. He only eats dwarfs and meat thrown by pretty girls.” Jon said with a hopeful smile.

The girl’s eyes finally left Ghost and fell upon him. They were a pale green, like northern grass and that thought made him like her all the more. She smiled some at his jest and grabbed his arm as he helped lift her to her feet.  

She began to brush off her skirts while Ghost finished his meal, ignoring them. Jon went forward and put his hand upon the wolf’s head, giving the Ghost a playing slap for his poor manners. The wolf returned the slap by biting Jon’s arm and pulling it side to side but the wolf’s teeth never broke the skin or hurt Jon. It was just a game they played.

The girl marveled at Jon as he did so.

“That is the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a direwolf from the North.” Jon continued to pet Ghost who sat and appeared bored now. “You can pet him if you wish.”

The girl didn’t believe him at first but he coaxed her over. She reached forward and tentatively began to stroke Ghost’s head. The wolf cared little and let it continue for a time before bounding away, off into the darkness again.

“He’s not much for farewells.” The girl giggled, which was a tad too high pitched for Jon’s liking. Still her smile was gentle and she was looking at him instead of Ghost and so Jon tried to follow Tyrion’s advice, looking right back.

“I’m Jon. It would be a fair trade to know your name now as well, yes?”

“I’m Iryne.” She pulled nervously at a lock of hair. “My uncle owns this tavern and I’ve seen all types of folk pass through. Never a group like yours though.”

“A man of the Night’s Watch, a dwarf, and a northerner with a direwolf?” Jon believed that if Tyrion heard him describe it as such, a bawdy joke would have been made.

“You’re a northerner?” She looked him up and down. “But you’re so kind, I’d thought…”

“Us all cold barbarians who steal maidens? Lord Tyrion can accuse me of the first charge but I’d be more worried about him on the second.”

Iryne giggled again and took step closer to him. Her foot kicked the dropped tankard and she groaned a little.

“The dwarf spent good coin on that.” Her eyes found his again. “I could go and fetch another? My aunt already says I spill more than I serve so…”

“I’d rather have you stay than have an ale.” Jon said without thinking and he was upset when she laughed at that too.

“I’ve heard that before. Many times.”

“Because you’re so fair…” His words were interrupted by another bout of her giggles and he became frustrated. “I mean it, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen during my ride!”

“Must not have ridden very far then!”

When he told her they had ridden from the Wall her eyes bulged.

“So you be a gallant northerner, travelling with the Lannister Imp, from the Wall, with a direwolf…” Iryne said softly as she stepped towards him. “How do I know this isn’t all some tale to get in my skirts?”

“Who would pretend to be such a party if they weren’t?” Jon asked. “But if it’s a tale that’s needed to impress you, I’ve heard several…”

He’d had enough ale to feel bold yet when her eyes met his the words fell away. Up close like this, he thought her lips to be full and soft. The softest things he had ever seen.

_Look at her._

_Tyrion said to look at her._

He forced his gaze up to her eyes again and the two of them drew closer still.

“My cousins would never believe that I…” She started but never finished.

Jon leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were as soft as he imagined and a little wet. His kiss must have been a bit too forceful as she’d reached up to pull at his hair some and ease him back. He was glad for the guidance, and Jon even liked the way she pulled his hair a little in a strange way. It made her desire for him seem stronger.

The kiss continued despite Jon’s fumbling, Iryne clearly knowing more than he did and soon it was her mouth leading them. Her tongue pushed at his lips lightly and he opened them slightly to let her tongue into his mouth. It was a strange feeling at first but one he quickly began to enjoy. His tongue joined with hers and Jon’s body burned with how sweet she tasted. If all girls kissed as hungrily as Iryne did, he could understand why Theon had been so wanton with the women at Winterfell.

Then they heard voices and Iryne broke away. Men were leaving the inn but they seemed to pay them no mind. She giggled then and ran off back towards the open door.

Jon just stood there staring after her.

_The south is not so bad._

 

**JON**

 

 

_I hate the south._

“We’re almost there.” Yoren growled. “Keep your hood down and let me do the talking.”

Jon only half listened, looking up from beneath his hood to see the truth for himself. Indeed, ahead of them stood the gates to the Red Keep itself, which meant an end to their skulking about the city that Jon had grown to dislike in a very short time.

King’s Landing was a filthy, crowded place that stunk of shit and things Jon did not wish to know. It would’ve been more tolerable if he weren’t so damned hot under his cloak.

It wasn’t his cloak in truth. Yoren had purchased the dirty thing from a beggar and made Jon disguise himself in it. He thought it stank worse than the city itself and Yoren had cuffed him when he said so.

“That’s the point.” The crooked-backed man had said. “Who would want to see what hides beneath such a rank cloak?”

Indeed, as packed as the streets were with people for the Hand’s Tourney, people cursed and made way as Jon approached. He hated when people brushed against him roughly and Jon decided that there were too many people for his liking in this terrible place.

As they came before the gates, the guards demanded their business.

“Yoren of the Night’s Watch.” Yoren proclaimed, offering up a parchment to the men. “I been sent by the Lord-Commander to seek recruits from the Hand of the King.”

“Fine then, and who is this?”

“One of my brothers who gambled away his black cloak. You see why we be needing new recruits.”

The guards laughed and sent a man to fetch someone from Lord Stark’s household. They waited some time before Jory Cassel himself came to fetch them.

Jon was excited to see a familiar face but he kept his eyes straight down, looking at the cobblestones. If Jory saw his face they could be undone and all their trials, all their efforts at getting here undetected would be for naught.

Thankfully Jory didn’t recognize him and the pair were led throughout the castle to the Tower of the Hand and then to his father’s chambers.

Jon heard arguing as Jory knocked upon the door and his heart leapt as he saw father and Arya within. Jory announced them as men of the watch and Jon stayed silent despite wishing to go forward and hug his sister tightly. She was filthy herself, covered in dirt and grime. Jon thought she looked like he smelt.

He smiled to think that even in the capital, Arya managed to cause such trouble.

Too soon their father dismissed her and the opportunity to hold her was lost. As the doors closed, Jon yanked his hood off and took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Jon! What is happening here?” His father walked forward and grasped him tightly by the shoulders. “Why did you not send word?”

“Begging your pardons my lord, but that’s what we’re here to tell you. There are things you need to be hearing before word gets out, as it most certainly will.” Yoren said then and he began to recount the tale of what happened at the Crossroads Inn.

Jon had wanted to keep riding but both Tyrion and Yoren had chided him for his lack of experience. Apparently they had been at the last inn of repute for many leagues and no matter how much Jon wished to reunite with his father, Tyrion made it clear that he didn’t want to sleep beneath a hedge. 

When they’d entered the inn, he’d scanned the room full of patrons and recognized her auburn hair immediately. Her and Rodrik Cassel both.

Tyrion was still haggling with the innkeeper and hadn’t noticed the pair yet. Something Jon saw they were trying very hard to avoid. It hadn’t worked though, as he had learned in their travels, few things ever slipped Tyrion’s notice. When the Lannister called out her name everything had happened at once.

Lady Stark never once looked to Jon while she named Tyrion as the man responsible for an attempt on Bran’s life. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, what she was saying made sense with what he’d seen at Winterfell. The burnt tower, Robb’s strange behavior, all of it. He also didn’t forget that father had wanted Tyrion watched for a reason.

So when Lady Stark had called for swords, all Jon knew was that something terrible had happened at Winterfell. Someone had tried to hurt his family.

He had named Tyrion a friend, he had spoken to the Lannister truthfully on many things he never had before, not even with his own siblings. Yet Jon pulled his sword along with the others as his friend stood accused of trying to kill Bran. The look on Tyrion’s face when he saw Jon’s blade weakened his resolve for a moment but he held the blade firm.

For he served the Starks.

None of that mattered to Lady Stark though. She was preparing to lead a party to escort Tyrion to Riverrun for trial, having asked for loyal men to join them. Men from houses sworn to House Tully made to do so and Jon had also made to mount his horse.

That was when she refused him.

“I would not have you.” Lady Stark said as she climbed upon her mount.

He’d been crushed. His sword had been good enough for her in the inn yet Lady Stark appeared content to ignore all that now. He had looked to Ser Rodrik then who had taken up his cause.

“My lady, I trained the boy myself. He is very capable with a sword and would be…”

“I would not have him. You were to squire somewhere, weren’t you? Go and do so.” The lady said without looking at Jon before moving her horse to ride past him.

“Lady Stark! I would serve your House in this! Bran is my brother!”

“Bran has enough trueborn brothers to protect him.” She’d called back. “House Stark would not have you!”

Those were the last words she said before they left him there with Yoren. The pair had continued on together towards King’s Landing with great haste. When they had neared the city, Yoren bid him to leave Ghost behind.

“We can’t bloody well sneak into the city with that beast, can we?” Yoren had said. “With you taking part back there, I guarantee word will reach here, and soon I wager. It be best if people did not think you came to the city.”

Jon had adamantly refused to do that. Ghost had chosen him and Jon would not abandon his friend. He’d used what coin he had to buy a wagon and cover from a farmer along the road. With Ghost covered in the back, none could see the direwolf but Jon was not sure how long the wolf would stand to be in such a state.

At that part of the tale his father interrupted.

“Yoren I thank you, for all you’ve done for my family by coming here and bringing my son to me. I’d ask for a moment with Jon, if you would excuse us.” Father said. “I’ll have lodgings arranged for you somewhere but I must ask you to speak to no one of what has transpired here.”

“I won’t be. I’m fond of my bloody neck where it is.” Yoren grumbled before nodding to Jon. “Farewell lad, ‘tis a shame about the dwarf. He had a decent way about him.”

 _He did,_ he thought _, he was a good friend._

Jon nodded numbly and said his own goodbyes as Yoren took his leave. Weeks of travelling together and it came down to that. It felt strange to have it end so quickly but he had no time to dwell on goodbyes.

_I must explain to father._

“I tried to accompany her father, I did, but…”

“I know Jon.” Father waved it away. “Where is Ghost now?”

“In the shed of an inn we stopped at. I traded my sword for the promise that no one would go in but I don’t know how long Ghost can stand it here.” Jon said. In truth, he was in a hurry to return to his wolf.

“I’ll arrange a new sword for you and better lodgings for Ghost.” Father shook his head and sighed. “What happened at the inn makes our position in the capital even more dangerous than I feared. I’d hoped to keep you here safely for a bit and not under a shroud of secrecy.”

“I’ll help you father. I’d rather help you all here than going off…”

“Nothing has changed about my plans for you Jon.” He said firmly. “You’ll be leaving at once to begin squiring.”

“How can I leave you like this? You just said it was dangerous here! Let me help protect you and the girls.”

“You were a part of what happened at the inn. Cersei Lannister would not hesitate for a moment at the thought of harming you, even if just to prove a point. And if Robert knew…” His father shook his head in disgust. “Besides, Lord Royce has arranged that his son second eldest son, Ser Robar, take you as his squire.”

“Lord Royce?” Jon had seen the man when he visited Winterfell. “You mean Bronze Yohn Royce?”

The storied Lord of Runestone was an aging warrior yet had seemed hale and full of smiles when he’d visited Winterfell, especially towards Lady Stark. His father held the man in high regard while Jon had thought little of his son Waymar. He found the younger Royce to be an arrogant and haughty man. His opinion was discolored by the memory of how particularly annoying Arya and he had found Sansa that week, with her constant fawning and sighing and crying over the ‘handsome knight of her dreams’ joining the Night’s Watch and being unable to marry. She had dutifully forgotten about him two weeks later.

That’s when he remembered that Ser Waymar been the one Benjen had sought on his ranging, lost and feared dead. Jon felt a little bad about thinking ill of him then.

“Yes, the ser is eager to be away from the capital so I’ll have him sent for immediately. They can collect you and Ghost at the same time.” Ned called out and a Stark guard opened the door. “See if my daughters are awake. If they are, and can get here quickly, let them know Jon has arrived but cannot stay long.”

When the man left, his father’s shoulders slumped slightly and his gaze went about the room, appearing almost disgusted with it. Jon wanted to know what troubled him before they’d arrived and why he thought the capital so dangerous. It was clear to him that Eddard Stark felt very out of place here.

“I’d have them say their farewells, I know Arya would never forgive me if I didn’t.” His father sat in a chair then and looked at him carefully. It made him wonder for a moment if his father still saw a boy before him or if he saw Jon, finally, as a man. “You look well, considering your journey.”

He wished he could say the same but Eddard Stark looked tired and worn compared to when they last met in his solar at Winterfell. Jon worried for him.

“Father… perhaps you should leave here too. If the Lannisters mean your family harm-”

“I have a duty to my king. As much I want to return to my home, and hold all my children, I can’t. We have talked on this before, Jon. The world is not about what we want. It is about what we must do.”

He was not happy yet didn’t challenge his father further. For the man wished to talk of other things instead and he would ease his father’s burdens any way he could. They spoke of how the girls were doing at court and of the time he’d spent at the Wall. Father had smiled to hear how strong Bran had seemed when Jon had visited Winterfell.

Then a knock came and Jon looked to door in anticipation.

Yet it was only the same guard father had sent to collect the girls, and he was alone.

“Lady Arya is bathing and the steward told me she could not be prepared quickly.” The guard reported and his heart fell, especially because she had been so close before. He felt that he should have said something then.

“And of Sansa?” His father asked and the guard shifted uncomfortably and looked quickly to Jon in apology before looking back to his lord again.

“Lady Sansa… well the Septa reminded her of how such would be seen… and…”

_It would be improper._

_Being seen with her father’s bastard._

Jon understood of course. It was the same reason he could not go south with them. A bastard at court was unseemly and he didn’t think harshly of Sansa for scorning him. She was to marry the prince and she needed to start behaving properly. What other choice did she have?

“Thank you, leave us.” Ned said but he looked anything but thankful. “I will have to remind the Septa that I can determine how things will be seen at court well enough for my daughters-”

“It’s alright father, she’s to be a queen one day. I would not risk ruining those prospects.” He did not want his father to worry any more than he already did. “I must go then. I am eager to serve Ser Robar well.”

His father moved quickly and embraced him then, awkwardly but tightly.

“I know you are almost a man and told old for embraces but please forgive me this. Let Ser Robar see a man where I still see the boy I raised.” Father’s voice was strained as he backed away. His eyes were full of sadness. “Before you left Winterfell you asked of-”

“My mother. I wish to hear of her, but I gather that now is not the time, is it?” He interrupted and it was a hard thing to do. He desperately wanted to hear of his mother. Yet this was not the moment to learn of her he felt.

And his father nodded.

“It is something I would like to take my time with, not something to be rushed right before you leave again.”

As Jon made to don his smelly disguise again, his father grabbed his arm suddenly. His face was pale and he had a pained expression upon it.

“She loved you Jon. Loved you more than you can know.”

It had been good to hear. Their second farewell was hard to endure but it had to be done. Later, as he walked through the streets of the city, back towards Ghost, his father’s words came back to him.

And a realization struck him numb.

For his father had told him two things with those words.

_My mother loved me._

_And she is dead._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon begins his duties as a squire and has his first taste of southern chivalry and what it means to become a pawn in the game of thrones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Jon deals with loss of his old one he is guided by a new one and taken in by a house he never expect to serve.

**JON**

 

Jon fell to his arse again.

He swore silently at his failure but arose quickly, his sword raised. His attacker waited impatiently, his armor glimmering in the sunlight, taking a few more swipes in the air with his longsword before waving Jon forward to charge him again. Jon obeyed and rushed forward, this time slashing low. Sweat ran down his face and his body ached with brusies but still he struck against his foe again and again.

“Good boy, good!” The knight smiled as he deflected every blow with an effortless flair.

Ser Robar did not give compliments easily and Jon felt heartened by it. When he struck at Jon’s leg, Jon jumped back and returned the attack, slashing downward and throwing his shoulder against the knight’s chest, feeling his shoulder jam against the bronze armor there. Jon could only hope that the surprise charge had knocked the knight senseless enough for the pain to be worth it. By the time Jon raised his sword to take advantage of the hit though Robar was already back in his stance and defended easily.

Before Jon knew it, he had been backed against the side of the guardhouse. The knight had Jon’s own blade pinned to his chest and the edge of Robar’s longsword tapped his neck.

“Not good enough.” Robar smiled again as he drew back from Jon.

He walked away and moved to ladle some water from the bucket they’d brought and drank deeply. The old stone guardhouse to the west of Highgarden had been a good place to spar, the training yards being quite full.

“It’s that pretty armor of yours ser, it’s distracting.” Jon rubbed his shoulder, the pain there only adding to his many aches.

Robar’s armor gleamed in the light of the sun and Jon took pride in that. It was he, after all, who cleaned and scoured it so often that his hands ached. Yet Robar looked as a knight should and even in a land full of great knights, he stood out. The bronze runes of the first men were borne prominently across his chest plate and it always drew compliments from others. Compliments that Jon quietly agreed with.

Though it wasn’t just his bright and shining armor, Robar was also thoughtful, charming, quick with a jest and even quicker with an offer of help to anyone and everyone around him. He fought like a demon and walked like a prince. Jon thought again of his prideful younger brother Waymar, and how Sansa had droned on for days about him being a “true knight,” and how Jon had rolled his eyes at the idea of such a thing. Bran too had been similarly mesmerized and spoke about becoming a true knight himself, serving as a member of the Kingsguard when he grew up, though Jon had attributed such naïve ideals to his little brother’s age.

In Jon’s experience, knights were just men. Men who could fight a little better and rode a horse well, and who treated bastards just the same as everyone else.

Robar Royce though, he was quickly changing Jon’s opinion on the matter.

_If true knights exist, I believe I’ve very much met one._

“Feel happy for the distraction, your armor is so dull, I fear I’ll fall asleep!” Robar’s jest was welcome.

He had equipped Jon himself at Highgarden’s armory with his own coin. Jon had tried to argue that his father had given him some coin for such a thing but had been told by Robar that it was a debt he owed his squire. Robar had pointed out a shiny plate of mail that looked to have been worn by many a fine tourney knight and gleamed in the sunlight like a jewel. Jon had asked for a dented suit of dull gray.

“By the seven, do you truly wish your armor to match your personality?” Robar had said but admitted later that Jon had impressed him with his choice. “That armor has seen real battles and I see no holes in it. It will hold.”

Jon had been ready to endure a knight much like Yohn Royce’s youngest son Waymar when Robar had first collected him from the inn. Though the two shared the look of brothers, the longer Jon rode with the second son of Bronze Yohn, the more Robar appeared to take after his father. He was handsome in a courtly way but also had a tough look to him, especially when he fought. Robar did well with any weapon it seemed, Jon having seen him wield the lance, the flail, and the quarterstaff, all with an impossible ease.

He shined with a longsword though. Robar was easily one of the finest swordsmen Jon had ever met and others who had seen more of the realm had said the same in his hearing. He still couldn’t understand how his father had been able to convince such a knight to take Jon as a squire. It was an honor he didn’t think he deserved.

“Because you’re a bastard?” Robar had asked Jon’s question for him on the second week of their ride into the Reach. “Well there are three reasons really. First, my father asked me to and it’s a hard thing to refuse Bronze Yohn, even if you are his son. Second, you’re not just any bastard, you’re the Hand of the King’s bastard and don’t think that doesn’t carry some weight. Third, I was told you and your half-siblings all have direwolves! I thought that unique and fascinating. Show me another knight who has a squire with a pet like yours.”

 _Ghost is more than a pet, he’s a part of me,_ Jon had almost said but he held back.

“Still ser, there must have been squires of higher birth for you to choose from.” Jon was not such a fool to think that any number of lesser houses from the Vale didn’t have sons that could bring Robar more repute.

“Jon… I’m a second son.” Robar answered with a sigh. “My father doted on Waymar as his youngest and last son when our mother died, and of course he gushes over Ysilla as she is his only daughter. All the while he took special care of Andar, raising him up to be his heir, as is only right. I love my father, and he always did right by me, but it has often been left to me to find my own path in the world.”

Robar looked off to the horizon then in thought and that was when Jon had begun to understand that the knight he served was more than just his sharp wit and his skills in battle. He was on a journey to become his own man.

_Just like me._

“I am a knight… a knight that’s sick of tourneys!” Robar snapped out of his thoughts and spoke excitedly then. “I seek a new challenge for myself and deeds worthy of a song. I’ve never heard of a knight with a squire such as you, a northman’s bastard with a direwolf as a pet... and they say Symeon Star-Eyes was blind, putting star-sapphires in his eyes to see. Perhaps you’re just the detail I need, to make my song one to remember for the ages.”

That had also helped explain why they rode to Highgarden instead of the Vale where House Royce held their lands. Robar had entered the service of Lord Renly Baratheon, King Robert’s youngest brother and Lord of the legendary castle Storm’s End, who had bid Robar to ride to the seat of House Tyrell. Jon had wondered at the reason but Robar was silent about that.

Robar had been of great comfort to Jon when news had come of the Kingslayer’s attack upon his father. According to the knight, the Lannisters were going too far and over-reaching themselves and that soon the decent lords and knights of the realm would put a stop to their power-hungry ways. Jon had hoped that they might return to the capital, to help protect Arya and Sansa but they continued on to Highgarden. Hearing that the Kingslayer had fled the city did not soothe Jon’s worries for his family.

Then word had come of King Robert’s death and his father’s arrest for treason against the king by betraying his son, the new king, Joffrey. Robar broke the news to Jon himself and refused to hear of any talk of Jon riding to King’s Landing. The knight swore that they would go eventually, but that they needed to be patient and Jon did as he was commanded to. Yet not a moment passed when he wasn’t afraid for his captive father and sisters.

That he was surrounded by such beauty and wealth did little to help Jon’s feelings of guilt. When he’d first seen Highgarden, it had astounded him. From what little he had seen of the grounds the white walled castle contained several groves of flowers and fruits, massive stables full of fine horses, and courtyards for comfort and walking rather than for training. It was a place of splendor so unlike Winterfell but a place that Jon thought his siblings would enjoy immensely and thought of them there with him.

He wished they were all there to share in this splendor with him for Jon felt out of place in such richness.

There were training yards too of course, but to have more than one still amazed him. The opulent farmlands he had seen as they travelled there, and the blue, slow moving Mander River beyond the walls, all fed such wealth. Jon couldn’t believe such a place ever seeing a true winter as he had.

The lords and knights of the Reach were feasted every night in the halls and everyday it seemed more men of standing came. Robar had also spoken of several lords and knights coming in from the Stormlands as well, sitting alongside him in the great hall, and Jon had thought it queer that they would journey to the Reach but he said nothing.

Jon himself often ate in silence in the common hall among the other squires, just like at Winterfell, he thought strangely. Sometimes he took his meal to visit Ghost in the abandoned kennel they had permitted him to use. According to Robar, the Tyrells had spotted Ghost from their walls and declared him a prize to be sheltered within. Robar had escorted several highborn, including several ladies, to view Ghost within the kennel. That direwolf gave Robar an excuse to spend time befriending such important people of high standing was a debt that Robar felt he owed Jon but he always gave the credit to Ghost. Robar suspected the Tyrells might try and have Ghost mate with one of their hounds and they had laughed at the thought.

Most of the southron lords and ladies treated Ghost better than Jon in a way. He was something from a land they had never seen or had little interest in learning about. He had been asked if he’d paint his face during battle or if he preferred an elm or apple tree to pray to. Jon couldn’t tell at times if they were jesting with such questions. It was not lost on him that the Tyrells had asked to view Ghost but never sought him out.

The treatment was worth it though, even if only for what Jon had learned at swords from Robar. Ser Rodrik had trained Jon well but he suspected now that Winterfell’s master-at-arms had been holding back because he had watched his students grow from children and couldn’t help but think of them as such. Robar did not meet Jon as young boy and treated him as the man was, acting as a harsh and unyielding teacher. Robar had jested that it would reflect terribly on him if the Hand of the King’s son died on his watch.

“Riders ser.” Jon said as he pointed towards the castle.

A group of horsemen were coming from one of the many gates towards them. As they closed in, Jon saw from their sigils that they were Baratheon men.

“Ser Robar!” One of them hailed. “Lord Renly has arrived from King’s Landing and he bids you to join him at the castle.”

“As long as he does not mind me smelling like a man who has just come from the yards, I would be happy to oblige.” Robar shouted back, looking pleased. They had been waiting for Lord Renly since their arrival and Jon still didn’t know why.

“He bid you to bring your squire as well.” The rider spurred his mount back to the castle and just as quickly as they came, they were gone. Jon looked to Robar who seemed to look as surprised as Jon felt.

They found Lord Renly in a hall filled with bright tapestries depicting roses, knights, and maidens. King Robert’s youngest brother was a tall and handsome man with bright blue eyes and dark hair falling to his shoulders. He looked just as Jon had always pictured the King before Renly’s older brother had arrived in Winterfell, fat and disappointing to look upon. He was garbed in green and gold, the colors of House Tyrell, which Jon thought odd. The attending Tyrells matched the lord in his grandeur.

Lord Mace Tyrell had never spoken to Jon, but he had seen the lord ride about the grounds, fat and jovial and always elegantly dressed. He often spoke to the men as being the true pride of Highgarden, but Jon noticed that he never stayed long at the training yards, preferring instead in the gardens.

He may have taken pride in his men, but his daughter, “Maid Margaery” as Jon had heard her called, was clearly the apple of Lord Tyrell’s eye and the love of everyone at Highgarden, highborn and low alike.

She rode almost as well as a man, sang beautifully, hawked well, joked with the squires and the men-at-arms, shared pastries with the servants, and had a way of looking at someone that made them want to give her anything she asked, which for Jon had simply been Ghost’s name.

Jon still remembered with deep embarrassment when Lady Margery had visited Ghost with some of her cousins. Her cousins dutifully ignored Jon but Lady Margaery curtsied and apologized for bothering his “pet.” The cousins were much too bothersome for Ghost, trying to pet and braid his fur, and the direwolf shook them off, pushing fat Megga Tyrell roughly onto her bottom. Lady Margaery had found the exchange entertaining and told the cousins not to both the direwolf so much. Ghost had shown his appreciation and licked at the girl’s cheek, jumping and pushing her back so that Jon had to catch her.

Jon was sure that he would be lashed or beaten then, his hands holding onto the smooth, warms arms of the lady, her back pressed against his chest, but again she laughed. Lady Margaery stood with his help and pressed a hand to Jon’s own cheek, telling him that Ghost was a fine beast.

“Like his master, I think.” She said in a way that made a baser part of Jon thankful for Ghost’s careless jostling.

Jon felt almost sure that she had been trying to purposefully make him blush and it worked splendidly. Robar had taunted him viciously about it in their next training session.

Both Lord Tyrell and his daughter were also richly dressed in the green and gold of their house while his youngest son, whom Jon was now just meeting, Ser Loras, wore a suit of gleaming steel-blue armor, flowers knitted tightly and carefully into a chain that ran through the plate in a mesh across the chest that must have taken hours to complete. He was handsome without a doubt, and carried an air of confidence that seemed in contrast with his young age.

These were some of the most important people in the south and Jon felt a beggar in his dented and dull, gray plate yet Robar strode forward proudly and he followed, head held up.

“Ser Robar Royce and his squire, Jon of Winterfell.” A steward announced then. Hearing his name said as such seemed foolish but Jon didn't bother trying to correct it. Instead, he tried to walk as straight and proper as Robar had.

“My red knight! I hope my dear friends of House Tyrell have treated you kindly.” Lord Renly smiled broadly as Ser Robar and Jon bowed before him.

“I fear that I have gained five stone because of their feasts.”

“Perhaps we should change our words to ‘Growing Large?’” Lady Margaery quipped and Jon smiled at the girl’s wit yet again.

He couldn’t help but notice again what a beautiful girl she was with soft brown hair, gently curled at the ends and kind eyes that invited you in to look but Jon sensed that they also seemed to hide a fire. He made sure his eyes did not linger long, though sometimes that was an admitted struggle.

 _Highborn maidens are not for the eyes of bastard squires_.

“You’ll have to endure their hospitality a bit longer good ser, there are more due to arrive and I’d not leave without them.” Lord Renly stood and walked forward to put his arm upon Robar’s shoulder, the knight nodding as if no more explanation was needed.

Then the Lord of Storm’s End turned his attention to Jon and his mood seemed to change. Jon worried suddenly that his presence was a mistake and that Lord Renly might be offended by the bastard before him when the lord did something surprising.

He held out his hand.

Jon stared at it, shocked for a moment, before finally reaching out and taking it.

“Cersei’s and my nephew’s actions against your father have been shameful. Anyone who met the man would know that Ned Stark could no more commit treason than warm a room with his smile.” The man squeezed Jon’s hand firmly as he said such. “I promise you this, your father will be freed as soon as we mount a force to do so.”

The surprising treatment he was receiving and Lord Renly’s words lifted Jon’s spirits but only a little. Knowing that the Lannisters held his father and sisters tied Jon’s stomach in knots.

“Thank you, my lord.” Jon finally spoke as Lord Renly released his hand. “When you do so, I’d march with you.”

“Tywin Lannister already marches.” Ser Loras put in. He was called the Knight of Flowers and the rumors about his beauty seemed true. That he was as great a warrior as well, Jon could not say, but he looked graceful and strong, like a knight should. “The Kingslayer and he are burning their way across the Riverlands.”

“And Robb Stark is bringing his bannermen south even as we speak.” Lord Renly countered with a wave of his hand. “None of that will compare to the force that your lord father and I intend to raise.”

Jon couldn’t believe his ears. The Reach and the Stormlands were going to call their banners. They were going to march together. All to save his father, and Jon would be with them.

A northern bastard would be riding with the finest knights and lords of the south.

It made no sense.

“So you seek to become a knight someday? To start squiring at such an age is not strictly common. Most start as a page at eight, then move on to squiring not much later…” Lord Renly’s words interrupted Jon’s thoughts.

He had walked to a table beside Lord Tyrell and lifted a pastry to his mouth. As he chewed, regarding him curiously, Jon realized that the others were looking upon him too and Jon remembered his courtesies and made sure to say nothing until he was asked.

“What changed for you? You are six and ten?”

“Just turned five and ten, my lord.”

“Hmm? Well, happy nameday then. Lady Margery just turned six and ten.” Lord Renly said with a warm smile to Jon before he turned to give Lady Margaery a small bow which she returned before he looked back at Jon again. “You neared adulthood and simply sought a different path for yourself?”

“My lord… I never thought myself as worthy enough to be a squire. For anyone, let alone for a knight such as Ser Robar. Unable to think of myself as a squire, I never even gave thought to being a knight. My father only arranged such after he had forbidden me to join…” Jon realized he’d made a mistake then but Lord Renly motioned for him to continue. “When he forbid me to join the Night’s Watch.”

Ser Loras made a noise of laughter and his sister shot him a cold look which silenced him. While Lord Tyrell had more tact, he still looked at Jon with something akin to pity.

Robar looked uncomfortable and Jon cursed himself for saying such. While Ser Robar and House Royce still remembered the old ways, and the honor that came with serving the realm in the Night’s Watch, he had warned that the order was something to be mocked this far south.

Renly had not reacted except to shrug.

“Well, for that I am glad. The Night’s Watch still has good men among it, kin to Robar and yourself if I remember correctly. Sadly, like so many other things in the realm, it has faltered over the years, becoming the dumping ground for cutthroats and dungeon dwellers. I could see better for you Jon.”

“As could I.” Robar added, smiling as he raised an eyebrow at Jon whose face still burned from his foolishness.

“Your father obviously cares for you a great deal. Ser Robar is a knight of renowned skill and to squire for him is of the highest honor.” Lord Renly accepted a cup of wine from a servant and sipped, his eyes smiling but his face calm. “Does your brother also hold you so dear?”

“Robb and I grew up together at Winterfell. I love him… as I believe he does the same for me, my lord.” Jon said truthfully. Despite what happened at Winterfell, he would die for Robb and thought of him often. He missed his brother greatly.

“Then I was wise to counsel Ser Robar to take you as a squire.” Lord Renly took notice of the surprise Jon felt on his face, and how Robar looked to the floor suddenly. “He didn’t tell you? Fear not, I’m sure he would have done so anyways without my counsel. I just reminded him of how… beneficial the friendship of House Stark would be.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I hope to earn your good favor Jon.” Lord Renly continued as a servant entered from the other side of the hall carrying something in his hands. “I hope to show you and your family that I am a man worthy of your friendship… and your fealty. A man to whom you would happily bend the knee.”

_Bend my knee?_

With those words, so much began to make sense and Jon started to see it before him. Renly was raising an army to march on King’s Landing. He insulted the Queen and the new king Joffrey. He wanted Jon to speak warmly of him to his father, the Warden of the North, and Robb, his heir.

Jon looked to Robar who was smiling widely along with Lord Tyrell who ran his fingers together greedily. The Lady Margaery was more subdued in her joy, giving a polite smile to Jon but seeming in no way surprised while Ser Loras seemed barely able to contain his excitement at what they were about to see.

_Robar knew._

_That’s why we rode for Highgarden and not the Vale_.

“My lord...”

“Your grace, soon enough, and if you do well by me, people will soon be calling you Ser Jon as well.” Lord Renly said as the servant presented him with a pillow upon which sat something covered with a green cloth. As he pulled the cloth away, a golden grown of roses lay before them. Renly smiled upon it and admired it with his fingers tapping lightly upon his chin. “Yes. That would do nicely.”

**JON**

 

 

He rode hard through the fields and orchards of the Reach. The moonlight gave little light to his horse, warning of obstacles and it was a wonder that he had not been thrown yet. He’d left the Roseroad hours ago, and in fact had no idea where he was, simply looking up at the Ice Dragon and following its eyes north.

Nor did he have any idea where Ghost had run off to. The direwolf had left his sight as soon as they’d left the road.

He knew the wolf would find him though. Just as he knew he couldn’t stop.

He just knew he had to ride north. He had to get to the Riverlands. He had to get to Robb.

_He needs me._

That’s where the Lannisters were too. Lord Tywin and the Kingslayer. If he couldn’t find Robb, he’d find them. He’d kill them himself.

_Father… father… I’m sorry._

The shame Jon felt now, thinking that he been at a feast when the news came, jesting with a Fossoway squire, was indescribable. That he had been sitting amongst knights and lords, raising a cup alongside them, thinking to himself what a beautiful queen Lady Margaery would make when Robar had sought him out.

He had thought Robar simply wanted to clank cups together until he saw his face. His normally pleasant smile was gone, his brow creased with concern.

“Jon, come with me please.” Robar had bid him.

It was a strange request. King Renly had only just been crowned and Lord Mace was making a grand speech of how the marriage between his daughter and the king would mark a new age.

“An age of chivalry!” They had cheered.

Cheers and men rose to that while Robar briskly walked from the hall with Jon following soon after. Robar had been seated just below the dais, which held the Tyrells and the newly crowned King Renly as well as some powerful Stormlords.  Jon had not been seated anywhere near as close, but that he was even present as a squire felt like an honor.

They had been in the corridors, Robar walking swiftly, passing servants and men carrying food and wine towards the hall. When they had finally exited through a stone doorway, leading out to a courtyard full of lavender and goldenrods, Robar stopped. He seemed to be looking around to see if anyone was nearby. The courtyard was empty but of flowers and trees. The smell of them, combined with the warm air, still made Jon feel as if he was in a different world from the north he’d known.

“Jon…” Robar had said with a hoarse voice and that is when Jon knew something was terribly wrong. His voice was always strong and ready, with a kind word or stern instruction.

“Jon…news has come from King’s Landing.”

The dread had gripped his heart immediately. As it did any time news came from the capital. He always feared some new treachery befalling his father or sisters. Usually his worries were for not, but the worries came anyway. It was Arya he worried about most, since no word had been spoken of her in some time, and he knew strong and fierce Arya would never have taken to captivity quietly. Jon had begun to fear the worst.

“Of Arya? Is there word of my sister?”

Robar shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.

“It’s your father, Jon… he confessed to being a traitor and asked to take the black. But Joffrey…” Robar paused then and swallowed. “They killed him Jon. By the warrior, I swear, I am sorry for it. No one believes him actually a traitor. All told he was a good man...”

Robar’s hand had reached for his shoulder but Jon had shaken it away. He backed away from Robar, the knight who had taken him away from his father. This knight, who had brought him far away to some strange and foreign land when his father had been surrounded by enemies. This knight, who had made Jon stay at the flowery castle while his father rotted in the black cells.

And was killed.

“Leave me…” Jon had turned away from the man he saw as both a mentor and friend. He stared upwards into the stars, the tears feeling wet upon his face as the truth of his father’s death, a traitor’s death, ripped through him.

“Jon, I will see him avenged alongside you, but we must not speak of it yet.” Robar had not left but made no further moves to console Jon. “The King only told me because to keep such from you would be monstrous, but such news would not be good to announce during his coronation…”

“I won’t ruin his party. Leave me ser. Please.” Jon felt cold inside. These people only cared for what suited them. They could have their party and feasts. He would have his vengeance.

When Robar left him, Jon found his way to the kennel where they were keeping Ghost. Few men were keeping watch between there and the horse lines by the gates, the makeshift stable used by smallfolk. He could not have risked seeking his own horse at the lord’s stables as that gate was heavily guarded. This gate was lightly guarded and used mostly for farmers and merchants bringing goods for the festivities.

So together, Ghost and Jon rode past the guardhouse. He saw one guard fall over drunk at the sight of the direwolf before they were off into the night.

_I’ll avenge you father. I’ll help Robb and free the girls._

_I’ll kill your killers._

Jon repeated such thoughts to himself over and over again as his horse slowed to an exhausted pace. He’d had to ride it hard, to put distance between him and Highgarden. Leaving the road was the best option after his lead. If anyone were giving chase, they would not know where he had left the road and would hopefully be unable to follow his trail until the morning.

At the end of one of the countless orchards he had ridden through, he saw the glimmer of a pond. Jon directed the horse to it and dismounted. The palfrey drank greedily of the water and he rubbed its back. It was not meant to be ridden as such. It was likely a merchant’s horse, rode only between a town and the castle. It didn’t belong on a quest for vengeance.

_No more than you belonged at Highgarden._

Since the talk with Lord Renly and the Tyrells, wherever Robar had been called Jon had been there beside him. He came on rides alongside the Lord Renly and Ser Loras through the country. He participated in training alongside other knights of the south. Robar had even been proud to see Jon best some of the younger knights and Lord Renly had complimented his sword hand. Jon wasn’t a fool though. He knew Lord Renly and the Tyrells didn’t really care. They simply needed him. They hoped all their attention would make him bid father to support Renly’s claim.

And it may have begun to work. Jon began seeing Lord Renly as how a king should be and often thought that he should sit the throne and not Joffrey. Yet now he saw Renly in a new light. While Ned Stark lay dying, the so-called king had sat around feasting and drinking.

Just as Jon had done.

He prayed Robar would understand. Jon had sworn himself to serve the man and there was no better knight he could not have asked for. But this was his family. Robar would have to understand that.

A noise caught Jon’s attention then. He drew his sword and looked back the way he came to the lines of trees silhouetted in the moonlight.

Something was moving between them, towards him. As it closed in, he lowered his sword and sighed in relief. The direwolf paused just at the edge of the trees looking at Jon with those red eyes of his.

“Where have you been?”

Then the wolf turned to look behind him and Jon heard others approaching. The sound of horses grew louder and then he heard men speaking loudly.

_Traitor, he led them right to me._

Jon swore and jumped to mount the horse but Ghost had sprung forward towards the beast and startled it. It reared up and knocked Jon aside just as his hand had barely grasped the saddle. The riders galloped through the trees just as Jon had finally gotten a firm enough grip on the reins, simply trying to keep the horse from fleeing.

“Jon! Stop!” Robar’s voice called out.

Jon had finally gotten ahorse when another rider was beside him, hands grabbing at his reins. A tall, broad, and bearded man riding a beautiful looking courser, held the reigns firmly and made soothing sounds at Jon’s horse.

“I’m sorry boy, it might seem unfair but we cannot let you do this.” The man said and Jon recognized the voice now.

“Ser Garlan, my family needs me…” Jon began to yank at the reins but it was futile, the second Tyrell son was older and stronger than he was.

Even to draw a sword against him would be futile. While Ser Loras was lauded as a great warrior by all, Jon thought that the older and broader-shouldered Ser Garlan to be greater than the Knight of Flowers at swords. He’d seen the knight in the practice yard training against multiple opponents at the same time with Ser Garlan often coming out the victor. Ser Garlan had told him once that he shared Jon’s feelings of dismissal over tourneys, preferring instead to train for real battle, which was probably why most didn’t notice his great skill. More important than his skills at arms though, Ser Garlan possessed a great patience and kindness that younger Loras seemed to lack, and Jon had grown to admire the second son of Mace Tyrell greatly. 

 “Your family doesn’t need you to die.” Robar was on Jon’s other side while the third rider moved to block his rear. “And I’d have failed a vow to both our fathers if I let such thing happen. I forbade you to return to the capital without-”

“I don’t ride for King’s Landing! I ride to seek my brother Robb, in the Riverlands! His army is there and-”

“So are his enemies. There are thousands of Lannister swords between here and Riverrun, burning and killing all they see. There’d be little doubt of your identity if they spotted you with Ghost.” Ser Garlan did not speak harshly, nor did he try to lecture him. His voice was sad in a way. Jon didn’t want his advice or his sadness. He wanted him to release his reins.

_They won’t see me._

“You’d abandon your oath to me, Jon?” Robar eyes were dark in the moonlight and this was the first time Jon had the courage to look at his face.

“I can’t drink and feast while my sisters are held by murderers! While my brother marches to war!” Jon spat the words out. Robar had kept him at Highgarden so Jon aimed his rage at him. “While good men are murdered!”

Robar answered his rage with obvious disappointment.

“I would have thought Starks more honorable than that. Do they only honor their oaths when it is easy for them? I’ve known knights who didn’t deserve the title and I’ve known knights who were the swords of chivalry itself.” Robar paused as Jon looked away from him. “I thought better of you Jon. I truly did.”

Reminding Jon of his honor twisted the sword in his gut. His father had bid him to serve Ser Robar and he would never have broken such an oath.

_They need you._

“My sisters need me…”

“Your sisters need more than a grief stricken squire. They need a true knight. One who puts his honor and duty ahead of selfish wants, which is what this ride is. Your own selfish desire to ride off and die quickly, rather than march with an army guaranteed to see the vengeance you want done.”

Robar began to move his horse away from Jon. He saw the man was not looking back as he did so.

“I’d have you return with me if you are your father’s son. A man I respected and will avenge. Return and fulfill your oath to me or leave to sate your own desires. The choice is yours Jon Snow, I will not force you.”

Robar’s horse cantered back the way it came, the man not once looking back. His turned back shamed Jon greatly.

“Ser Robar speaks truly.” Ser Garlan released his reins then and backed his horse away as well, to ride beside the Robar. “There is no shame in what you have done tonight. To love one’s family is one thing, but doing the right thing for your family is often very different than what your heart will tell you.”

It was then that Jon noticed the third rider, the tall, homely woman watching him silently. He’d only seen Lady Brienne of Tarth a handful of times at Highgarden but he had learned of a bet about her among some of the knights that disgusted him. When he had told Ser Robar of it, he had been wroth and soon after Jon saw the knight speaking with Lord Tarly. Then it was known to all of the men that the bet was off, which Jon was glad for, but that meant the bet itself came to light. He could imagine word had reached her ears as well.

Yet she stayed. Stayed to ride out after him when he fled into the night.

_This woman has more honor than you._

She rode to join the knights as they disappeared back into the orchard until only Ghost and his stolen horse were left with him next to the pond.

Jon had never truly believed he would become a knight when he’d travelled to King’s Landing. He assumed he’d squire for some hedge knight for some years, see the world a bit, train at arms, then one day he could seek service back in the north at a castle, hopefully Winterfell. Yet when his father had told him he would squire for a son of House Royce, and bid him to serve the knight in all things, that’s when Jon had known Lord Stark truly believed his bastard son could become a knight.

If Robar had truly brought Jon to Highgarden as a pawn of Renly then why did he leave now? Why had Ser Garlan, one of the most chivalrous men Jon had ever met, ridden out with him?

Ghost stared at him and Jon could not shake the feeling that the wolf was judging him.

He rode behind the party for some time. In silence, urging his horse forward only to catch up to them. Each step his horse took was another step away from Robb and towards Highgarden. Away from what he wanted and what he had sworn.

Robar’s horse eventually slowed until they rode beside one another.

“Your father would be proud of you.” Was all Robar said to him. “As am I.”

To that Jon said nothing.

The memory of his father forcing him along, no matter what he wanted.

 

**JON**

 

“This will be a slaughter.”

Hallis Mollen shook his head as Jon and he watched another group of armored knights riding towards the battlefield. The battle was to start at dawn and was still some time away. Eager knights of the Reach and the Stormlands were already beginning to take the field.

_None want to miss this chance for some actual fighting._

The thought still angered him to no end. He had returned with Ser Robar all those moons ago believing they would soon march upon King’s Landing to crush the Lannisters. To avenge his father. Instead the time had been spent slowly gathering men and marching from castle to castle, feasting rather than fighting.

Jon had scorned all of it. The lords and knights of the south spoke often about the deeds they would accomplish that would be worthy of a song. Some even wrote the damn songs themselves, to deeds they hadn’t yet done. Meanwhile his brother had been crowned the King in the North by his lords, with the Riverlands bowing to him as well. Robb had forged his kingdom by trouncing the Kingslayer in battle and lifting the Siege of Riverrun, feats actually worthy of a song.

Jon’s feats included showing off his direwolf to lords and ladies who laughed and danced while northmen fought and died. He had not hid his displeasure and was no longer invited to halls or feasts as he once was, especially after Cider Hall.

“You make me feel as if my kindness and generosity towards you have been for naught.” Renly had said from upon his horse as Jon knelt before him.

Ser Garlan, Ser Loras and some Fossoway knight were there as well, all ready to go on a hunt. A hunt Jon had been invited to join, with Ghost of course. Renly had them treat several of his highborn hosts to a hunt with a direwolf during their slow march. This time Jon had scorned the invitation, choosing instead to clean Robar’s armor.

“It has not, your grace. I still intend to speak on your behalf to my brother. That is if he ever finds time to feast while fighting the Lannisters.” His words had been too bold and Ser Loras had been livid. The Knight of Flowers asked Jon who he thought he was but Renly had just regarded him coolly before riding off.

He trained hard with Robar to get rid of his frustration, and when the knight was called away, he would find any partner he could to replace him. If none could be found, he’d practice his riding at the quintain. His once lean body had become hard and muscular.

Jon no longer trained alongside the other squires and Robar remarked with pride how he was actually hard-pressed to defeat Jon at times, though Jon had still never beaten him in sparring. It was the one of the few things they did not disagree over. Jon would often argue with his mentor over how slow their march to the capital had been.

“Is retaining your northern honor all you seek in my service Jon? You would insult and spurn the chivalry of the south?” Robar had said as he pummeled Jon’s shield with blows.

“My honor bid me return to you ser, it is the only thing I have left amongst this foolishness.” That Jon had said such in front of others would have been unthinkable when he’d first rode to Highgarden.

That was half a year ago, before he realized that all their courtesies and titles was just a way to mask selfishness and indulgence. Jon had been used to courtly pleasantries, being raised by a lord growing up, but the courtesy and manner here was too much for him. It all felt like lies. Many of the knights watching their sparring had bristled at Jon’s words and Robar had sent him hurtling to the ground in an attempt to cover his words up, but Jon cared little what these highborn knights of summer thought of him now.

Such had happened just before Bitterbridge, before Lady Stark had come upon Renly’s camp. He had been riding on a patrol of the vast castle grounds during the games. Robar had asked him to watch the melee but that these knights played at war while his brother fought one made Jon’s blood run cold.

When he had heard later that a company of the north had ridden into camp, Jon rushed to find them, hoping against hope to Robb again. Seeing Hallis Mollen had been a pleasant surprise and the man had laughed loudly to see him yet learning it was Lady Stark and not his brother who led the party had been a disappointment.

He wasn’t a part of whatever discussions Lady Stark and their flowery king had. Apparently Renly knew well enough to keep him far from her sight. Soon after her arrival, word had come down to every man with a horse to prepare for a ride. He’d had hope that somehow Lady Stark had spurned Renly to battle.

Again the knights of summer disappointed.

The king he rode with wasn’t taking his cavalry to join the fight in the Riverlands, nor were they attacking King’s Landing. Instead of fighting the Lannisters, the king went to challenge his brother Lord Stannis, who for some fool reason was besieging Storm’s End.

“He takes half a year to gather an army and march halfway to King’s Landing, yet how quickly did his force of thousands move upon Stannis?” Jon’s voice had been hard pressed to stay low, the words angering him as he said them and Hal offered a grunt.

“While slowing his march has allowed him to gather a formidably-sized army, he has stretched his supply lines thin in doing so.” Hal added. “But fighting his own brother rather than the Lannisters is the bigger folly.”

Hal continued on, pointing out that even with the few men Stannis had, they were numbers that would be a welcome addition to Robb’s forces, as more men were desperately needed to protect the Riverlands. He reminded Jon that, despite the glorious victories Robb had won, they were still sorely outnumbered and needed allies.

_Speak to Robar again._

_Maybe he can convince Renly to stop this._

_He has to._

The thoughts were practically shouts in his head, much as Robar and his fight had been earlier.

Then the shouts came from the camp and Hal gave him a worried look.

Men were shouting and running around in a panic. They couldn’t make out the words but instead moved to return to where the northern party awaited at the king’s tent. On the way there, Lady Stark and Lady Brienne almost stumbled into them.

“We are leaving. Now.” Lady Stark commanded and some of the men snapped at her command. Hal was one of them and Jon noted how pale and out of sorts Brienne looked.

Then he saw the blood on her.

“What’s happened?” Jon asked as they all began mounting. “Lady Brienne, are you well?”

“I would never… I didn’t… my vow…” The woman said quietly, staring at him as if she truly didn’t seem to know him. Her face was twisted into some horrible grief. Lady Stark regarded Jon coldly for a moment as if in thought.

“Renly is dead.” She said quickly before gesturing back to the chaos of the camp. “Murdered, and Brienne held to blame. A charge she is innocent of.”

The shouts became clearer and they all confirmed what Lady Stark had just spoken. Renly was dead. Murdered.

“You would do well to be away from here, Jon Snow. Neither Renly nor Stannis sought to help Robb.” Lady Stark said as she gained her horse. “And Ser Robar aided our escape. I do not know how it will go for him, or for you, after they see us gone.”

Jon’s head swam at that. This was it. Lady Stark was asking him to join in service to Robb and fight alongside the North, like he had wanted but something held him back.

_She said Robar helped their escape._

“Robar? Where is he?”

“He was at Renly’s tent, I warn you Snow I will not wait…”

Jon turned and ran before Lady Stark could continue. He charged into the mass of men panicking about of tents, pushing his way towards Renly’s pavilion. He thought he heard Hal shouting after him but his duty was to Ser Robar.

Cries and shouts echoed in his ears.

“The King is dead!”

“Assassins!”

“The Beauty did it!”

He found Renly’s pavilion surrounded by men who were shouting even louder. Some were even brandishing swords and threatening each other. And from within the tent, the sounds of battle rang out.

A man thumped another hard enough to send him to the ground and his comrades came to his defense, opening a hole in the ring of men that Jon leapt through.

The first thing he saw was Emmon Cuy’s lifeless eyes staring up at him. He’d been a part of Renly’s sworn swords, the Rainbow Guard, alongside Ser Loras and Robar. Now he was dead, his body propped against a basin and his armor awash in blood.

As if Emmon too watched the duel unfolding between his two sworn brothers.

Robar and Ser Loras were locked in a brutal fight, swords slashing and cutting in a way Jon knew was not for sport. They were battling hard even though Robar shouted for an end the entire time.

“Loras! This is madness! Stop!”

Ser Loras ignored the Robar’s warnings, red faced with tears upon his cheeks, he pressed the attack. Jon caught a glimpse of his eyes and saw them to be full of fury. Despite Robar’s shouts, the Knight of Flowers made no effort to stop and it was going poorly for Jon’s friend.

Robar wore no gorget or helm and Loras’s blade cut again and again near his head and neck.

Jon drew his sword in time to watch Robar’s final feint fail and Loras’s sword cut under his sword arm. Even as blood stained Robar’s armor, his sword arm lying on the ground, Loras’s backstroke was in motion, opening Robar’s neck in a bloody spray.

“No!”

Sword in hand, he rushed at Loras.

And even though Loras hadn’t expected it, the knight showed his skill and met Jon’s attack.

With Jon’s first slash he saw Robar outside the inn waving at him from a horse. The parry, the first time he offered Jon a skin of wine. As Loras stumbled over Robar’s body, Jon stabbed at him, his mentor’s smile flashing while he helped Jon up from the ground.

His rage and the surprise of his attack only gave Jon those three acts of superiority over his opponent. Then Loras was on him. The knight was armored and ten times the warrior, while Jon was not dressed for battle and was largely untested. Loras moved faster than he thought possible and there was no attacking now.

Only desperate acts of defense.

The first cut across his chest made him realize he was about to die. Loras kicked out, knocking Jon to one knee and cutting down at his head even as Jon fell. He blocked the blow out of instinct but lost his balance and the second blow met him across the middle.

As the pain of the cut screamed through his body, he saw Loras raising his bloody blade for the final blow and Jon had no strength to stop it.

_This is how I die._

_I’m sorry Robar…Father…_

But the killing stroke never came.

Loras was ready to deliver it before his eyes widened and the man cried out as a blur of white slammed into him. Ghost’s jaws just missed getting a grip on the knight’s arm yet Loras fell.

Ghost made to charge again but stopped just in time to prevent Loras from skewering the wolf’s neck upon his sword. Ghost snapped again and again, pacing back and forth between them. Loras’s sword following him the entire time.

More men entered the tent and Jon rose to face them, as weak and bloodied as he as. They were Tyrell men but they made no move to attack him. They were too focused on retrieving Loras, only pointing spears at him and Ghost as they did so. Two grabbed at Loras while others grabbed Renly’s body, pulling them backwards out of the tent and into the night.

Jon stood there feebly until they’d gone, then he took shaky steps towards Robar’s body. He knelt beside it and Ghost came to join him in his silent vigil over his mentor.

All around them Renly’s camp tore itself to pieces.

Yet Jon stayed true to the vows he swore.

And that is where Stannis’s men found them.

 

**JON**

 

“It would be a good sign your grace, a direwolf amongst our men.”

Jon could have embraced Ser Davos for his words.

Yet the hard looking man who sat in judgement could only grind his teeth at the Onion Knight.

For over a moon now, Jon had been Stannis Baratheon’s captive. Weeks he’d spent at the island fortress of Dragonstone and while the realm continued to burn, yet another Baratheon kept Jon from the fight.

He did his best not to seem entirely ungrateful though. That he still had his head upon shoulders was because Stannis wanted it there. The man also seemed intent on bringing battle to the Lannisters, though he had so far refused Jon’s sword in the cause.

It was just Jon’s luck. He was finally part of a Baratheon army ready to take the fight to the Lannisters and this king wouldn’t let him join.

So far his good fortune only extended to Ser Davos arranging for Jon to argue his case before Stannis himself. The Onion Knight had done him a great service in securing this audience in the king’s solar but whether it would amount to anything was still far from certain.

He’d been miserable his entire time at Dragonstone, even though he’d been treated fairly well. His wounds from the battle with Ser Loras had been dressed and, despite the reputation of the island, none had tried to burn him.

He was also permitted to leave his chambers and stretch his legs or even attend the yard with the other warriors. Stannis had also spared Ghost, bringing the direwolf to the island, though forcing him into a captivity of his own. The poor beast was confined to the castle’s small garden with nothing to hunt and barely any room to run.

Their visits together had been one of the rare things to keep Jon from lashing out. He’d had rare contact with any others, save Ser Davos and Ser Richard Horpe, a pock marked warrior tasked with seeing him from his chambers to the practice yard and back.

It was Ser Richard who had brought him here to find Ser Davos, King Stannis, and his red priestess. Had someone told Jon a year ago that one day he’d be standing in the very room where Aegon the Conqueror had plotted his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, he would have thought them mad. As he gazed upon the table, carved into the likeness of the realm, he realized just how far he was from Winterfell.

_And how close to King’s Landing._

“A good sign? Because his half-brother wins some victories?” Stannis ground his teeth and stared upon the table himself. “Fighting for their true king should be all the good omens my men need.”

“To fight is all I wish to do, your grace. To help bring justice to those who plotted against my father.” Jon laid plain his case to Stannis. “To help free my sister whom they hold captive and to see a just king upon the Iron Throne. If you permit me, I’d fight for all of those things. I’d fight by your side, your grace.”

“Fight by my side? Not for me?” Stannis questioned him without warmth. “Be honest Snow, if your usurper brother was here, would you even consider fighting by my side?”

_Not for an instant._

“I am a Northman your grace, and the Starks are my liege lords and kin. My loyalty is to them.” Jon would not lie, Tyrion had showed him how poorly he did so. “And the Lannisters are my enemy. Same as yours.”

Stannis grunted and Jon shot a quick look to Davos, who gave him a reassuring smile. He hoped that meant he’d spoken well.

“My enemies are any who deny the throne that is mine by rights. Whether it be the abomination in King’s Landing, the reaver at Pyke or your usurper brother.” Stannis crushed his hopes with a flick of his hand. “Do not hide behind your feelings for family, I did not. I took the fight to my own brother because it was right. I did what must be done against usurpers.”

“Your grace…”

“You held some esteem in Ned Stark’s eyes I’d heard. I’m hoping the same is true for his heir. As a hostage, you may have some value but as a soldier?” Stannis ground his teeth and shook his head. “We have enough squires.”

Jon saw it all falling down around him. He’d offered Stannis no guile, meant him no betrayal. His words had been true. All he desired was to get into the fight and do right by the memory of his father. He dreamed of such some nights. Of freeing Sansa, finding Arya, and somehow making his way home to Winterfell with them in tow.

That’s when Melisandre stirred, her hands touching the sides of her head before being clasped at her chest.

“My king, I’d speak if you’d allow it.” She spoke softly, in that strange and mesmerizing accent of hers, somehow drawing the attention of the entire room.

“Of course… even Lady Melisandre has a view on this…” Stannis shook his head. “Go on then.”

Despite how coldly Stannis spoke to her, Melisandre smiled and there was nothing foreign about how enticing she looked. Jon had admired the exotic priestess since he’d first glimpsed her at Storm’s End. She garbed herself in deep scarlet robes that slashed across her body like ribbons and was almost sheer in some places. It made Jon felt immodest just looking upon her, which he did his best to avoid whenever they crossed paths.

“I thank you, your grace, and I ask that you reconsider this matter.” Melisandre glanced to Jon then and he felt a queer tingle run down his spine.

_What was that?_

_It felt like she looked right through me._

“If you would not have me at your side for this battle, take this youth.” Melisandre continued, her eyes swinging back upon the king. “I have seen Jon Snow in the flames. The visions given to me by our Lord of Light show me that his path is beside the future king.”

She brought her arms up as if beseeching the king and Jon swore he felt a burst of heat wash over him.

“I’ve seen Jon Snow fighting alongside the armies of light against the forces of the Great Darkness!” Melisandre cried, her hands closing into fists. “A great white wolf standing before the great pyre of R’hllor, a bright fire burning, serving as a beacon of hope for us all! A vital part of Azor Ahai’s glory!”

Jon stood gaping at all this. He had no idea what any of it meant or if it meant anything at all. He knew full well what kind of offerings this red priestess asked of Stannis in return for her god’s favor. Ser Davos had told him she’d even suggested burning certain bastards of royal blood since Jon’s arrival.

Even those of northern usurpers.

Ser Davos was scowling at the whole spectacle before them but he cared little, his attention focused on Stannis. He searched the man’s face for any sign that Melisandre’s words had helped him but all he could see was the same hard and impassive expression he’d borne before.

“You’ve seen him as some kind of warrior... this green boy helping me to my throne?”

“It is why I bid you to spare him when your false brother’s army broke.” Melisandre clutched at the red ruby at her neck then. “I saw all of these things the night of Renly’s death.”

Jon thought Stannis looked surprised by that comment.

The king’s gaze slowly turned from Melisandre towards him. As his fingers thumped against the arm of his chair, his eyes seemed to take measure of Jon.

“I’ve seen you in the yard. You do well enough against guardsmen.” Stannis turned and waved at the knight standing off to the corner. “You’ve seen him ser. As a warrior, would you trust him in a fight?”

There was no other way to describe Ser Richard than a warrior. Jon couldn’t imagine him among Renly’s preferred knights. Pox-scarred and unkempt, Richard’s long, greasy hair hung limply from his head and a face that usually held a look of blank indifference. Not exactly a knight to be loved at first glance. Jon thought he would’ve fit in with Renly’s Rainbow guard as well as Brienne of Tarth had.

Considering the knight’s skill with a sword and reputation among the men at Dragonstone, Jon didn’t think he would’ve been pleased being a part of Renly’s march. He was no master of courtesies or words but what he lacked in grace he made up for in ability. Jon pitied any man that might face Ser Richard in battle.

Whether Ser Richard thought the same of him, he didn’t know until the man spoke.

“He swore to attempt no escape and kept that promise. He is well trained, and fights better than his youth and experience should allow.” Ser Richard spoke simply, never once looking at Jon. “He’d be a good addition to our forces and I trust the lady’s visions. I trust in R’hllor.”

Ser Davos made to speak as well but Stannis held up a gloved hand against it.

“Your position has changed, my onion knight, now that the lady has spoken in favor? Don’t bother, I’m done with this matter.” Stannis walked to Jon and glared long and hard upon his face. “If you fall during the battle, I would still have your sister as a hostage. And if she falls, you had best survive.”

Jon dropped to a knee and began to utter his thanks but Stannis had already stridden away to the far end of the table, bellowing for his steward. With their audience apparently at an end, Jon rose and saw Melisandre whispering something to Ser Richard. She broke away quickly and left the room before Jon could thank her.

Instead it would be Ser Richard to thank, as it fell to him to escort Jon back to his chambers.

“You have my thanks ser.” Jon said as they made their way through the corridors of the Targaryen castle. “I will do my best to prove myself worthy of…”

“I have no need of your thanks or your promises.” Richard cut him off. “The Lord of Light has a purpose for us. If I can help you be of use to R’hllor, I’ll do so.”

“To finally be able to fight… it’s a use I’ve wanted for some time.”

Richard said no more to that so Jon’s thoughts turned to the battles that lay ahead of him. He decided he would take Robar’s sword into battle himself, to honor his mentor by using the blade in the battles they were supposed to fight together.

One day he would return the blade to Runestone. To hand Robar’s sword back to his father was the least he could do. For all that his mentor had done for him.

 _That and make Loras Tyrell suffer for Robar’s murder_.

 _The Lannisters first_ , he decided,  _then Loras._

So lost in those thoughts, he didn’t realize Ser Richard was leading him to another part of the castle away from his chambers. Jon then realized that they were in a wing he hadn’t ever been to before.

He began to ask why they were here when they stopped outside a large, dark, door, guarded by two men he did not know.

Richard held out a hand towards it, beckoning him to enter.

As soon as he did, Jon was blasted by a wave of immense heat within and his back was almost caught by the door as one of the guards pulled it shut.

The room appeared to be someone’s chambers, plainly furnished save for a bed that did not look slept in, and a simple trunk at its base. What the room lacked in finery, it made up for with the sheer number of flames within. He counted three burning braziers about the room, six torches along the walls and scores of candles upon every surface that could hold them.

“Welcome, Jon Snow.” Melisandre’s voice drifted from behind the largest brazier. The tall flames had blocked him from seeing her as she knelt behind it. “I would have you join me… if you are willing.”

“Of course, my lady.” Jon bowed.

She smiled and beckoned him forward. He made to sit to the other side of the flames but the woman bid that he come to her side. Already he felt the situation somewhat inappropriate, that he was out of place here, yet he would not insult her. Not after she’d helped him.

The heat of the room had already caused sweat to break upon his brow yet Melisandre showed no sign of discomfort. In fact, she seemed much changed from when he’d seen her earlier.

Jon thought she almost glowed in the light of all the flames around her. Her copper eyes appeared to glow as they gazed upon the brazier.

That wasn’t all that had changed in her appearance. Melisandre had changed gowns as well. The silk dress she wore made her previous robes look chaste and homely in comparison.

Her shoulders and the top half of breasts were bare to him and the silk was so sheer over the parts she had attempted to cover he wondered if it was worth the effort. The round, fullness of her chest and the dark areas that could only be her nipples drew his eyes.

Yet he pried them away and stared into the brazier as he knelt beside her.

_You should be thanking her not ogling her, you fool._

“You did me a great boon saying what you did to the king. You’ll never know what it means to finally fight-”

“The battle before you is a doomed one.” Melisandre spoke without taking her eyes from the flames. “It is one my king would fight despite my counsel, without me at his side. It is the path R’hllor has set for him and I must accept that, just as you must accept that there is more to your path than fighting beside the king. You’re meant to fight for the one true god.”

She looked to him then, as if expecting him to speak to that but Jon said nothing.

He had no idea what to say to something like that.

This red god of Ser Richard and Melisandre’s was a strange, foreign thing to him. A god that seemed pleased with the burning of men. A god which might be pleased by seeing him burn.

_Ser Davos said to be wary of her._

_Is she truly mad?_

Suddenly being alone in Lady Melisandre’s chambers felt more than awkward, it felt almost threatening. He remembered the feeling he’d had when she gazed upon him in Stannis’s presence. Now with her speaking so strangely, the urge to leave her side grew stronger and stronger.

Jon glanced to the door for only half a moment before Melisandre’s hand cupped his chin and turned his face to regard her fully.

“This battle will end in flames Jon Snow, yet the war will rage on. R’hllor’s will must still be done. You shall be set upon a path my lord has set for you. I saw you in need, when a dark fish would wish to be a beast and be welcomed among its kin. When king’s blood would be offered to the flames, these bands will burn with R’hllor’s favor. His will must be done, and he’s shown me your efforts are worth such gifts.”

Melisandre reached beside her and pulled a small bag into her lap. From within she took two simple bronze bracelets, each with a ruby upon them, similar to the one on her choker.

“These are his gifts, wrought by his mortal servants, but blessed with his power. When the time comes, you must place one upon each of those you’d change. Their possessions empower the glamor, clothing, jewelry, anything that makes them who they are to the eye.”

“My lady, I don’t know what you…” Jon protested but Melisandre grasped his wrist, pulling him towards her until her face was a hair from his own.

“When it comes time, let the blood of king fall upon them then into the flames themselves. When the bands are removed, so too is the glamor.” Her touch was hot upon his skin, her lips full, and Jon thought of an ale soaked kiss with a serving girl long ago. “Remember that Jon Snow. R’hllor wishes you to.”

He knew something was wrong about all of this. The flames around them appeared to pulse with the beating of his heart.

Or was it hers?

For some reason he could not tell the difference now. It was as if her touch was stealing him away. His head felt tired but his breathing quickened in panic.

“Say you understand.” Her voice filled his head yet he could not tell if those full, red lips moved to speak. “Say you accept them.”

“I understand.” His voice sounded queer and he felt as if he’d had too much wine. “I accept your gifts, my lady.”

He watched as Melisandre returned the bracelets to the sack and placed it upon his lap. Then she rose and his head began to clear.

His senses returned to him so suddenly that he felt embarrassed to be sitting while the lady stood before him. He rose hurriedly to beg her pardons but she had walked away from him towards the pristine bed.

Jon assumed their audience had come to an end.

“I shall take my leave then.” He said, backing away towards the door.

“You would leave without offering a prayer to R’hllor?” Melisandre asked as she undid the bronze chain about her waist and let it fall to the floor. “After the boons he’s given you?”

“Forgive me, but my prayers are not one your god would want.” Jon stared as Melisandre reached to touch the strings around her neck, binding her grown. “Mine are for the old gods.”

“False gods, not worthy of your words.” She wrapped her fingers around the laces. “And prayers are merely words Jon Snow. Sacrifice is the only kind of offering R’hllor truly wants of us.”

“Your red god takes offerings that I’d prefer not to give. I’m sorry, but I’ve no desire to burn. I know that much…”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Lady Melisandre said as she undid the laces holding the front of her gown together, dropping the dress to the ground, standing bare before him now.

Her actions made his heart beat even harder within his chest, the sweat upon his body becoming but a minor inconvenience. Melisandre was beautiful in her gowns but she was positively awe-inspiring without them. Part of Jon wanted to run but something else pulled him toward her, undeniable in its power.

“My lady…” Jon objected as he gazed at the perfect roundness of her breasts. The dark pink circles around her nipples kept his attention only for so long before his eyes roamed to the dark copper thatch of hair between her legs.

“It would be a pure death, to die in the flames.” Melisandre said as she walked towards him, taking his hand in hers. “But there are other offerings you can make. We can join our flames… and hold off the darkness for one night more.”

“I have not…” Jon barely resisted her pulling of him towards the bed. “I mean, I haven’t ever been with…”

“R’hllor will thank you for that gift.” She said as her hands moved over his clothes. The heat of the room, and beauty of the woman, distracted him so much that it seemed only a second before he was completely naked before. He felt himself being pushed back onto the bed as Melisandre moved to straddle him.

“I would father no bastards.” He protested as her wetness touched the tip of his cock. “Oh gods…”

“This is for the one god… the true god…” Melisandre’s words were almost lost in his own groan as she sank down upon him.

Those were the last words she spoke in the Common Tongue as she drew herself up and down upon him. When she rose up, he almost growled at the prospect of his cock leaving her folds until she fell back upon him and he grunted, arching his back to be even deeper within.

As he grasped her hips and fought against every moment he wasn’t in her, Melisandre murmured in a strange foreign tongue. Her hands traced the lines of scars Loras had given him. They’d once stung horribly yet her touch set his skin tingling in pleasure.

As the flames burnt around them, he gave Melisandre all she wanted of him. Even with the fires burning so hot, he felt that being inside her was somehow warmer.

Driving into her again and again, it made no sense how her heat could burn him so much and yet cause him such pleasure all at once.

Yet as he felt his peak coming, his senses began to return.

“I can’t…” He tried to stop then, pushing at her hips to lift her body off of his. “I can’t have a bastard!”

Melisandre ignored his efforts. In fact, she pinned his arms down from pushing her off and rode him all the harder as if in retaliation.

He wondered if she hadn’t heard him until he saw her eyes.

They burned with a terrible fire as she looked down at him, her hips pushing him even further within her and he felt himself boiling over.

“Fear no child…” She gasped at his release. “…for it would be for R’hllor.”  
  
And with those words, despite the heat, Jon felt very cold.

“For the flames of R’hllor.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon suffers more defeats and loss in his journeys. Coming across unlikely allies and travelling to places he had not expected to.

**JON**

 

“Go on Ghost, I’ll be fine.”

Jon was lying and he knew it.

His horse was faltering, weak from hunger and tired, meanwhile their pursuers were closing in upon them.

_Whoever they are._

The horse had managed to amble toward a thicker copse of trees but could go no further.

When Jon had dismounted, he found that his legs were so sore from riding that fleeing on foot was no longer an option. So instead he leaned against a tree and waited, watching and listening for a sign of the party that had been following them since midday.

As he waited for his pursuers to fall upon him, Ghost paced in a circle, nudging at his leg as if urging Jon to continue forward. He didn’t want the wolf to face whatever fate awaited him, but a part of Jon was thankful for his old friend’s loyalty.

Jon didn’t want to die alone.

“This is it my friend, go on now.” He pushed at the direwolf but the beast would not budge. It seemed that Ghost was intending to stay by his side until the very end. “You have poor taste in friends Ghost. It’s just my luck to always pick the wrong armies… the worst luck…”

Weeks later, he still dreamed of the Blackwater burning. There were still nights where he awoke to the screaming of dying men in his ear. Those few times Jon risked building a fire to warm himself, he would look into the flames and see the green inferno, the bright explosion that lit the battlefield like some demonic sun, flames flicking off the walls of the capital.

During Stannis’s march through the Kingswood, his army came under continued attack by wildlings in service to the Lannisters. When Jon had proven that Ghost could warn against such attacks, the two of them had been put to use in scouting for enemies.

Unfortunately, doing so meant he’d gone from a sure place in the main fight to being placed in a party of outriders, screening their march against further raids.

It had still meant fighting though and it was a bloody business all around. Jon killed his first man in those woods. He had always known that one day he would have to kill someone, and Jon had worried that when he killed his first man that their eyes would somehow haunt him. In truth, he hadn’t really seen his attacker’s face. Most of the raids came at night, under the cover of darkness. He’d killed two more before they emerged from the Kingswood and Ghost five, to his best account. According to the party’s leader, a Mullendore captain named Henry, they were the only outrider party to survive and reach the banks of the Blackwater.

When the Blackwater had been set aflame, Jon had watched as ships and men burned in a way he had never thought possible, the flames impossibly hot, spreading as if the inferno had a hunger all its own, one it sought to sate by feeding on their army. Wildfire was as terrible as they had been warned but everyone seemed as surprised as Jon that there was so much of it. As he watched the carnage, Jon couldn’t help but think of his night with Melisandre and how she probably would’ve enjoyed seeing such butchery and he became disgusted with himself once again for lying with such a woman.

It was through that chaos that Jon and the others sailed. Some small crafts had been saved and were used to ferry the men across the bay, to begin their assault against the walls.

Even with the bay in flames and most of Stannis’s fleet lost, they still hadn’t lost heart. Victory had still been within the king’s grasp. The attack had pressed on. Jon was part of the force trying to breach the King’s Gate while the main battle geared up around the Mud Gate to their left.

Jon had wanted to be a part of the main attack and it had frustrated him that he could see so much of the battle unfolding yet his party was to continue guarding the flank, facing the river, _away_ from the battle at the King’s Gate. He had come all this way and once again he felt like a spectator, unable to help, to fight, to serve with honor.

If he was to save Sansa and Arya and he couldn’t do so as an outrider.

_Yet I swore to obey. That was Stannis’s price for my being a part of this._

The other men in his riding party had been no happier to watch and wait. When a foray from the city broke the attack upon the King’s Gate, moving the men there further down the riverfront, Jon had been eager to take part then. He had been among a group that called for riding against the rear of the city defenders but Henry had held firm.

“Look, the broken men reform even as we speak.” Henry had pointed to the survivors of the gate siege gathering again at the riverbank, forming a line for another attack. “If their leader has need of eight riders he’ll send word but for now let’s guard the way from any attacks so that they have the chance to reform.”

“Against what attacks? Wildlings? They’re on the other side of the bloody river! All we’re doing is staring at fucking water!” A man-at-arms named Rigsby had argued and Jon realized then that they truly were the only eyes on the flank of their force. Then he noticed Ghost disappearing into the darkness up west, towards the direction where the assault on the King’s Gate was being attempted once more.

“Someone should ride further upriver.” He’d said and the others called him craven. “I wish to fight as much as you, but Rigsby is right, the river is guarding us south. If a counterattack comes, it’ll come along here from the west and sweep us, maybe even take our men at the Mud Gate by surprise.”

“Alright bastard, since you seem to be the expert, you’ll be following your own advice.” Henry had laughed. “Marc and Ian, you’ll join the bastard here for a little ride upriver. Just in case…”

They’d ridden off to the catcalls of the others and Jon had been furious to be sent further away from the gates.

Something, it turned out, had saved his life.

They were still riding about the walls, moving further and further west when a cheer went up behind them. He imagined that the Mud Gate had been breached and Jon cursed himself for being so far from the battle. Then Ghost suddenly veered north, toward the Lion Gate where there was no battle yet some instinct told Jon to follow after him.

He remembered thinking that Ghost was acting like he did during a hunt just before the direwolf made a kill. His prey this time had been another group of riders, three men flying a lion banner, and with the direwolf scaring their horses it was a fight his party had the better of.

Jon had cut a man down himself before they heard the trumpets sounding.

That was when he had truly lost heart.

Even in the darkness beyond the city walls, he could see thousands of dark shapes moving down the river towards the battle. They had thought the river would guard against any attacks on the army’s rear but this force was on the north side of the Blackwater Rush, somehow having stolen a march on Stannis, burning no torches to warn of their coming. Jon would later realize that the men his party had attacked were sent ahead to tell the city of Lord Tywin’s arrival.

“Back! Back!” Marc had yelled. Too late it turned out, for they’d been cut off from doing so by a group loosing crossbow bolts at them.

His two comrades fell to the bolts and there had been nothing he could do for them. Jon barely escaped death himself. A bolt had chewed through his shield and stabbed into his side. It had been a shallow wound though and he’d ripped the bolt out as he rode after Ghost. More riders were shooting at them and the only escape Jon and Ghost had was away from the rest of Stannis’s army, into the charge of the Lannister one.

Ghost and he slipped through an opening in their lines and somehow outlasted those who gave chase. He imagined they probably sought more glory than killing a single outrider. There was a better fight to be had as the Lannisters fell upon the Baratheon flanks, just as Jon had warned might happen, though he had never dreamed a force would come in such large numbers.

It shamed him that he wasn’t there to warn anyone but his route back to Stannis’s army had been blocked by tens of thousands of the enemy and the capital itself.

Within its walls Sansa and Arya were still imprisoned. He thought then of Sansa brushing out Lady’s fur, singing. He thought of Arya jumping into piles of leaves in the Godswood, laughing when Nymeria joined by jumping on top of her. Freeing the girls was something he wanted more than anything in the world but it just seemed so impossible now. The river, the army, the wildfire… so much stood in his way.

Jon was lost as to how to survive the night, let alone somehow saving his family. The army marching on the capital seemed endless and deep inside Jon had known that his family was out of reach once again. He’d even given thought to letting the Lannisters capture him, just to see the girls again. They could at least be prisoners together. He could give Sansa and Arya courage and maybe hold them in his arms one last time, even if those arms were chained to a dungeon wall. After all of the waiting, the idea had been tempting.

Ghost would have none of it though. The beast had done everything he could to keep them moving, save attacking Jon’s horse. They continued on, away from the city and his family. His friend somehow guided them through the night and past whatever men screened the Lannister advance. Soon they both saw morning.

Jon spent most of the early day watching from a nearby hilltop for any sign that things were not as dire as he feared. He’d hoped Stannis had somehow overcome the arrival of the Lannister reinforcements and Jon looked to see any defeated remnants of Stannis’s army fleeing nearby that he could regroup with.

Yet none came. Instead what came forth was the sound of bells ringing with the city and Jon knew then that the siege had been broken.

The Lannisters had won.

Jon sat upon his horse watching the smoke rise from the battlefield for some time longer. The smell of burnt men had been wafting in the air even there, far from the city. His thoughts had been ringing in his head, even louder than the bells.

_Stannis is defeated and even if I could return to him, I’d be a prisoner again._

He’d looked to Ghost and saw his friend pacing warily, as if eager to leave the place. Yet where would they go? Jon thought on that for a long time. That he suddenly had the freedom to choose his course was an altogether new thing for him. All his life, Jon had done as his father bid him. Then his father had placed him under Robar’s care and Jon had done as Robar bid him, then later Stannis. It was hard for Jon to even remember what it was like, to just want something for himself. He couldn’t be sure what that even was anymore.

 _The one thing you’ve wanted since the night you fled Highgarden,_ he’d realized.

_To fight alongside your brother. To fight beside Robb._

_We can save the girls together._

It didn’t matter that he had little to no idea on how to make such a thing happen. Once the goal was in his head, Jon decided that that was the only path he could take.

So at as quick a pace as they could muster, Ghost and Jon made their way north towards the Riverlands. He had scorned trying to find the Kingsroad out of fear for which side may control it so the pair followed the river as it headed west. He knew from maps he’d seen at Highgarden that it would eventually curve north and branch off in two directions, one toward Harrenhal and the other toward Pinkmaiden, south of Riverrun. He had spent hours staring at those maps, thinking of where his brother Robb and the Northern army was marching, where his sisters lay captured, so Jon felt confident in the route. They did their best to avoid any riders or settlements, opting to sleep beneath hedges and live off what game Ghost caught.

Ghost and he were not the only ones trying to avoid catching attention. Over the days of riding, Jon spotted camps hidden within untended fields or amongst overgrown hedges. The people all had the look of smallfolk trying to escape the fighting that was raging north. Most often they hid from Jon and he did not think to bother them.

They were fleeing the war while he sought to find it.

Yet days with only Ghost and his mount to spend the time with wore on Jon. His thoughts would torment him. Thoughts of his mistakes and the things he’d lost.

So when the river finally forked and he found a ferry to help them cross, he also sought news from the ferryman. The man was old and his barge was barely afloat, yet it did well enough to get them across and he shared with Jon what other travellers had told him.

“Truly?” Jon couldn’t believe what he had heard. “The Tyrells joined with the Lannisters?”

“Tis what some Marbrand riders said.”

“But… but the Tyrells were going to fight the Lannisters! Why would they join them?”

Jon hadn’t wanted to believe it. In his time with Renly’s army, he had grown critical of their wasteful and decadent march, of their constant boasting without any action, but he never once doubted that the knights and lords truly believed in what they were marching for. They had denounced the Lannisters as evil, Queen Cersei as a schemer, the Kingslayer as a villain, and young King Joffrey as a dishonorable little monster for taking his father’s head.

Stannis had thought otherwise of the army, even the ones who ended up joining him after Renly’s death. Though Jon had rarely shared audiences with the man, he heard Stannis accuse those who followed Renly of being nothing more than opportunistic sots. That they sought to defy their rightful king, and depose the Lannisters, not for honor or for duty, but so they could place a king on the Iron Throne who would flatter and shower them with favor. Though Jon had had the foresight to keep his opinions to himself at Dragonstone, he had quietly disagreed with the man’s denouncements of the Tyrells and their armies.

_I thought them fools, knights of summer, but that their chivalry was true._

_Was it all a lie?_

“Do you think Tywin Lannister and the Knight of Flowers share their secrets with me?” The old man had wheezed and laughed at Jon’s shock. Then he had noticed the baleful look that Ghost was giving him and the old man composed himself.

“I heard Stannis lives though. Hard man, King Robert’s brother.” The ferryman hacked up that news with some discolored mucus. “Seen ‘im once, hard is the only thing to call the man. The Imp’s fires couldn’t do for ‘im, nor the lions or the roses. Traitor that he is, of course.”

The man had added the last part as if conscious of the respectful tone he had been speaking with. Jon didn’t ask the man which king he supported, showing the same courtesy the ferryman had shown in not asking about Ghost. It cost Jon what little coin he’d had and even his own sword to afford the trip across the river.

Many nights Jon slept with no more than a belly full of wild berries and his saddle to rest his head upon. When there was a chill, Ghost and he would share the ground and Jon would have nothing but the wolf’s fur to keep him warm. Jon knew their travels were taking their toll on him. His breeches fit looser, he was at the last notch of his sword belt, and he began wondering how much fight he could offer if it came to it.

Most days he was too worn from the journey to practice at the sword, and when he found the strength to try, he did so alone with a blade that was not his. Robar’s sword was finely made, gifted to him by Bronze Yohn Royce himself, and Jon felt unworthy wielding it.

_But I will._

_I won’t be taken prisoner or killed without fighting back._

It had been the first thing he thought of when their troubles worsened.

One morning he awoke and had somehow known they were being followed. Jon put it down to the strange dreams he’d had of moving through the trees and fields at night, yet doing so as a wolf and seeing the world through a wolf’s eyes instead of his own.

The world would be alive with sounds he usually couldn’t hear and smells he’d never noticed. Most often he was hunting, sometimes watching himself sleep by the embers of a dying fire. This time he’d smelt their coming; men on horses, moving through the darkness.

He’d awoken with a start as Ghost licked his face. There was no reason to think the dream was true save for Ghost’s earnest efforts at getting him to rise. Still, Jon made sure that they had left their camp at a quick pace. Hours later he spotted them upon a ridge in the distance.

And now they were moving between the trees towards them.

“Ghost, go. Please my friend.” He tried again to push the wolf onward but Ghost did not move. “Please. Find Robb, or the girls. There’s no helping me anymore.”

If Ghost understood his words, and Jon suspected the bloody beast did, he ignored them. The direwolf moved to Jon’s side, as if to stand his ground 

 _Just as I must,_ he almost laughed,  _at least I’ll give them a fight._

_They can’t take that from me._

He unsheathed Robar’s sword and straightened up to a proper fighting stance as they came on.

Six riders on ragged horses emerged from the trees, doing their best to navigate the heavy brush. They bore no sigils or banners, their cloaks and armor giving them the look of outlaws rather than outriders. Jon spotted two archers among them yet neither had drawn their bows nor had the others pulled their swords. Yet.

Ghost and Jon were in a good position for battle, the large trees behind them prevented an attack from the rear and there was too little space between the trees in front for any of the riders to charge him.

Even better, some of the horses were shying from the scent of Ghost.

_Maybe we can take a couple of them down before they kill us._

“Good day to you.” A fleshy-looking man called out. He was holding a large mace and eyed Jon intently as the riders moved into a semi-circle about them.

“Always a good day with no rain.” Jon kept count of the men carefully.

“Quite the beast you have there.” A cross-eyed man wearing a halfhelm pointed at Ghost. “Are you a scout for the wolves? Sworn to Lord Leech?

“I have no gold and no possessions beyond what you see.” He gestured about his person and towards his exhausted mount. “I ask you to leave me with them.”

“And what would be in that sack you’re hiding under your cloak?”

The bands Melisandre had entrusted with him were tied behind his back and he cursed the outlaw’s good eyes. He’d kept them well-hidden during his march with Stannis’s army and even from the prying eyes of the ferryman, for fear the man would exploit his desperation. He didn’t truly believe Melisandre’s prophecies when she’d made them but after the river burned, and the battle was lost, he was loath to lose them.

The outlaws had their own ideas and were declaring them loudly.

“Gold for Lord Leech to be paying his Bloody Mummers most like.”

“Hand it over and you’ll be doing the king’s business lad, no shame in that.”

“Come no further or you’ll pay in blood. That I swear.” Jon answered with a strength that hadn’t been in his voice before. He took up a stance towards the most eager of the thieves and Ghost bared his teeth.

Now swords were being drawn and the archers notched their arrows. Jon wished he had a shield against the arrows. He could always run behind the trees should they come yet leaving Ghost to their mercy was too shameful to imagine. So he stood and hoped their aim was poor, trying to maintain as brave a face as he could.

Yet a wave of helplessness fell over him as another pair of riders appeared behind the others.

These two were different than the outlaws. One was a young boy with pale blonde air and queer colored eyes. He was ordinary-looking compared to the other rider though, who had the look of a scarecrow made of bones and human skin. His head was caved in at one part and one eye was bound over with dark cloth, yet those wounds paled to how stick thin he appeared, making Jon feel positively fat in comparison. As shabby and threadbare as their clothing was, Jon could see that it had once been lordly garb. They also carried themselves differently than the others, in such a way that Jon thought them highborn.

“Hold!” The man commanded and the would-be thieves all heeded him. His one eye moved between Ghost and Jon several times before he finally spoke again. “That is a direwolf. How did you come to have a direwolf?”

“I keep him and he keeps me.”

“I’ve only heard of one family who could boast such about the company of direwolves.” The disfigured man said in an oddly powerful voice considering his frail appearance. “What is your name lad?”

_Say nothing._

“I’m just a man trying to make his way. Let me continue on and I will be no trouble to you… my lord.” Jon bowed slightly without taking his eyes from the weapons arrayed against him.

“No trouble… I think that true, no matter how poorly you lie.” The thin man dismounted and walked slowly towards him. “That’s a fine blade you hold, good looking without being lavish… a warrior’s blade. My memory is not what it was but I remember a tourney… a tourney where I met a knight who wielded such a blade. I remember that he was a good man and a better knight… I remember that he was to take a squire before he left the capital…”

“Please, come no further.” Jon warned as he moved the point of the sword towards the lord’s approach, more out of fear for what Ghost might do if he felt threatened than fear of the lord himself.

“That squire… his father was a man I knew. A man I respected. His face is not yet lost to me.”

“I said stop.” Jon took a step forward and the other riders all cursed and threatened as he did so.

The scarecrow lord continued on, his gaze fixed upon Jon’s face. Something about the way the man’s eye bore into his own made him uneasy. His gaze had an intensity that he’d seen in Robar’s eyes when he sparred against a worthy opponent, or Melisandre as she gazed into the flames.

“You’re Lord Stark’s natural son? He too had a direwolf, Robar bragged about that much.”

“Jon Snow?” The boy who rode with the strange man spoke for the first time and Jon was shocked that someone knew his name. “Be you Jon Snow?”

“Yes, Edric has the right of it. I so name you Jon Snow, son to our late Hand.” The thin man now stood before Ghost and held out his hand to the wolf. Jon was surprised when the wolf merely sniffed at it before allowing the mystery lord to stroke the top of his head. “Speak to it.”

_If they’re going to kill you anyways, why not let them know who they kill?_

_If you can be proud of anything, take pride in who fathered you._

“I am Jon Snow.” He said through gritted teeth, his eyes moving across the riders now. “Eddard Stark was my father and I am his son, and an enemy to any who call House Stark theirs.”

Someone whistled and a few of the men began to talk amongst themselves while the battered lord only gave the slightest of nods.

“Robar would not have given his sword away. Either you stole it or my friend’s fire has been extinguished.”

“He fell in battle.” Jon admitted. “He was betrayed by his sworn brother. I was forbidden from seeing his bones home. All I could take was his sword and I hope to return it to his father at Runestone one day, to honor his memory…”

“Such a blade could pay for a good bunch of food, m’lord.” The cross-eyed man urged his horse forward which Ghost answered by snapping at the mount. The outlaw continued to argue even as he struggled to keep his horse from fleeing. “Or better horses! The lad could have stolen it-”

“I am no thief. There are enough of those about.” Jon made sure to look about at the outlaws then, raising his eyebrow at the thought of them accusing him of thievery. “This sword will be returned to Lord Royce and I would sooner die than balk from that task.”

Silence followed his words. Again, men seemed to tense for battle but the mystery lord merely stared at him. Whether the lord was being truthful or not Jon couldn’t say but he hated the idea of having to cut down a friend of Robar’s with his own sword.

“To die rather than run from what you must do… it is something I understand well Jon Snow. You are too harsh in what you think of my men. We may steal, but we do so in service to our king. To spare his subjects the cost of war, to see the king’s will done as your lord father tasked us… to see the Mountain brought to justice…”

_Bring the Mountain to justice?_

_As my father bid them to do?_

Jon remembered now when word had reached Robar and he upon the road to Highgarden, of a party sent forth by his father to hunt down Gregor Clegane and bring him to justice for the crime of raiding and pillaging in the Riverlands. They’d both been disappointed to miss out on such a noble quest but Robar had insisted that they press on. Jon stared hard at the man’s tunic then and through the bloodstains and grime, saw what he had missed before.

A purple lightning bolt.

“Lord Beric? Lord Beric Dondarrion?” He dropped to a knee without hesitation.

“Rise Jon Snow.” Beric’s hand pulled upon his shoulder. “Rise and meet the brotherhood your father created.”

 

  **JON**

 

“They’re waiting for us, just like the shepherds said.”

“Speak quieter boy or they’ll know we know they know.” Merrit whispered, sounding exasperated at Edric and looking even more so when the rest of them started shaking their heads at his words. “They will! Keep talking like that and they’ll hear us, you’ll see…”

“Yes, we know.” Jon whispered back, his eyes still scanning the darkness for any sign of Ghost. The ten of them were hunkered down behind some fallen trees, far enough in the woods to avoid being seen but close enough to the river and the bridge to do what needed to be done. “How many Edric?”

“Eight riders, some archers I think, but mostly spearmen.” He could almost hear Edric grinning in the darkness. “They’re a smelly lot too.”

“You got that close?” Jon frowned despite being impressed at the young Lord of Starfall’s ability at scouting. As the smallest and lightest of them, it had been Beric’s squire to go forth and find the waiting ambush and report back on its size.

“That or they have never bathed in their lives.” The squire whispered back before Merrit growled at them to hush again.

It had been over three weeks since he’d met the Brotherhood and Jon still marveled at how the motley group had survived all this time. He had grown used to them now but it had taken some time for Jon to trust men who were, no matter what they said about themselves, essentially outlaws. The first night with them had been the hardest.

It was Beric that told him Robb was still off fighting in the west and that trying to reach him by travelling alone through the Riverlands would essentially be suicide. Then it had been Beric who broke his heart.

“We have had this news from a trusted source some days before we found your trail Jon…” The lord had seemed hesitant to continue but Jon had pressed him, fearful that Robb had been defeated or trapped somewhere. “No harm has befallen your eldest brother…”

“My eldest brother?” He’d asked, wondering why Beric had felt the need to make the distinction. Bran and Rickon were safe at Winterfell, the only members of his family he didn’t need to fear for.

How wrong he had been.

When Beric had told him about the fall of Winterfell to Theon Greyjoy he’d been furious. Jon had always distrusted Theon, less for his Greyjoy heritage and more for his callous and selfish nature. Robb however had always treated Theon fondly and seemed to look to him as an older brother. Theon seemed to return the affection and held a fierce loyalty toward Robb, the only part of his character that Jon cared for. There were even times when Jon grew jealous of the brotherhood that Robb and Theon shared. That he had betrayed Robb and the Starks in their time of need was something Jon had not thought Theon capable of.

Which is what made Beric’s next words the hardest to hear.

“He didn’t… no. Theon is greedy and vain but he’s not a monster… they are but children… they are safe in Winterfell… they were safe… safe.”

Those were the only words he could utter before his disbelief struck him silent. The murders of Bran and Rickon cut into him as badly as his father’s, maybe even more so. He’d never prepared himself for the possibility that the boys would be doing anything but waiting for him back in Winterfell. His father had been in danger in the capital, the boys protected in the castle.

Where he’d left them.

“Oh gods… I was there… I left them.” He drew his sword and the other men gathered about had drawn their own in fear. Instead of lashing out though, Jon had fallen to his knees in grief and screamed, clutching Robar’s sword to his chest, feeling more impotent than ever.

_You were there and you left them._

_If you’d stayed, you could have protected them._

_You killed the boys._

_Just like you killed father._

He’d slept that night only because he could drown his grief in a skin of wine that Kyle had given him. When he awoke, the pain in his head did not compare to the one he carried within himself. There was a hole where his heart had been cut out of him, the edges bleeding and raw, aching with every breath he took.

_Simply living has become painful._

It had still been dark out, very late in the night, but Beric had been sitting by the dead fire staring at him, as if waiting for when Jon would wake from his stupor.

“You feel you have failed in everything.” The outlaw lord tended to the cooling fireside. “Your duties, your family, even yourself.”

“Do not try and tell me I haven’t. My family has been fighting a war for over a year now and I have scarcely been in a battle. Not even one where I’d been on their side…”

“It is not for me to say how you feel, only to tell you that I have felt the same. I was a lord once, a man with lands and a castle of my own. Honor and a sense of worth I thought well deserved… now it is all ash… turned to dust before me.” Beric had thrown a few pieces of kindling into the embers then. They caught flame and lit up his gruesome features in the darkness. “The fire… it gave me the chance to have some of what I lost returned to me. I do honor to King Robert and your lord father in fulfilling their last orders to me, and I take worth from how I serve their subjects. Your brothers are dead… but others could live because of you.”

“They were innocent…”

“There were many innocents among the bodies I’ve seen in this war. But there are more who live and may continue to do so, as long as my men do not give up the fight. As long as good people do not lose heart in the face of the darkness, they can always find the light and warmth our fire offers.” Beric tossed some more bits into the flames before staring deep into Jon’s eyes. “My men would have me ransom you back to your brother. Sell your sword and those bracelets you carry as well. It can supply our efforts and the lands before us which lack for so much.”

Jon had risen to argue but he faltered in his stance from the sickness the wine left behind and he was lost for words as to why anything mattered. So he’d lowered himself again and Beric had continued.

“You told me those bracelets were given to you by a red priestess of R’hllor. I doubt she gifted them to you so I could sell them for grain. And I would much rather have you wielding your sword beside us than selling it. Right now there is a famine about Stoney Sept and we seek to relieve it. We were going to seek food to the north but my friend Thoros had a vision in the flames that we’d find what we sought to the south as well. So he journeyed north while we went south of the God’s Eye. I began to doubt his vision until we captured a rider from the capital with information. To act on what we learned, I need men.”

“I would return to my brother’s side…” Jon finally managed. He still had one brother left. He still might save the girls.

“And you may… when you have earned the coin to pay me back for what I have allowed you to keep. Part of your payment will be serving as one of us, defending the smallfolk as we do. The other will be to give your word to me that you will continue to serve until I say so. When I believe it to be possible for you to seek your brother without killing yourself, I will release you from your vow. If you’re unwilling to do this, hand over your horse and possessions right now and I will wish you a healthy walk.”

The terms meant keeping him from Robb’s side even longer yet he knew that he couldn’t make it for long, riding alone as he had been doing. Lord Beric offered him the chance to fight for a cause that Robar and he had both deemed worthy and one his father had set the Brotherhood upon. Besides, Beric’s group was heading in the very direction he meant to and they knew the lands better than he ever could.

So he’d accepted.

They continued riding and little by little, Jon learned how the war had devastated the Riverlands. He’d never seen more freshly dug graves in his life than in those weeks of riding, and they were far to the south from where the main battles had taken place. The slaughtered smallfolk, the burnt homes, the damaged villages, it wasn’t because of fighting. It was all the work of raiders and foragers. To his shame, Jon learned that it wasn’t all Lannister work.

“The wolves finally get the Lannisters and those fucking Mummers out of Harrenhal, and what does Lord Leech do? He hires the sellswords on to work for him.” Kyle told him.

Apparently Roose Bolton had set forth the sellswords and his own men into the countryside, raiding as far as they could for supplies. Jon understood that it was to deny the enemy a means of feeding themselves but it also left the smallfolk starving. A small part of Jon thought it a good strategy, to starve the enemy out rather than face them in pitched battle and risk the lives of good soldiers but then he saw women and children dead in large piles, their corpses thin and wasted away, and it made him wonder how a man could bear making such a decision.

As far as Jon could remember, his father had never had a foul thing to say of Roose Bolton but he never said a kind thing either and that spoke to the lord’s character more than anything. How Robb could trust a lord their father didn’t with such a responsibility and then allow such crimes to happen, Jon couldn’t understand, save that his brother campaigned far from the Riverlands and knew little of what was happening in his name.

They’d struck first upon the Gold Road, for the rider they’d captured from the capital carried a message asking that a series of supply trains be brought from the Golden Tooth, to re-supply the city’s coffers. Their ambush numbered only two and ten men, with only half mounted, yet their enemy had apparently expected little fighting this far south and were completely unprepared. It was the first time since the war had started that Jon fought against Lannister men in a pitched battle.

There were only a score of riders guarding two wagons in truth, not so much glory befitting a song, but in Jon’s mind it would always be the Battle of the Gold Road. He wasn’t sure whether it had been the sight of Ghost or Lord Beric with his flaming sword charging forth from the trees, but as soon as the attack started, a third of the riders fled from the battle.

 Jon’s own horse had done well. He’d come alongside one of Lannister guardsmen as the man struggled to settle his mount and Robar’s blade had swung true. The man’s neck had been awash in blood after his pass and Jon had moved on to attack one of the crossbowmen emerging from the wagon next. The man’s shot went wide, passing over Jon’s shoulder while Robar’s sword cut deep into the man’s thigh, sending him hurdling from the wagon.

In the end they captured eight horses and both wagons of gold. Men had escaped though, some heading east towards the capital while others went back to the west, possibly for reinforcements, so they did not linger long. Beric figured they had enough gold to feed three villages for a few moons at least. People couldn’t eat gold so they set out to find food to buy.

They stayed south of the Blackwater Rush where the foraging parties hadn’t reached but Beric had sent two riders north with sacks of gold for a reason Jon couldn’t fathom at first. Meanwhile they bought only what could move with them, some cattle, goats, and sheep, becoming slower with every animal they added to their party. Yet they gained information for every farmer who heard their reason for buying the animals, sharing what they had seen or heard along the river and from the west. After a few days they had a small herd following their party and Beric decided to return north. The goodwill sown among the smallfolk paid off as they were shown goat trails and hidden footpaths that cut through hills and streams, shortening their ride. That’s when they met the riders Beric had sent north, their sacks of gold gone.

“The mummers come m’lord.” Merrit had reported when they’d found him at a farm a half-day’s ride from the crossing. “We gave every family coin like you said, for as far as we could ride in them days, and they told us themselves that the mummers heard about the gold we took. We try crossing north and they’ll be waiting.”

“Let’s not keep them then.” Beric had said and Jon thought him mad.

Jon thought himself a fool meanwhile. Ghost and he swam the river with some rope tied around Jon’s waist, the other end fastened to a tree. Ghost had the strength to cross the river without moving too far downstream and beyond the reach of the rope and waited for Jon on the other bank as his master pulled himself from the river, shivering and feeling tricked somehow. The rope had almost grown taut by the time he stood on the other side and it was their job to march it back upriver to and tie the rope to something so the others could cross.

Then prepare to ambush the ambush.

“Lord Beric will come soon… we should move closer.” Edric whispered as Jon checked that his sword belt remained tightened.

“The Lightning Lord told us to wait…” Merrit started but Jon hushed the man and gestured for the others to huddle close.

“If Edric thinks we are too far, I trust him. We need to be as close as we can for this to work, so we stay low and move quietly.” With that he was over the log and carefully creeping his way through the brush towards the crossing. The others followed behind and he hoped wherever Ghost had disappeared, he would be doing the same soon.

The torches foretold Beric’s coming more so than the sounds of the animals. The glimmer of the flames could be seen far south of the river but grew closer by the second. The first sign that the sellswords were stirring came from a flurry of movement just ahead of them. It drove the outlaws to crouch low. Men were positioning themselves to either side of the trail leading from the bridge, obviously hoping to catch the Brotherhood in a vice as soon as Lord Beric’s party crossed.

A crashing sound to his right alerted them to the approach of a particularly clumsy man who’d blundered into a hedge and was now cursing loudly in a language unknown to Jon. It was strange to think blunderers such as this could have surprised them, had Beric not shown such foresight.

Then the Brotherhood was crossing the bridge, the wood creaking under the weight of so many hooves. Beric himself was clearly visible under the torch he held, riding at the front of the column and making a tempting target for any archers among the mummers. The lord had said they would wait until all had crossed the bridge before attacking so Jon waited just as long before signaling their own ambush to commence.

The last man had ushered the straggling sheep from the bridge when Jon rose and launched himself forward.

“Winterfell!” He yelled as the first shadow rose to face him. He swung and his sword cut deep into what he thought was boiled leather. A gruesome scream answered his blow and then the sound was drowned out as all around him the hidden outlaws began yelling bloody murder and falling upon what foes they could find.

It was chaos, Beric and his outlaws to the other side of the trail must have launched their attack at Jon’s shout for the sounds of battle and panicked animals rang through the trees ahead. In the darkness, a shorter form he thought to be Edric cut at a shadow running towards him with a spear. The man fell and Jon stabbed downwards into something soft, the act answered by a choked gurgling.

A torch was thrown upwards amongst their fray and in the faint light it offered he saw outlaws cutting down any sellswords who thought to stand their ground. He even saw two of the mummer’s wrestling with each other before they were both knocked down and set upon by a white beast he knew too well. Ghost could fight as well as ten of them in this darkness so Jon didn’t worry; instead he grabbed Edric and ran towards the trail.

This fight was easy to keep track of. Men on horses battled the outlaws almost man to man. Kyle was hard-pressed by a man swinging a curved sword, turning his shield to kindling. Jon came behind the Kyle’s attacker and jumped up to wrench the man down from his saddle, his body striking the ground like a sack of wet suet. Robar’s sword was half buried in his neck before the dark-skinned sellsword could even realize what had happened, and Jon kicked at the man’s chest to pull it loose when he lay dead.

Kyle had taken the sellsword’s horse and rode to join in another fight, as had many of the other outlaws. A horse with a flaming mane and burning rider galloped by Jon’s path, man and horse screaming, and for a brief moment he was back at the Blackwater, surrounded by dying, burning men.

“Jon!” Beric shouted from further down the line. “Gain your saddle! We ride before they can regroup!”

He wanted to argue but did as he was told. This was Beric’s command. He found his horse tied to the reins of another. The outlaw tasked with leading the horses across lay dead upon his saddle so it fell to Jon to lead the man’s horse and body on.

Edric had gained his horse again, as had Merrit and Kyle, Jon glad to see that they had survived. They had only lost four men in the fight and Ghost had herded back most of the livestock that had fled from the battle.

It was a victory as sweet as any Jon could imagine. They fought enemies none denied were foul, all to feed innocents in need. When he’d been told that he could become a knight, this was the type of battle Jon had pictured himself fighting.

They made camp not far from the crossing, in a field where their animals could graze and Ghost could easily keep them penned in. Ghost was no more a shepherd’s dog than Jon was an outlaw but they both played the roles that some strange fate offered them.

The same fate that had brought Edric Dayne and himself together, apparently for the second time.

“Edric, may we speak?” He found the lad as he tended to a fire alone. Beric must have been walking about the perimeter, for Edric rarely left his lord’s side, save when the man ordered him to.

“If you wish Jon.” The younger man said hesitantly, eyeing him with a caution Jon felt guilty for instilling in him. “Lord Beric said you led the men well. I told him it was you who made us move closer…”

“Then I must tell him of the bravery of his squire. If you hadn’t done as you did, I would not have known to move us so close. The smallfolk owe you much my lord.”

“I’m not a lord yet, not for a few more years at least. Call me Edric, please. We shared the same breast after all…”

“Yes.” He spoke more curtly than he meant and the boy started, his purple eyes widening some. “Edric, I wanted to apologize for how I acted when you tried to speak to me before… I had just learned of my brothers’ deaths and what you told me was something… emotional… for me… my father had promised to speak with me about my mother, but died before he ever could.”

It had been days after they met when Edric had come to him and spoke of how he’d known Jon’s name. The young lord talked about his father coming to Starfall with a baby and a woman, and leaving the woman behind. A woman who would later become a wet nurse to young Edric and one Jon’s father never told him about. At the time, Jon had felt betrayed that this stranger knew the secret of his mother before he did and he had raged at the boy. Only later when his grief had numbed did Jon come to his senses and realize how unjustly he had acted.

“Wylla? Her name was Wylla you said?” He asked and Edric nodded. “I sent you away in anger and I’m sorry for it. I’d hear now what you could tell me about her, for if she is who you claim, I only know as much of her as you’ve told me.”

“Of course. She is a kind woman. All said that she was very gentle with me as a babe. My family treasures her dearly… oh and she sings very well. I remember she sings well.”

_My mother sings._

_No one ever sang to me._

It was a lie of course, many had sung in Winterfell but never specifically to Jon. Sansa did, once, when she’d been barely older than Rickon. She had come to his chambers when he was sick abed and sang a song to him.

“When I have taken ill, a song always makes everything better.” Her little child’s voice was already so proper, even then.

It was a strange thing to remember now but it was one of the few sweet memories he had of his more distant sister. Jon had even given her a hug to thank her for it and she giggled a little.

That was how Lady Stark had found them. She hadn’t said anything to Jon or Sansa about it. She simply bid Sansa to leave the room in a calm voice, saying that she shouldn’t bother Jon while he needed rest… but his sister had never acted so warmly to him again and he didn’t have to guess what his father’s wife had said to her.

_They treasure her dearly?_

“She lives?” He was confused now. From what father had said in the capital, he could only think his mother had died.

“When I left Starfall she still did.”

“Did she… did she ever speak of me? Of being my mother?” Jon hated how young he sounded just as much as he hated that it wasn’t father telling him this.

“I never really spoke to her…” Edric looked uncomfortable and he cursed his stupidity.

_How often did Robb ever sit about and ask the serving women of their children?_

Whatever more he had to ask was put off by the arrival of a figure coming forth from the shadows. Both Edric and he rose to welcome Beric to the fireside, the lord waving them to sit as he gazed deep into the flames.

“We captured one of the sellswords who fled. Kyle and I put him to the question.” Beric wiped his hands upon his tunic, still damp from the washing he’d given them. They’d heard nothing yet Jon imagined there were ways of getting answers from a man without allowing him to make much noise. “He knew a good deal.”

“More ambushes?” Jon asked.

“Not so far south as this. We did for the main force of sellswords in this area and the Lannisters are too busy consolidating their hold over the capital with their new allies.” Beric made a sound like a sigh then and gazed at Jon over the flames. “And your brother is returning from the west. He may already be at Riverrun as we speak.”

_He’s back._

_Riverrun, that’s close._

_I can reach him._

“Steady yourself Jon, I do not yet give you my leave to seek him.” The lord held up his hands as Jon made to protest. “You will, when we deliver these animals to those in need. This gold must be brought to a safe place as well. Once those tasks are done, I will give you your freedom. It will give us time to discuss your best route to Riverrun, and friends who might help you.”

“Swear it please. Swear that when I’ve done as you ask, you will release me to seek my family.” Jon held his hands before him beseeching the lord. He’d gotten ahead of himself in hoping he could ride off that night in search of Robb, forgetting everything he’d agreed to when joining Beric’s band. Yet the lord offered him this chance, and seemed honorable enough for Jon to place faith in his word.

“I swear it, though your father may curse me for it.” Beric lowered his head in some sort of somber thought. “I fear the journey you set out upon. Of the dangers you would face. Of the pain.”

He turned from the lord then and walked off to find some food.

“It can be no worse than what pain I’ve already felt.”

 

**JON**

 

A pain came upon him, one so deep it pulled everything in him apart.

He saw glimpses of what was and what had been, flashing in the darkness. Almost all of it was pain and screaming.

Ghost and he had been alone again, as it had been after the Blackwater, only better. They’d journeyed with the Brotherhood to their hideout at the Hollow Hill and Beric had been true to his word, he’d been released. He kept his horse, Robar’s sword, and the bracelets, while gaining in knowledge of the outlaws’ paths and friends Jon could seek shelter from in his journey north.

“Ask of our friends sparingly, and leave the trails I’ve told you of even less so.” Beric’s words drifted back to him through a haze. “It will take longer, but you’re more likely to arrive alive. Be well Jon Snow.”

“Safe travels Jon.” A lad’s voice had spoken as well, not Bran’s as he hoped, but a purple-eyed youth he’d befriended.

The pain came to him again and he felt something cool upon his brow and someone somewhere was saying soft things.

They travelled to the strict path Beric had set forth for them, showing his face to few and Ghost’s to even fewer. The direwolf rarely left cover save when they had to. This ride had felt different from the desperate one he’d made from the capital. With each day he knew he came closer to Robb. Ghost had sensed the same of Grey Wind, they even dreamt of it, and from the few smallfolk he risked speaking to Jon heard the same.

The king had returned to Riverrun. The Young Wolf was back.

With weeks of riding, Jon became more hopeful with every sunrise he saw. Then one say they’d both felt it. How, he couldn’t say, but it was there. One morning Ghost and Jon awoke knowing that Robb was not as close as he had been. That he was moving away from them.

Something was touching his side and it burned so much that he cried out and thrashed against the pressure there. Hands reached out to hold him down and the burning touch continued, just as his cries did.

The cries were what threw him from the trail, what made him defy Beric’s advice and leave the safety of cover that the trees gave him. He was near a place he thought to be Acorn Hall, judging from the map the Brotherhood had gifted him. It was evening, and Jon knew better, but the screams were a woman’s and his father had taught him to never ignore such.

The girls were servants from their garb, and the goats that fled at Ghost’s approach were probably the reason they ventured so far from their home. The men about them were the reason they had been crying out.

Four men, burly and clad in dress familiar to him, from feasts at Winterfell and lessons with Maester Luwin.

A white sunburst over black.

Karstark men.

Robb’s men.

Two were holding one girl down, both having their way with her at the same time. The other two made her friend watch, the girl sobbing and her lip bleeding. One had just pulled his breeches down in front of the bleeding girl when Jon rode up.

“Stop!” He remembered shouting as he rode from the brush. Ghost had hung back, wary as he ever was with new people.

“An outlaw come to us? Today is getting better!” The only fully-clothed man shoved the bleeding girl’s face into the dirt before he rose. He was a large man, missing most of his teeth, and he had laughed as he drew a huge battle-axe that had been strapped to his back, up and over his shoulder, his half-naked companion now holding the bleeding girl down.

_His friend doesn’t bother even bother pulling his breeches up._

_What is wrong with these men? These are Northmen?_

_They have become animals._

“No outlaw! A northman!” Jon noticed then that the other two hadn’t stopped raping the other girl so he rode forward, reining his horse at them until they finally stood up. The girl was bruised and sobbing and she looked to be barely older than Arya would be now.

“I’m kin to the Starks and I demand you stop this, in the name of your king!”

“King for a few days more maybe…” One of the rapers had said before the large man cuffed him so hard he was knocked down into the mud.

“Kin to the Starks? Name yourself!”

“I’m Jon Snow, son to Lord Eddard Stark, seeking the King in the North, who would not approve of the way you treat his subjects.” He should have known what was coming from the way the three men still standing looked about at one another.

He should have noticed how the large one did not put his axe away. Instead his eyes followed the man trying to move around behind Jon while bearing a dagger. It drew his attention away long enough for the true attack to come.

The scream of his horse when the axe cut into its neck was horrible, though not as horrible as the screams he heard in his dreams, in the castle over the river. Those had been gut-wrenching and full of grief, and full of howling that never ended.

He remembered falling on the ground and the men cursing around him. Ghost had come to his rescue, and the large man who killed his horse was suffering a terrible fate as the direwolf ripped his arm off. The other three were torn over which enemy to face first and hesitated. Jon had struck quickly before they had a chance to decide. He attacked the man who had been holding the bleeding girl, his breeches having been pulled up in time to meet Jon’s attack.

His spear blocked some of Jon’s sword cuts well, yet Jon was too close for the weapon’s reach to be effective, and soon he opened a grisly wound in the man’s thigh. The man fell to the ground, holding his leg, but Jon knew it was too late. Robar had taught him that such a wound was mortal, the bleeding unable to be stopped even with a maester’s help. It was a slow way to die.

The one who had been circling earlier came from Jon’s left side then. He had stumbled on the breeches around his ankles or else Jon would be dead now. The dagger had been meant for his heart, not his gut.

Still, the blow landed and the man jerked it sideways as he fell, drawing an agony that reigned over Jon’s mind even now. He half-remembered Ghost tearing the man’s throat out before he could stand up again and the bleeding girl had risen out of the mud and somehow found the strength to pick up the fallen axe, swinging it down at last the man’s kneecap, toppling him, before bringing it down over and over again into the raper’s face, screaming as she did so.

The memories caused him pain but what hurt more were of the sounds of dying men and drums, great pounding drums. And the howling of his brother as the men fired bolt after bolt at him. Of losing what he sought for all this time.

Of losing his brother.

“Can you hear me ser?” A soft voice was asking him.

It was a girl, a familiar girl, and she looked down upon him with worry in her eyes.

“What…”

“Are you awake? Please say you’re awake.” The girl reached down with a damp cloth and pressed it against his forehead.

He looked about and saw he was abed in a chamber barely bigger than his own back in Winterfell. Beside the bed was a table where soiled bandages lay scattered. He looked down and saw that his middle was bandaged heavily, his small movements creating a pain he groaned to endure.

“I told them you’d wake up. You had to. I didn't care what the maester said. I knew you were strong and true. I lit candles for you in the sept and…” The girl kept up her efforts but when he reached to grab her hand, she cried out.

His movements were so clumsy she evaded him completely. His grasp found his own face instead, wet from his tears.

The girl rose and began to run towards the door.

“My brother… please…” He rasped but the girl disappeared through the arch. “No please, tell me… please!”

 _Robb’s fine,_ he told himself through the pain _, it was but a dream._

He laid there trying to think of what kind of strange dungeon this could be instead of dwelling upon his dreams.

Soon enough the young girl returned beside two other women. One was old and grey, clearly a servant, while the other he thought to be a lady from the berth the other two gave her.

“Ser, I brought the lady for you…”

“I’m no ser… I serve the Starks… tell me of King Robb, please…” Jon rasped and reached out. The woman he thought to be a lady held the young girl back as the old woman began prodding at him.

“You’re a Stark man? Why weren’t you at that wedding then?” The crone hissed as she lifted his bandage, though more softly than Jon did when he felt the pull of his bandages.

“At the Blackwater… rode with Lord Beric… please, where am I?”

“You are in Acorn Hall, under the care of House Smallwood.” The lady continued to gaze at him strangely, as if she were making some judgement. “I will show courtesy and say that I am the Lady Ravella Smallwood. Now do me the honor of telling us your name.”

He hadn’t the strength to lie and all he wanted was answers.

“Jon Snow, brother to King Robb. Tell me of him. Is my wolf…?”

“Driven off, it took four men and a dozen hounds and gods only know how many arrows to get the point across, but it’s been gone from my lands for a week now.” Lady Smallwood sounded relieved whereas he felt a hollow pit in his stomach. His face must have betrayed it for the lady sighed and allowed the girl, whom Jon recognized now as the girl who the Karstark men had been having their way with, to come forward with a cup of water.

“You’re honest, that’s good to know. The girls remembered you naming yourself when you defended them against those monsters. Had you lied, I would’ve been hard-pressed to think of you as one of those rare bastards, one not tainted by the sin of their origins.”

“He saved us m’lady! They said when they w-was d-done, they was going to cut our throats!” The girl received a slap to her arm from the old woman for her words.

“That he did.” Lady Smallwood continued. “That’s the only reason why I allowed you to be brought to my hall Jon Snow. Sparing poor Nessa and Nancy from those savages earned you that. Driving your wolf away rather than having it killed was what I owed the king my family knelt to, may the Mother guide his way.”

“Robb? Please… tell me he lives… please…”

The lady’s face told him before her words did and Jon realized then that he’d known. The details of the massacre at the Twins were news to his ears but his heart had already known that Robb had been murdered. It was as painful as it had been for Jon when he learned that the boys had died, but none of the shock came with it, for he’d known. So the sobs racked him sure enough, sending waves of pain through his body and shaming him before the women.

“I failed him.” He sobbed, to himself more than them. “I tried so hard… I should have been with him… I should have died with him… Just let me die…”

“You may still get that chance.” Lady Smallwood waved the other two women away. “You’ve been here two weeks, and for each day of it we thought it was your last. Word came of the massacre two days passed, a survivor from the Twins brought it to us and I can’t imagine it will be long before the Freys or Lannisters come calling as well. If I let that beast of yours remain outside my gate I might as well have lit a beacon to announce your presence here.”

“Let them come for me, just give me my sword and I can take one of them with me before I go. I’ll be with my family and-”

“Bloody up my husband’s home? I think not. For what good you’ve done, I won’t hand you over to your enemies but I cannot hope to shelter you so don’t ask it. I plan on you being as far from here as possible as soon as you’re able.” Lady Smallwood offered Jon the cup of water again and he drank greedily, his thirst incredible. “You can take a boat. The river is a few days ride from here. If you can get to the Saltpans you can take a ship to the sea and be far away from here. What’s left of House Stark is not in the Riverlands, nor much of a war left after this. I imagine I’ll be forced to bend the knee very soon and you can’t be here when I do.”

“You’d have me flee?”

“I’d have you live, as I did with my own child when I sent her away from here. There must be something far from this wretched land of graves that you can seek? Those bracelets or that sword of yours either could pay for travel across the Narrow Sea, even north if you will it.”

“Not my sword…” Jon tried to rise but it was a fool’s errand and his body raged at him even worse than the lady did for the attempt. “Can I have it?”

The lady nodded and had the blade sent for.

In the meantime she told him of the goings on in the realm he’d been ignorant of. Jon learned of Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion and prayed that the man wouldn’t take Jon’s betrayal at the Crossroads out on her. Lady Ravella had no word of Arya, but she had strong views on how young women were being abused throughout war, the stories she told chilling Jon when he thought of Arya suffering in such a way. Hearing Sansa still lived should have been a greater comfort, had he not already spent so much time travelling away from her.

“I have two men outside your door if you think of any villainy.” The lady said as she left him with Robar’s blade and the bracelets Melisandre had gifted him.

She also left him to his grief and as tired as he was Jon stayed awake for some time with it. Robb had been beside him as long as he could remember and when it had come time for Jon to be at his brother’s side, he’d failed. Worse still, at Winterfell Robb had asked him to stay, as had Bran, and he’d chosen to leave them.

_If you’d stayed you could’ve been there to keep Bran and Rickon safe._

_Or marched south with Robb and his army._

As he looked upon Robar’s sword, he remembered that his father had bid him to do all of these things but it comforted him little. For father was lost to him as well.

The only member of his family left to him was at King’s Landing, and wherever Ghost was, he couldn’t depend on the wolf to guide him there again. Still, he had to try. There were few people in the capital that might recognize him, especially without his direwolf cluing them in to his Stark allegiance. Perhaps there was a way to sneak in. There was no argument Jon could think against it, other than fear of death, but what did he have left to live for? He would do as the lady suggested, he would seek a port and from there Jon would seek the only family he had left.

He tried to rise and failed again.

When he could move. Then he’d seek his remaining family.

He’d save Sansa. Then he’d find Arya.

“I’ll find them.” The tears came again as he spoke. “Robb, I’m sorry, Bran… Rickon… father…I’ll find them.”

 

**JON**

 

“Say that again.”

“Eh? Who are you to be giving…”

The sailors eyed the sword upon Jon’s hip warily before looking about themselves. He knew he looked half a bandit, carrying as fine a sword as Robar’s while wearing such tattered clothes yet he pushed on. He would hear their words again.

“Just repeat what you were saying. It’s all I ask.”

“King Joffrey’s dead.” The sailor shrugged. “Murdered by the Imp and his she-wolf.”

“May the seven guide his way.” Another piped up, eyeing the room.

Jon spoke to his gods then, save silently, and gave thanks that that monster was ended. He was filthy and weary but glad that he had sought the inn as soon as he’d arrived at the Saltpans. It was small and cramped but if there was any news to be heard, he’d thought it would be here.

And what news.

“The Imp’s as good as dead too, on trial when we left the capital.” The sailor continued and Jon felt a small pang at the idea of Tyrion facing such a fate.

_You pulled your sword on him to meet a similar one._

He pushed that guilt away. With word such as this, he’d have to hurry along his plans for reaching the capital.

_Sansa will need me more than ever it seems._

He had already turned to leave when one of the men spoke again.

“He wasn’t as lucky as that wife o’ his.”

“Why?” Jon whipped back around. “What happened to her?”

“Gone. Run off. Whole realm is supposed to be looking for her.” The innkeeper burst into the conversation, eyeing Jon just as warily as the sailors had. “Too bad she doesn’t come in here, plenty of coin to be had for turning her in to the queen.”

“More fun to be had before you do that! Show her what a full man feels like!”

“Don’t be fools.” The older of the sailors shook his head. “She’s dead already, you can be sure of that. Think the Imp would truly leave her behind to tell the tale? He probably fucked her one last go with his little imp cock before he did her in, the wretch.”

Jon liked to think that he would have cuffed the man for speaking of Sansa’s honor in such a way if he hadn’t been so devastated at what he heard.

_Gone, she’s gone._

_I was coming to save her._

It had been close to a month before he’d been able to leave Acorn Hall and seek a boat upon the river. He’d held hope that someone from the Brotherhood would arrive, as Lady Smallwood said they often came with news or food in exchange for shelter, but none did. House Smallwood did well by him though. They’d kept his guts from spilling out and even furnished him a few animal pelts to look like a proper trader during his travels. The stable master had even given him one of the dead Karstark’s horses for his trip to the river.

When he’d found a boat, it had been a small river galley, making a slow, meandering journey back towards the Bay of Crabs. They’d passed Riverrun and Jon had seen first-hand the siege lines being thrown up around the castle of House Tully. Defiantly, they still flew the direwolf banner but he knew better than to try sneaking into that castle. It was Lady Stark’s family within those walls. He doubted they wanted his help, as meaningless as it would probably be.

The whole time he’d been thinking of how he would take a ship south from the Saltpans and do his best to find a way to Sansa. To find some way to free her and get her home, like he’d wanted to do at the Blackwater.

 _Now she’s gone, missing just like Arya._  

_No matter what I set out to do, I always fail._

The men had continued their talk without him and he saw empty seats should he have need of them. Yet the strange glances he was attracting from other patrons bothered him some. A young boy stared openly at Robar’s sword before catching his eye and running quickly from the inn.

He decided to take his leave as well.

Jon hadn’t been expecting a large port when he set out for the Saltpans yet somehow the place still disappointed. Much of the buildings along the harbor had been burned down during the fighting here and there were paltry few ships there to seek passage on.

There was a large river galley next to the smaller one he had arrived on. He also spotted a big salt sea trader in the harbor and a smaller trade ship, yet built for the sea just as the large ship was.

Either one of the large ships he could try and barter passage upon but he no longer had a destination to sail to.

Jon had no reason to seek the capital now nor could he journey back to Winterfell. It had been burned and abandoned. Had he known all this before he’d left Acorn Hall, he might have tried to seek out the Brotherhood again, yet to return to the Riverlands now and wander aimlessly seemed pointless to him.

He had come south to make his own name and find honor but Jon had spent most of his time here at tasks that offered him nothing but frustration and distraction. Had his father allowed him to take the black, he could be serving at the Wall even now, his lack of action in the war at least being explained by doing his duty to the realm.

_I can still take the black._

_Father forbid it at the time, but he is gone and so is the man I swore to serve._

The Wall hadn’t been what he thought though. More men who had failed at life served there than men who wanted their lives to have worth. They were the refuse of the realm, the ones who had no other place. Orphans, criminals, fallen knights and lords. Was that all Jon had left?

He realized then that he was being prideful and foolish, for he was no better than any of them. Jon was the refuse of the realm now too. He had failed at this life, just like those men, with no other place to go and the Wall offered him the chance to redeem himself and regain his honor. He was, after all, still a lowly bastard, only now he was the bastard of an extinct house as well.

He was the last drop of blood from a family that had existed for over 8000 years and he had a duty to uphold to that legacy. His actions might be the last thing history would ever say about the Starks, and while House Stark might die out with him, and though Jon had never been a Stark in truth, he could hope that people might say Eddard Stark had raised four sons, not three.

_The Starks raised the Wall. Maybe they should end at the Wall._

He went to the larger sea trader first, the one with the purple sail, where a stout man wearing red shouted about at the men on the ship. He spoke a foreign tongue but Jon decided to try his luck anyways.

“Are you the captain of this ship?”

“I am but I be needing no more crew.” The man switched over to the Common Tongue, giving Jon but a scant glance.

“I seek passage to the Wall, to the castle of Eastwatch.” He gained the captain’s attention then and the man raised a greyed eyebrow as he named Eastwatch.

“That far? It will cost, we hadn’t planned to stop there.”

“I have some pelts for trade and I can work at the oars if you…”

“I said I need no crew and need less of pelts. I take coin, or trade for what will get me coin. Do you have nothing in trade?” The captain pointed to Jon’s hip and whistled. “That sword there would do.”

“It’s not mine to trade.”

“Whose is it then? I don’t see anybody else carrying it.”

At the mention of Robar’s sword Jon’s shame came back tenfold. He’d been so caught up in seeking a new destination that he’d forgotten what he’d vowed to do for Robar. It seemed impossible that he’d carried it all the way from Storm’s End to here… but it was meant to go even further.

It was meant to go home.

“Come now, I’m busy man. Trade or be away from me.” The captain crossed his arms and Jon shook his head. He could no more trade away Robar’s sword than he could sail to the Wall without returning it to Runestone.

“What of the Vale? Could you get me to Gulltown for the pelts?”

“What are you up to?” The captain cursed and gestured to the smaller trade ship berthed further down from them. “Are you deserting one ship for another? Ride back to the Vale if you miss your woman so bad. Away with you!”

Jon had no idea what the man was talking about but the captain had already turned his back to him. The roads to the Vale were rife with wildlings and after facing them in the Kingswood, Jon was not tempted to do so again without a horse or Ghost. So he set forward to the other ship, only to find some of its crew already heading towards him. The boy he’d seen at the inn was leading the way with four armed men following after.

“You there! We would have words with you.” Hailed a tall man to the back.

“I only seek passage to the Vale. I mean to do nothing else here, save find that.” He raised his hands and backed away from the group. The boy was whispering to a short man beside him, one bearing two swords and a tunic adorned with bronze runes.

It was familiar in a way.

“That’s the ser’s sword, isn’t it?” The boy pointed excitedly at Robar’s sword and Jon protectively put a hand upon its pommel. The other men all followed suit save for the short man who, like the boy, gazed at the sword. “That’s it, I know it is. The lord had me polish it after it was smithed, and scores more times after that!”

“That you did lad, that you did, and I know it as well as you. That sword pummelled me as much as my own father did.” The short man did not act threatening and none of the others were young men like Jon. “The boy here and I say that the blade you carry is not your own, how did you come by it?”

Should they wish a fight he could probably run and outpace them, but for the moment he saw no reason to lie.

“It belonged to the knight I squired for. He fell in battle and I seek to return it to his family. They live in the Vale so if you would allow me to be on my way…”

“Name the knight you squired for.”

“Ser Robar Royce, called Robar the Red by many, second son to…”

“Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, called Bronze Yohn by many and cousin by me.” The man spoke clearly enough but it took Jon a moment to truly realize his words’ meaning and by then the man was approaching him. “I am Ser Willem Royce, cousin to Bronze Yohn and his sons, and a knight in his service… and if you are who I think you to be, stay silent. We are not the only ones involved in our words here.”

Ser Willem’s eyes flickered to their side and Jon saw others, traders and townsfolk alike, doing their best to seem disinterested in the conversation yet not moving about as they should. When his attention fell on the knight again, the man’s hand was out, a smile upon his face.

“Ser Willem… I seek Runestone and if you travel there I would…” Jon spoke quietly as he shook his hand but the knight leaned in to whisper in Jon’s ear nonetheless.

“You will sail with us and together we’ll see my cousin’s blade home.” Ser Willem pulled away and wrinkled his face some. “Which I think from the smell of you ought to make for an interesting journey.”

 

**JON**

 

“I failed him my lord.”

The words echoed through the hall, just as they had in his own head for well on a year now. Whether it was the castle walls or the long line of silent knights, Jon couldn’t say which added more weight to his admission. The whole affair made Jon nervous but all he could do was own up to his failure before the handful of knights and other members of House Royce’s household and await their judgement.

Lord Yohn was a powerful looking man. His hair may have greyed and his faced was aged and lined but the man still looked formidable. He was but an older version of the knight to his right, Ser Andar Royce, his eldest son and heir, whose face was as inscrutable as his father’s.

The lord held Robar’s sword in his hands, staring at it just as he had from the moment Jon had knelt to offer it to him. He’d told the story of Robar’s death as he continued to kneel and it was in the telling that Jon accepted the blame that he had borne along with the sword, all the way from Storm’s End.

“I was his squire and wielded a sword of my own yet I failed to stop Loras Tyrell from slaying him as much as I failed in avenging his murder.” He continued, still kneeling on the hard stone floor now. “And had your men not found me at the Saltpans, I may have failed to return his sword to you now…”

“He lies!”

Hushed whispers among the gathered men answered Willem’s announcement. Lord Yohn looked up from the sword for the first time and watched the knight come to Jon’s side.

“As the one who found him, he does himself a disservice and insults the feat he performed in arriving at the Saltpans alive.”

“I merely sailed up the Red Fork…”

“The smith should’ve hammered some sense into your head you stupid-”

“What does Willem speak of lad?” Yohn’s grumble interrupted their bickering. “You did not travel all the way from Storm’s End to the Saltpans by way of that river. So tell me the truth.”

He did as the lord commanded, as Willem had had him do during their journey from the Saltpans to Gulltown.

He was the last son of a cadet branch quite low on the Royce family tree and Willem liked to joke that a strong wind would convince Yohn to break them off from the main branch of the family. Jon thought that unlikely though, since it was Willem the Lord of Runestone had entrusted to journey by sea to seek the High Road and report back on the foul state of things there. They were to leave the very day they had come upon Jon, and the knight had bragged that he was a greater prize than any report that he could hope to give his cousin, which Jon hadn’t understood.

Willem was a pleasant man and good company on the journey to Runestone, filled with tales and jests. The knight could bring a smile even to someone as somber as himself. From Gulltown they’d ridden on to the castle of House Royce, which sat upon a hill that commanded an imposing view from all sides. They’d arrived not long after a great gathering of Vale lords, following recent events at the Eyrie. At Gulltown they’d heard Lysa Arryn had been murdered by some singer and that the heir to House Arryn was now under the protection of a Lord Petyr Baelish. Jon knew little of the man, save that he had been a part of the Lannister court and Willem disdained him.

“And you could say that I’m the middle ground in respects to Littlefinger, nothing compared to Bronze Yohn’s hatred of the man.”

The Royces had played host to many notable Vale lords and had written out an agreement, demanding young Robert Arryn be surrendered to them. The others had begun the journey to the Eyrie while Lord Royce had remained behind. Willem had sent word ahead and the Lord of Runestone delayed his departure to await their arrival.

Willem had assured him all would go well, and despite his jests, he had actually been a comfort to many of Jon’s worries.

Yet as Jon tried to tell his tale, Willem seemed intent on aggravating him.

“He fought the Knight of Flowers and saved Robar’s sword in the process. He bears the scars to prove it!” Willem had added to Jon’s telling of his battle with Ser Loras, which was nothing compared to what the knight tacked on to his recounting of the Blackwater.

“One of many Stannis left behind after the folly there, but one of the few I know who didn’t bend the knee to the Lannisters or their Tyrell dogs!” Willem called out and some of the knights had grunted in approval. “Tell them about the Lightning Lord! That tale is one I can’t tell any better. Go on then!”

“I-I was found by Lord Beric Dondarrion… he was still fighting under the orders my father gave him when he sent him from the capital…”

“We hear of his deeds even as far as here.” Ser Andar interrupted, moving forward from his father’s side to tower over Jon. “It does not seem possible that a squire could make it to the Riverlands from the capital alone.”

“You forgot that he made it all the way from the westernmost side of the Riverlands back to the Saltpans.” Willem spoke for Jon again. “With a gut wound no less! Have him lift his shirt if you doubt any of the hardships he’s endured.”

Jon did not wish to do any such thing in the company of lords and knights but Lord Royce insisted, making Jon thankful that there were at least no ladies present. The grimace upon Ser Andar’s face and the whispers among the gathered men when he turned to allow them to behold his wounds made Willem smile even wider.

“Is it as Willem says? Did you earn all these wounds as he tells it?” Lord Royce asked him after he pulled his shirt back over his head.

“He makes it sound grander than it was my lord… but he speaks the truth as I told it to him, and I would not lie. I would have come sooner and if you want an apology for it, I understand.” Jon decided to not balk at telling the whole truth. “Yet my family needed me. I tried to fight for them however I could, yet I was little help to anyone... to my shame”

Silence followed his words, the assembled men of Runestone either looking at him or to their own lord. Bronze Yohn himself was stroking Robar’s blade and regarded Jon with those hard grey eyes of his. He’d expected disappointment or even disgust from the storied lord yet the man had a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Jon Snow…” Lord Royce said gripping the sword tightly. “Ned Stark’s bastard boy.”

“Cousin.” Willem tried to put in but the lord waved his words away before pointing at Jon.

“You’re a bastard Jon Snow. I say it again because when your father came to me, offering you to squire for Robar, I was shocked. Perhaps even insulted. Robar may have been a second son but he was a Royce of Runestone and I loved him as much as I do all my children.” Lord Royce paused to hold up Robar’s sword again, stroking the bronze pommel almost gently. “I gifted him this sword when he was knighted. It’s a fine blade, one of the finest my smith has ever forged. Even Andar was jealous of it. I would have never imagined it failing him when it mattered most.”

“My lord, the blade did not fail him. I-”

“In my hall I speak until I’ve had my fill of it, so be silent. That be your influence Willem.” Lord Royce grumbled and Jon’s eyes fell to the floor. “This treasure I gave my boy, out of love, failed him, while the squire I bid him to take, out of obligation, served him more faithfully than I ever could have imagined. Your father was a friend of mine Jon Snow, a good friend, I say proudly, or else I never would have considered Robar taking you to squire. Now I think it was your father who did me the true favor.”

Bronze Yohn walked past Jon then to pace along the lines of knights gathered there, inspecting them as if he was about to command them into a battle.

“How many here could call Ned Stark a friend? Or at least a good man in their eyes? A man you respected?” The lord’s question earned loud calls of affirmation from over half the men gathered there, which made Jon’s heart swell with pride. “And while we all sat here, safe in the Vale, Ned Stark was murdered. His sons were murdered! Mine own son was murdered!”

“The warrior will guide his way.” Andar added as his father came to stand before Jon again.

“As he bloody well should! At least my Robar fought in this war while we all sat here getting fat. His squire has seen more battles in this war than I have, to my shame. To all of our shame!” Lord Royce roared the last part so loudly that Jon started, but the lord reached out and gripped his shoulder firmly. “And to his honor. His father’s honor.”

Jon felt his eyes heat up with tears at the lord’s kind words but he swallowed and willed them away. He would not shame himself in front of this lord and his men.

“And to repair some of own honor… I ask you to kneel Jon.”

He did so numbly, thinking he knew what the lord meant but not wanting to get his hopes up. Lord Yohn of House Royce unsheathed his son Robar’s sword, the sword of Jon’s mentor and ser, and held it before him with two hands, gazing down upon his son’s squire with a warm expression.

“You keep the old gods lad?”

“I do my lord.”

“Would you for forsake them for what I offer you now?”

The thought that he might have to one day forsake the old gods for The Seven had always been there, and once Jon might have done it. Rarely had the gods ever answered Jon’s prayers and his life had been one of great hardships. What difference did it make, whether they were the old gods or the new, if Jon’s prayers went unheard?

Yet when he thought of his faith, and the heart tree at Winterfell, he remembered his father before it. Of Robb and him playing at swords. Of Arya and him playing games between the trees. Of seeing little Rickon’s first steps beside the pools and Bran first learning of his love for climbing on the weirwood’s branches. The old gods had bound them together and he could not break that bond.

Even for knighthood.

“I cannot. They were the gods of my father.” Jon knew he may doom his chances there but Bronze Yohn simply offered a wry laugh.

“I thought so. It’ll be the godswood you stand your vigil in then. I will have to be creative in how I say the words to this but know that I think it an honor to do so.” With that he laid the flat end of the blade upon Jon’s shoulder. “In the name of your gods Jon Snow, I charge you to be brave…”

He felt his chest tightening and his breath came heavy and hard as he put the words to memory.

“I charge you to be just. I charge you to defend the young and innocent…”

This was what his father had meant for him. This was his father’s wish finally being fulfilled.

“I charge you to protect all women…”

The blade was rising again and Lord Royce lifted the blade to touch his other shoulder. He continued to charge Jon with tasks his father had always taught him were what was expected of any good man.

_I will go beyond them._

_I will earn this._

_For father, for Robar, for my brothers…_

“I bid you to rise.” The lord’s words beckoned him to do so and the eyes of men who’d endured much the same were looking upon him, many smiling, none more so than Willem. “Ser Jon of Winterfell.”

“No my lord, Ser Jon the Wolf.” Willem put in and Bronze Yohn seemed annoyed before Jon noticed the smile on his face.

“Ser Jon the Wolf it is.” The lord offered his hand and when Jon grasped it he pulled him in for a tight embrace. “Together we will do great things ser. I swear to you, your father’s house will not fall. It is the least I owe him. And you.”

That confused him but Bronze Yohn pulled away as Ser Andar came and offered his own hand. Then Willem who laughed and claimed the wolf idea came from his stench more than anything else. Others came forward as well and all called him ser.

And Jon wished his family could see him now.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is sent on a mission for his new lord while others in the Vale take actions of their own.

**SER JON**

 

“I think our wine stores are going to be taking a real hit tonight.”

Willem’s prediction may have made Jon smile if it wasn’t for how grim their lord’s face was as he rode through the gate. It appeared that the foul news that came by raven from the Eyrie days back still weighed heavily on Bronze Yohn, Willem having predicted that as well.

It fell to Willem to welcome the lord back, as Ser Andar had left some days ago for Old Anchor and others seats, to rally more support for their cause against Lord Baelish. A cause which had been greatly weakened since the Lords Declarant had returned from the Eyrie.

“My lord, Runestone is yours!” Willem called out and Bronze Yohn gave a curt nod as he dismounted and practically threw his reigns at a stableboy. “Fine weather on the ride back cousin?”

“Shut your fool mouth before I shut it for you and follow me.” Lord Royce grumbled as he stalked by the assembled household, stopping only to point at Jon and another knight. “You two as well.”

The second knight was Ser Mychel Redfort, married to Bronze Yohn’s only daughter, and the other recent addition to Runestone’s household knights besides Jon. Willem and Mychel were his most frequent sparring partners, and if Jon had thought Robar was a swordsman far beyond others of the Vale, those two taught him otherwise.

Jon felt out of place as he fell in line behind the two knights following Lord Royce. The lord inviting Mychel to join him in his solar made some sense, the man was his only goodson, but having Jon attend the meeting as well was strange. Lord Royce’s more senior and highborn knights returned with the rest of his army, yet the doors to the lord’s solar remained shut to all but the four of them.

“The fiend schemed his way out of it! If I hadn’t been there to see it I wouldn’t have believed it myself.” Bronze Yohn poured a cup of wine messily and then three more as he gestured for the others to join him in drinking. “We had him. We had him cornered and at our mercy and what happens? We give him permission to stay and skulk off with our tails between our legs. Now he has all the time he needs to scheme and plot safely in the seat of our beloved Jon Arryn…”

“I warned you that Lyn Corbray was a stupid bastard.” Willem shook his head before slapping it. "I'm an idiot, sorry Wolf."

Jon shrugged and drank. He knew what Willem meant and took no offense at the word. He too wondered at the foolishness of the Corbray knight, to bare steel at the meeting and earning the lords arrayed against Baelish a public rebuke. A rebuke that had apparently shamed them into allowing Lord Baelish a year of protectorship over young Robert Arryn, and continued rule over the Vale.

“For once you are right cousin.” Bronze Yohn stroked his beard.

“I also said the Wolf here was worthy of knighthood.” Willem smiled. “And how that one serving girl always walks a little funny after seeing to your bed sheets…”

“Shut it!” The lord bellowed.

“That’s not right.” Ser Mychel said before realizing the look they all shot him. “Not the serving girl… I mean the part about Ser Lyn.”

“Yohn saw him pull Lady Forlorn with his own eyes. He’s either a fool or a Frey. Take your pick.” Willem shrugged.

“No. He’s neither of those things.” Mychel put in uncomfortably, he’d squired for Ser Lyn and Jon did not think it dishonorable to defend his former mentor. “Lyn has many flaws but he is not stupid, nor is he as hot-headed as-”

“Just because you are married to my daughter does not give you the right to question my word ser.” Lord Royce grumbled.

“My lord, you mistake me, I meant only that he knows better than to do as he did. I could never see the knight who trained me acting so rashly.” Mychel stood his ground and earned a thoughtful look from Bronze Yohn for doing so.

“If he knew better, he certainly didn’t show it. Pulling that sword ruined our position as the true protectors of honor and custom.”

“It was good fortune for Baelish that Ser Lyn was there then.” Jon offered.

He didn’t know much about the Vale or its politics, only that Lord Royce had failed at something that had disappointed everyone at Runestone. His lord had assembled a powerful body of lords to pressure the husband of the late Lysa Arryn from the Vale, and had somehow failed at what had seemed a sure thing.

“Very good fortune… you’re right Jon.” His lord paused to glance at Willem, who cursed lightly under his breath. “And his good fortune continues… most of the lords who marched with us stay true but I fear some will lose heart. With Tywin Lannister dead and that daughter of his as Queen Regent, some may cower before challenging her man here in the Vale. Or worse still, with winter upon us and the clansmen attacking in greater force than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime, many might actually start to think that Littlefinger can offer stability. Even protection.”

“Can’t blame him for the season’s changing… but those clansmen were armed by the Lannisters, Littlefinger’s dear friends.” Willem put in and Bronze Yohn slapped him so forcefully on the back that the smaller knight choked on his wine.

“Exactly!” The lord went to stand at his desk and unfurled a map of the Vale before him. “Littlefinger thinks that his schemes have forced me to stand down. That I’m a defeated old lord whose only hopes now rest on raising up Harrold Hardyng as heir apparent to the Vale, and praying that our dear Lord Robert dies.”

It was a vile thing to hear.

Jon was shocked to hear such come from Lord Royce. As little as he understood of the specifics, he thought his lord an honorable man, not one to hope for the death of his sickly liege lord, a young boy far from manhood.

“Don’t worry Wolf.” Willem smirked, grasping his shoulder and shaking him as he pointed Jon’s face out to the others. “He believed it well enough, look at his face!”

Bronze Yohn’s deep, rumbling laughter made Jon feel quite foolish and he saw now that he had missed something in his lord’s words.

“It’s what Littlefinger thinks, not what I mean to do ser. In truth, I wish Lord Robert a long, healthy life. That’s why I wanted him away from Baelish in the first place.” The lord turned his attention back to the map. “But I’ll play the part Littlefinger wants of me. I’ll be throwing a melee for squires only, here at Runestone, to raise the spirits of our people after my recent bungling. Really to give young Harry the Heir a chance to win himself a knighthood and raise his status even more.”

“Too bad you went and got yourself knighted Wolf, you could’ve battered an heir about.” Willem joked before Bronze Yohn hushed him.

“Littlefinger will see it for what it is, an attempt at trying to raise up my own claimant while he still holds power over our lord. It’ll be more than that of course. It gives me reason to keep my men mustered and ready to march, which I hope to do if you three can succeed at what I’m about to ask of you.” Lord Royce placed a heavy finger upon the Gates of the Moon. “Mychel, you’ll be returning to my cousin’s castle, ostensibly to carry on your dalliance with that bastard girl.”

At that Mychel flushed, whether more out of anger or embarrassment Jon couldn’t decide, for his words betrayed some of both.

“I am married to your daughter and will not forsake-”

“I don’t expect you to ser. Few here have heard of what happened with that girl before you married my Ysilla. What matters is that many at the Gates of the Moon knew, and just as many know you claimed to love her.” The lord paused as Mychel drained his cup and move to fill it again, his back suddenly turned to the others. “And because you’re my goodson and sworn to my service, I ask this of you. Go back and pretend that it was a love fit for any song, a love that drove you to return there. Act as though you’d do anything to have her.”

“I… you ask too much…”

“You’re a fourth son to one house and a goodson to another, with no lands of your own, angry at the lords of both for forcing you into a marriage you didn’t want.” Lord Royce straightened and did not break his gaze from Mychel’s back. “You’re exactly the type of person a man like Littlefinger would try and use against me. He doesn’t know you like I do though, and I trust you to do this. You will be ready to speak to any betrayals he attempts to enlist you in.”

Jon had been tasked with many difficult things in the past yet the one set before Mychel was something that he wasn’t sure he would have been able to face. If Mychel did love this girl Bronze Yohn spoke of, then he was being asked to return to her after marrying another and playing with her feelings for the sake of politics. If Mychel didn’t love this other woman and truly cared for his wife, the situation was still as cruel but instead to Bronze Yohn’s own daughter.

When Mychel returned to the table his face was dark.

“Damn you… you don’t know what you ask of me my lord, what I did to Mya, how ashamed I-” Mychel paused, his face one of disgust, whether with the task Bronze Yohn had asked of him or with himself for what he had done to this bastard girl, Jon wasn’t sure. “Ysilla can never know. Asking me to shame myself is one thing Yohn, I cannot shame her.”  

“I love her dearly. She will not know.” Lord Royce nodded before swiftly looking to the map again, like the matter was but an inconvenience. The lord began moving his finger to the mountains south of the Eyrie and west of Redfort.

“This is my task for you two. You will lead a party of men into this area, where the clansmen have been striking hardest from. Find me proof of Littlefinger’s involvement with them. If you find only evidence of Lannister work then you will bring it to me anyway. With such I can try to rally the other lords against Littlefinger’s control.”

“My lord, your plan is daring but what if Lord Baelish learns of any part?” Jon asked, only because to stay silent would have been failing to serve his lord as well as he could. “Whether Mychel discovers anything at the castle or we capture a clansman willing to speak to any plots, returning back to Runestone would be a challenge.”

“You’re right, that’s why I won’t be here.” Again the lord returned their attention to the map, pointing at a place at the pass connecting the Vale of Arryn with the peninsula Runestone resided upon. “I will be there, with as many men as I can muster, ready to march to the Gates of the Moon.”

The scale of what Bronze Yohn planned made Jon feel uneasy. Not for the wisdom of it, for the lord was far older and had waged more campaigns than most others in the realm.

_It’s that I’m a part of it._

After Willem and Mychel had been sent on to prepare, Lord Royce had asked him to stay and Jon was thankful for it. If only to attempt to convince his lord that he was not worthy of such a task.

“My lord, Willem knows these lands you’re sending us to and has earned such an honor. While I’m happy to serve under him, I think there are several knights in your service you’d rather have-”

“Of course there are, but every day you stay here Jon is another day Littlefinger might learn of your identity.” Bronze Yohn moved to sit in his chair by the hearth. “Willem allowed no ravens or riders to leave Runestone during my absence but I will allow it now. Let Littlefinger’s spies report what they see here, for you will be elsewhere by then.”

“If my presence here endangers your family, I would not begrudge you asking me to leave.” Jon owed everything to the Lord of Runestone. He would not allow any harm to come to Bronze Yohn or his House on behalf of him.

“I didn’t give you your spurs just to send you off to become a hedge knight. Besides, I fully intend to reveal the last son of Eddard Stark to the realm. Just not yet." He smiled. "There are great things in store for you Ser Jon, your father must have known the same. Why else would he have you squire for my son?”

_Because he was the only one who would have me._

The lord appeared to think the subject closed yet Jon lingered, for there was something else he’d waited weeks to ask about. Something he’d waited over a year to know.

“My lord, while you were away, word came from the capital… about my sister Arya.”

“Yes I heard. She’s to wed Ramsay Snow and make the Bolton claim to Winterfell more legitimate.” Lord Royce cocked an eyebrow at him and drank again of his wine. “Fear not Jon, after what you told me of the Red Wedding, I could not leave your sister in the hands of the false friends behind it.”

Hearing Bronze Yohn speak about Arya’s fate so plainly was hard for him. For every fear that he’d had for her safety, a doubt had arisen on whether she even lived. Jon saw the gods mocking him in finally offering him a place to find service, only to provide a reason to leave once again. His lord had denied him that option, yet he couldn’t leave Arya in the hands of the Boltons, it spoke to what he knew in his heart.

That he had to go to her.

“Then we’ll attempt to free her?”

“When matters at the Gates of the Moon are settled I swear, we will attend to the wrongs in the North.” Bronze Yohn shifted in his seat and closed his eyes. “Go on now ser, the sooner Willem and you find the evidence I need, the sooner we can see about saving a Stark girl.”

 

**GHOST**

 

_These lands were not as full of prey as the others had been._

_The mountains and rocks loomed around him and the air carried the scent of a goat he’d been stalking. It had been dark when he first caught the scent. He’d tracked it through the light and now, when it was dark again, he was near enough to catch the prey’s movement in the distance._

_He hadn’t been forced on such a long hunt since he’d left the cold lands. Before they’d gone to the land of plenty._

_The lands of fields and rivers had been the best, where prey ran behind every bush and the night was full from the sounds of life and the air filled with the smell of dead man._

_Those lands were far behind him now._

_What brought him here was closer than it had been. Men had driven him away when his other self had been hurt. Their torches and dogs chasing him further and further, after his swift brother had been so close. He’d tried to reach him and the others but the rivers stopped him, too wide and powerful to cross._

_He’d broken the silence he held since his birth and howled in grief when he’d felt his brother’s passing. His wild sister’s grief had carried as well, hers further and beyond his grasp as well. So his journeys had begun again, alone._

_He prowled and hunted along the land of rivers, always moving towards where the sun rose, seeking what he’d lost. The part he’d always had. From his earliest days he’d had the man and it was him he sought now._

_The land of the mountains had been hard to enter. The climbs were steep and the game in the passes hard for him to catch. He had been lucky when the men living among the rocks made a kill for him that he could steal. They hunted him, tried to make him prey, but they couldn’t. He was always a hunter._

_He’d been passing into flat lands when he smelt it in the wind. Men were travelling down the tall rock, so tall that it reached into the clouds, and among their scents he found one he remembered. Not the man he sought, but one who had been part of their pack a very long time ago._

_The dead sister’s half, like the man was half to him._

_The excitement he’d felt made him howl again, as loud as he did when in grief._

_He hadn’t made a sound since his swift brother had been killed and now he did so in joy._

_He called to her again and again. She never came to him but he tried to go to her. When she went to the great rocks men stacked around their dens he could not reach her. Yet she had not left the man den since._

_So neither had he moved on. For he felt what he sought was not so far, and coming closer._

_He would stay and keep their pack safe._

_The goat bolted from its hiding place ahead of him but he was too far from the steep rocks. He ran like his swift brother, closing and taking the prey down at the base of its shelter. The blood ran warm and sweet in his mouth. He drank of it before gorging on the flesh of the body._

_He was still eating when the wind changed. He was far from the man den and should not have smelt her here._

_But he did._  

_She was not in the man den any more. She was somewhere he could reach her._

_But she was not safe._

_She was scared._

 

**ALAYNE**

 

“I can’t believe my father is allowing this.”

Myranda spoke for both of them in this matter. As much as Alayne was not supposed to care about such gossip, a foolish girl who had lived for such things once couldn’t help but realize the depth of the scandal unfolding at the Gates of the Moon.

“Mya won’t see him?” She asked as they turned a corner.

They’d been in the great hall when Ser Mychel had arrived to take a meal beside father and Lord Nestor. Mya had been there at first but had disappeared upon their arrival, Myranda bidding Alayne to do the same, to show solidarity with their poor friend. Father had given them a sly grin as she’d done so.

“After what he did? Bedding her, setting her aside, only to come back months later?” Myranda let out a humorless laugh. “Mya hates attention and now everyone is talking about her.”

It was true, even father was talking about Ser Mychel’s arrival. Yet not for the same reasons Myranda was.

“My father thinks it’s because he’s angry at our cousin." Myranda continued in a conspiratorial tone, looking behind her to the sworn sword that followed Alayne everywhere now. "That a marriage to Ysilla should’ve earned him some title or lands but Yohn offers neither.”

“Or it is truly love…” Alayne would say that, such innocence had been beaten out of her a long ago but Alayne still believed. “Why come here if it’s not for Mya?”

“Please Alayne, who is Yohn’s greatest rival here in the Vale?” Myranda sounded exasperated.

She understood of course, but Alayne wasn’t necessarily so sharp, having so little experience at court. Father had sounded much the same as Myranda last night when she'd feigned ignorance then as well.

“Dear Alayne, if Yohn wished to learn more about what transpires in this castle do you think he’d expect to learn more from befuddled Nestor… or a man likely to conspire with me?” Father had come to her chambers before she was to sleep. She’d barely had time to throw a robe over her shift and his eyes had watched after her greedily.

A hundred years ago some foolish girl would have been thrilled at the more womanly shape her body had taken over the past months, eager to become a beauty like her mother. Now she would have given anything for it to stop. Alayne hated the way her body seemed to draw father’s eyes to her, his touches sometimes lingering in ways that made her feel unclean. If she were uglier, or even quieter, she hoped Petyr would forget she was there. Or perhaps even treat her like a father should.

_I had a father who loved me once._

_When he told me I was beautiful it made happy, he made me feel safe._

_Alayne never feels safe when her father remarks on her beauty._

“You think Ser Mychel did not come for Mya? Nor out of anger at Lord Royce…” She’d pretended to be coming to the realization slowly, forcing father to look into her eyes rather than at her breasts. “But to make you think he is… so that you will speak to him of your plans.”

“Excellent!” He’d clapped and come forward to kiss her cheek and she accepted it with a smile. “Now I need only think of a way to use dear Mya against Ser Mychel, then I may have the chance to put Yohn in an awkward position.”

She’d been bothered by the idea of using Mya. She truly thought of the girl as the closest thing she had to friend since her life had fallen apart in King’s Landing. Myranda was so sweet and wanted to be close, and she yearned for such friendship, but the lady was too shrewd, too pointed with her questions. Alayne wasn’t safe around Myranda. Mya however accepted Alayne as she was, quick to share a story and a smile with her fellow bastard girl. Alayne didn’t want Mya to fall into father’s clutches, but she made sure he didn’t see her doubts. She’d been practicing how to keep her face still of emotion every night in the mirror.

She used her new talent again as he twirled his fingers through her hair and gently pulled her in for a lingering kiss upon her lips. The blush came anyways and Petyr laughed as he pulled away.

_I hate that laugh._

If she’d expected moments like that would become fewer here than they had been at the Eyrie, she’d been wrong. Father had set out to arrange a marriage between herself and Harry the Heir yet every chance Petyr had, he took liberties of her. Eventually she’d accepted his kisses and touches, pushing her shame deep down into herself, knowing that there was nothing to be done about it. Lately though, she’d begun to worry how far he would go with her.

She feared whether or not she could stop him if he tried.

Myranda was fortunate to have simpler fears.

“I’m afraid if I throw a feast to celebrate my name day then Ser Mychel will make a scene by trying to make Mya attend. The last thing I need is Lothor Brune killing a knight in my father’s hall.” Myranda had led them to the room where they would do needlework when the sound of someone clearing their throat was heard from behind them.

Ser Byron was now joined by Ser Shadrich, another of the sworn swords that Petyr had added to his personal garrison in the castle. He wore a thick black cloak and he made the noise again before smiling widely at them.

“My lady, I apologize if I’m intruding. Your lord father asked me to bring you to him.”

“Your father ruins all our fun, he seems intent on interrupting our talks.” Myranda pouted but Alayne sensed an accusation there. Her friend was too clever to miss that father rarely allowed them time alone. If they ever found the chance, father would always find something to interrupt it with.

“I’m sorry. I forgot we were to speak about Sweetrobin’s fits…” Alayne lied as well as she could, before embracing Myranda and taking her leave.

_I hope he does not wish to kiss me again._

_Or has not found some way of using poor Mya._

Worrying about such distracted her long enough that she lost track of where the knights was leading her. She knew something was amiss when the men turned to guide her down a corridor, different than the one that led to her father’s chambers. This one led towards one of the courtyards to the south side of the castle whereas father’s chambers, or even the Lord Nestor’s solar, were to the north.

“My father awaits us outside?”

“Hush now.” Ser Shadrich’s voice was hot against her ear suddenly. It was shocking behavior from him, as shocking as how tightly he gripped her arm before pressing something menacingly against her back. “It’s a blade girl, be silent and do as I say. I can cut you so you’d die slowly and painfully, even with a maester’s help.”

Everything froze for her.

_She found me._

_The queen found me._

Somehow, despite the fear gripping every part of her body, her legs betrayed her and kept the pace set by the knight. The two men hurried her further down the corridor. This side of the castle endured more wind from the mountains and was much colder than the rest of the castle, so it was deserted. No servants or guards were about to see her and raise the alarm. She was being stolen right out of Petyr’s grasp and none knew. They stopped abruptly in the stone archway leading out into the courtyard while Ser Byron continued out into the darkness beyond.

“Put this on now. You can cry if you want but do not make a sound or you’ll suffer for it.” The knight removed his cloak and offered it to her. As she clasped it about herself shakily, her eyes caught the blade he’d pressed against her back. It was slightly curved and looked sharp to the touch.

Ser Byron reappeared wearing the cloak of a castle guard and handed another one to Ser Shadrich.

“Only two on the postern gate and that boy is off to start the fire now.” Ser Byron shivered in the wind and Ser Shadrich nodded before grabbing her arm again and pulling her out into the cold air. The hood was thrown over her head suddenly and she saw little from beneath it.

The courtyard was empty. The increased cold recently seemed to have driven most into finding warmer places to congregate and she imagined any man upon the walls merely saw guards escorting someone across the yard. She wanted to scream but there was no one close enough to help. Her only hope was that Petyr would notice her absence soon and come for her.

The sounds of horses made her raise her head and she saw another hedge knight, Ser Morgarth, attending four steeds and seeming impatient with the haste of their approach.

“Come on man, I better get a greater share for getting these and doing for them-”

“Shut up. Get up girl, be strong now, that’s a good girl.” Ser Shadrich was forceful, almost throwing her up into the saddle.

She could hear shouting from far off and wondered if they’d noticed that she was gone. Someone must have raised the alarm and she imagined guards pouring over the castle looking for her.

“That’s the fire, let’s go.” Ser Shadrich said, and with her horse’s reins in his hand, they rode forth and out of the small gate, into the countryside beyond.

None yelled down to them and she thought she saw two bodies lying prone upon the ground by the gate. As the castle grew smaller behind her, she saw light flickering within the walls and smoke rising as well.

_They set a fire._

_Everyone will be fighting the blaze, not searching for me._

They rode for what seemed like hours, the horses lathered by the time they finally slowed their pace and it was not out of mercy to the beasts. They’d come to the base of one of the many mountain ranges that made up the Mountains of the Moon, and were now urging their horses up the pass. The pace was slower so Ser Shadrich allowed his horse to fall back beside hers.

“I’m sorry for scaring you so my lady. I needed you to do as I said or our task back there could’ve gotten very messy. I wasn’t paid to see you hurt, I promise.” He said this almost softly before reaching out to pull her cloak tighter about her body.

“Please… please ser… j-just return me to my father. If you do so he will be kind… he will forgive you…” She begged and probably would’ve wept if there were any more tears left in her to do so.

“Tell the truth now Lady Sansa, that man is not your father.”

Ser Shadrich’s words confirmed her worst fears. The Queen had learned of Petyr’s deception and found her. Still, she refused to let the truth slip so easily. Alayne was her only protection now.

“Whoever you think I am ser… I beg you… do not take me to the queen. Please.”

“The Queen?” Ser Shadrich laughed and shook his head. “I don’t sell my sword to just anyone, especially not to one as mad as her. The Spider sent me searching for you, sent word of where you were likely to be found.”

_The Spider?_

Her time at court and alongside Petyr made the title familiar but it still took a moment for her to put a name to it. The Master of Whispers, a spymaster feared throughout the realm.

“Lord Varys? Why should Lord Varys want to take me away from my father?” She wouldn’t stop being Alayne, even now.

“Well, who really knows with that eunuch? I bet he has some plan for you, you being the eldest child of House Stark and all, but he said some nonsense about having to protect you.” Ser Shadrich shook his head at the thought and Alayne understood. Father said often that the Spider could never be trusted and that everything he said was a lie.

 _Like Petyr,_ she couldn’t help but think.

“How’d he say it? That he’s doing this for your father. We’re supposed to fulfill the promise the Spider made to Lord Stark.” Shadrich gave her a look that almost bordered on sympathy while she was profoundly confused. “The Spider was to keep you safe if the Hand admitted guilt before the city and take the black. Your father kept his word but someone put it in the king’s head to go against the Spider’s advice.”

_Father was supposed to take the black but Joffrey killed him._

_Joffrey was a monster and he’s dead now._

She forced herself to remember how much she hated Joffrey, ignoring the queasy feeling she got in her tummy whenever she remembered Joffrey’s death, how he had looked so scared, clawing red ribbons of blood into his throat, how young he had looked _._ It was utter madness to be sad over that, just as it was madness to doubt Alayne’s father over Lord Varys.

_Petyr saved me from the Lannisters, not Varys._

She wanted to ignore Ser Shadrich but he kept talking and a part of her couldn’t help but listen.

“I hardly believed the story myself until I spent some time with Littlefinger. Imagine the balls on him, actually convincing the king to take your father’s head then pretending to be your father.” Ser Shadrich gave a laugh then and laughed again at the shock upon her face.

All her practice at keeping her face free of emotion meant nothing in that moment.

_He wouldn’t._

_He saved me._

“My father was… was…”

“Your father was killed by Littlefinger as surely as King Joffrey gave the order. By the Seven girl! Can you really tell me such a thing is beyond a man like him?”

She said nothing.

She couldn’t answer.

To answer was to admit the truth.

_It’s exactly what Petyr would have done._

Sansa retched then, spewing forth all the disgust and horror that had build up within her. Her body couldn’t take it anymore, it needed it gone, she need it gone.

Without wanting to, completely against her will, her mind went back to that terrible day. She hadn’t thought of it once since it happened, her father standing there looking so weak, so tired. She’d kept her spirits up though and smiled for him, to try and give him hope. Her golden prince, her king, her love, he was going to spare father for her. Everything was going to be alright.

Then Joffrey betrayed her. Sansa screamed at the memory, both in her mind and out loud, begging her thoughts to move away from that moment but she couldn’t hide anymore. Joffrey had killed her dreams of him as her gallant prince that day, but she’d pushed the horrors deep down inside her ever since. She’d stood on the battlements and stared at her father’s head and made the memories disappear, leaving only emptiness and hatred for her betrothed behind.

_I don’t want to remember!_

But she did.

She had to now.

He’d been standing there, tall and proud, smiling with those stupid wormy lips of his. The Queen looking panicked, whispering in Joffrey’s ear while he pushed her away. Fat and jowly Janos Slynt was shoving father painfully down to his knees, onto his bad leg, while the terrifyingly silent Ilyn Payne pulled Ice from its giant sheath.

Lord Varys had been there. He had looked as panicked as the Queen, shouting at Ser Ilyn to stop but his voice became lost to the shouting, all of the shouting… The crowd had been so loud!

Petyr had been there too. She’d forgotten for a long time but she remembered him now. Petyr had been there. Petyr had been wearing the same face she practiced every night in the mirror. Watching all the while, calm like he always was. As calm as he had been when he pushed Aunt Lysa out the Moon Door, not Marillion. He watched her father’s execution completely unflinching.

_I called him father. I called him father and he killed my father._

_My true father… the one I loved…_

Ser Shadrich wiped the vomit from her lips with a rag after he pulled her tightly to her horse, tying her down into the saddle. The knight shook his head at her in disgust or perhaps pity. Sansa felt both for herself in that moment.

And somewhere a wolf howled and she found that the tears had not truly left her.

_Not like all the others have._

  **JON**

“You northmen are supposed to be half wildling yourselves, how it is you can’t find them in all this open country?”

Willem’s question was met by scattered laughter among the men. Their party had all taken this time to rest their mounts and themselves after a particularly steep climb. They’d all dismounted and led their horses and pack mules by their reins. As they'd done so, Jon had been struck by the thought that the clansmen were doing much the same with them.

_They’re leading us somewhere._

Every time they found a sign of the clansmen moving in large groups they would follow the trail, and for three weeks now, none of their pursuits had borne fruit. To continue in this manner was not an option, for time was not on their side. Snow had fallen several times already and while no storms had come yet, and the passes still remained clear, Jon knew they wouldn’t be so lucky forever.

The greater fear however was not about the weather. It was the one that troubled him now, for Jon suspected the clansmen were drawing them deeper into the mountains on purpose.

“We need to head towards the Vale of Arryn Willem.” He said when the laughter died down. “We can delay no longer.”

Willem spat and reached back to pull a skin of water to his lips, only to spit again.

“That bad feeling creeping up on you too Wolf?”

“Where we are? How tight are the passes here? If we find them, I doubt it would matter if we had a hundred, even a thousand knights, let alone only twenty men-at-arms.” He reached out and Willem offered the skin to him, the water from the mountain spring being cool and welcome against his raw throat. “Every time we give up we find another sign. It’s happened one time too often. They’re leading us away from flatter country.”

“I’d call that a bad feeling.” Willem spat again. “If they’re hell bent on trapping us, maybe they’ll give chase and do our work for them. Either way, I’m not one to keep my cousin waiting. He made me promise to get you to him before the moon’s turn.”

Worse than giving up the chase was the thought that their lord might already be marching, expecting them to bring him any evidence of Littlefinger’s crimes that they had yet to find.

_I hope Mychel has had better fortune than us._

_Someone had to._

As Willem and the men most familiar with the mountains argued for the quickest route back down through the passes, Jon scanned the rocks around him. He hadn’t lied about his reasons for wishing to leave the high passes. They’d been real concerns for him. If they were caught in battle here, the mountain clans would surely have the advantage of terrain.

_But telling him about my dreams would be idiocy._

_Trusting them even more foolish._

He hadn’t dreamed like this since Acorn Hall. Not since Ghost had been driven away from him and Jon had been left alone. Yet after their first day in the mountains the dreams had come again, not of hunting in the lush green lands but of prowling rock faces and running up steep inclines.

_And of her._

Jon had no true idea what her he was dreaming of, but he knew, deep down he knew, she was out there. Not so now far but growing more distant every day that they journeyed further into the ranges.

_And she needs me._

He would have never argued changing their path for that reason alone. Yet with everything pointing to that being the wisest course, Jon had accepted it with less argument than he might have.

Just as he accepted the route Willem chose for their descent. They rode side by side for much of the day, his friend doing his best to make him smile and Jon doing his best to let him. The thoughts of prowling after some girl who needed him still hammered at the back of his mind.

“See now, it bothers me. I lay awake at night, thinking to myself that Jon does not take life seriously enough.” Willem slapped the pommels of the swords strapped to either side of his hips. “I mean, for a man who has seen the worst of what the world has to offer, more so than many, he still only carries one sword. What sense is that?”

“Why would I carry two if I can only fight with the one hand?”

“I’m only saying. I’d never want to lose a fight due to a lack of swords.” Willem smirked. “And a tavern whore once bragged to me that she could do well with three swords at once. Are you saying you’re less able than that lovely lady, ser?”

Jon’s laughter heralded a cry from further up their line. Two of their outriders had returned and brought word of dead men ahead.

Clansmen at that.

“The only clansmen we find and they’re bloody dead.” A man named Huett grumbled, which earned him a cuff from Willem.

The clansmen had earned worse from someone else. Over two score of them lay scattered over what seemed to be a camp of their own making, and they hadn’t been dead long. While some of the bodies had been stabbed and hacked from battle, others had parts of themselves cut away, clearly after the battle had ended.

“These bodies were made by the clan encamped here, defending themselves. See how some of the dead aren’t missing parts?” Willem pointed to some of the bodies, as savagely cut up as the others, but still having their ears and manhoods attached to them. “It was attacked by a local clan, one who likes to collect trophies it seems.”

Then he walked over to one man, propped up against a rock and missing more than most. His ears, nose, and eyes were all gone while his tongue remained. It had been cut free and pinned to his forehead with a blade.

“This poor bastard, they caught him alive. He must have known something important, something these others wanted to know about.”

“These men are Painted Dogs ser.” Gerold, one of their men most familiar with the ranges added to Willem’s observation. “They always wear dog pelts and they’re not from these lands, they keep most often to the rocks between the Redfort and Wickenden.”

“So what are they doing here?” Jon asked.

Coming upon this sight after his dreams drove them this way was too strange. He reached down to grasp at the bag holding the bracelets, just to make sure they were still there. Willem watched him do it with a bemused expression before shrugging.

“Well, we can always ask the ones who did for them, they aren’t hiding their trail at all.” Willem gestured at the tracks that the clan had left behind, either purposefully or from their rush at wanting to leave. “They’re practically dropping ears behind them, so eager to leave it seems.”

They did nothing for the bodies before leaving. Jon thought it dishonorable but the Vale men made it clear that the clansmen did far worse to the smallfolk they attacked. They rode until darkness was falling and made camp in a sheltered bit of rock that protected their horses and men from the wind. Jon volunteered to take the first watch and scorned the fires, instead facing the darkness to the west. It was there they were heading and there his dreams drew him to.

The wind whipping about him reminded him of the North and for some reason he felt closer to it now than he had since crossing the Neck.

He wondered if his father had ever camped in the Mountains of the Moon like this when he’d warded at the Eyrie. Whether he had felt winds like these and been reminded of his home so far away. If he’d ever longed for Winterfell during his journeys as Jon did now.

He’d made the mistake of telling Willem of how the cold weather reminded him of home. The knight had mocked him for equating such a chill with happy memories and promised to set children to making a snow wench for him as soon as the weather permitted. According to him, she’d be harsh enough for Jon to find a kindred spirit in.

His friend wasn’t far off. The North had always been a harsh place and outsiders never seemed to understand its charms like those who had been raised there. Many had whispered disbelief at Lady Stark adapting so well to her adopted home, many of his father’s bannermen coming to respect her for it after a time.

Jon always liked to think, when he was a child, of his mother liking the North as well, maybe even learning to love Winterfell more than his father’s wife had.

_Probably not, she was from even further south than Lady Stark._

_But I’m half southron and whatever blood runs through my veins, I’ll always be a northman._

The wind blew through the passes so that it almost sounded like howling to him. He smiled against the cold, pretending that all the direwolves were howling together as they would when they were pups at Winterfell.

Then the wind stopped and he realized the howling continued.

And sounded so familiar.

 

**THE ORPHAN GIRL**

 

She was cold and her legs ached from riding.

It had been over a year since she’d been asked to ride for such a long period and the gown Sansa wore was not meant for such activity. They’d ridden the entire night of her abduction, resting the horses only a few hours before continuing onward throughout the day. It caused her thighs and backside to scream in pain.

She wouldn’t complain though. Every time she spoke, Ser Shadrich told her things that she wished she didn’t know.

“The Spider was worried about this m’lady.” He’d said when she tried feebly to argue against his claims about Petyr, despite knowing in her heart that they were true. “He said Littlefinger would have you wrapped around his… well, little finger. The man has been using you for some time now and was going to keep using you if Lord Varys hadn’t sent us fine men to rescue you.”

“Lord Varys serves the Queen…”

“As does Littlefinger. I think we both know how loyal he was to that mad cunt.” The knight had actually seemed abashed for a moment. “Forgive me m’lady, I spend enough time on a horse and my old ways come back to me.”

She couldn’t understand where they were taking her. The quickest ways out of the Vale were the High Road or east towards Gulltown. Yet from what she could tell, they’d headed straight into the mountains to the south, taking a long meandering route through its passes.

When they’d camped again, despite her exhaustion, every sound coming from the darkness made her jump. At the Gates of the Moon, they’d all heard the tales of the mountain clans attacking from the mountains and what they did to maidens. Ser Shadrich had tied a rope about her wrists and slept beside her in the tent, yet after one of her many gasps throughout the night he’d cursed and turned to face her.

“What is it? If you’re afraid I’ll touch you, don’t be. The Spider made that a requirement of the reward he offered. Your maidenhood must be intact for me to get my gold.” Shadrich had been irritated but his face softened some after the first outburst. “Even if he hadn’t I’m not one for rape. Seen enough of it in my life… I prefer when a woman comes to me nice and willingly, eager even, if I’m fortunate.”

“What about the clansmen? There’s only three of you and they won’t care about the reward.” She whispered as quietly as she could, as if the savages were outside the tent listening.

The knight had chuckled and rolled to his side away from her.

“That’s where you’re wrong, some would and do and those are the men we’re seeking out here. I wouldn’t have dragged you out into the countryside if the Spider hadn’t arranged us an escort. This route is the last one Littlefinger would expect us to take and by the time his men know to follow, our good savage friends will be leading us through passes that even the Vale men haven’t heard of. Now go to sleep. Another hard day of riding is ahead.”

She had still been terrified after his words but exhaustion had taken its hold and she drifted off. It was of course a nightmare that awaited her. One where Petyr forced her to kiss him even as father was thrown to his knees by Janos Slynt. Father stared at her in betrayal but when Sansa tried to go to him while Petyr held tight, grapping at her. Then Joffrey held father’s rotting head up to her face, the mouth shouting at her…

“Bugger me! Wolf!”

Sansa awoke as Ser Shadrich wrenched himself to his feet and dragged her forth by her rope from the tent. She tripped and fell, crashing onto the hard ground, scraping her elbows and knees. A gasp escaped her then from the fall but the pain was quickly forgotten when she saw it. Her head jerked from side to side in disbelief but the same sight awaited her when she stopped, standing at the edge of their small camp. A sight that felt like an answer to the same prayer she’d had every night for years.

_Lady! She’s come to save me!_

Yet after a moment, Sansa realized it wasn’t her direwolf after all.

Ser Byron was on the ground, kicking away from the pale shape in the darkness. A dark outline in the night that wasn’t Lady yet was so familiar that Sansa felt herself crawling closer to it.

“That is the biggest fucking wolf I’ve ever seen!” Ser Shadrich yelled as he pulled his sword and pulled her rope taught. The other knight rushed forward with a crossbow.

Sansa’s eyes adjusted to the darkness well enough but she rubbed them again in disbelief. The firelight caught the beast’s eyes, and she saw the bright redness of them and knew better.

“Ghost.”

“What?” Ser Shadrich stared at her before shaking his head. “Kill the bloody thing!”

“Gladly.” Ser Morgarth said as he took aim with the crossbow.

“No!” She cried and lunged at his feet, causing the man to stumble as he fired. The bolt skittered before Ghost. The direwolf then leapt up and fled into the darkness, out of sight as the knights cursed after him and then her.

_No, don’t go. Please don’t go…_

_I didn’t mean any of it… I didn’t mean for Jon to die either…_

She’d begun to weep again even as the men shouted at her. Seeing the direwolf had reminded her of the Blackwater all over again and how Joffrey had pulled her aside to gloat about the victory.

“They told me your bastard brother was out there with one of those Stark beasts.” Joffrey had smiled cruelly and needled her arm with the end of a dagger. He’d taken her to the walls of the Red Keep, so they could look at out at the carnage left by the Battle of the Blackwater. “I know you northern savages prefer fucking them to decent men, so you’ll be happy to know it got away. Your father’s bastard didn’t. They told me he burned with the rest, too good for a Stark by-blow in my opinion.”

She’d held in the tears until he left her be, bored by her lack of grief. The sounds of the men burning and dying during the battle had been horrible enough. When she thought of Jon out there it made her ill. They’d never been close, but to hear he died so horribly had been too much for her to bear, especially so soon after the news of Bran and Rickon’s deaths. Jon had only ever been kind to her, he was going to be a knight and she’d been so happy for him, but now he was dead too.

_But Ghost lives._

A howl in the night suddenly cut through those memories. It was a long, deep sound, coming forth from the darkness Ghost had disappeared into.

He had not gone far, that howl said.

None of them had slept much that night after seeing Ghost. She remembered the wolf being so quiet at Winterfell yet now it howled continuously at the mountains. As if beckoning Sansa to come to him.

“You should have let us do for it.” Ser Shadrich had grumbled as they rode in the morning, angry for the lost sleep. Even more so when come first light, they had seen Ghost following behind, just out of range of Ser Morgarth’s crossbow. “What if it attacks the horses as we sleep? It'll slow us down for sure! Just because we have friends waiting for us, doesn’t mean there aren’t other clansmen out there willing to do for you or worse!”

The presence of the direwolf unnerved them so much that Ser Morgarth and Ser Byron began pondering aloud how to ride down the wolf. Sansa couldn’t let that happen though. Ghost had come for her. She'd no idea how he had arrived in the Vale, or even how he found her, but she vowed not to let them hurt him.

_Not like father._

_Or mother… the boys…_

_Not like Jon._

“Petyr might find us before the clansmen…” She risked Ser Shadrich’s favorite topic in her attempt to sway him from allowing his companions to attack Ghost.

“Finally! You understand that that’s something much worse to fear.” The knight had grinned for the first time that day. “I mean, it was him who buggered up that deal with the Tyrells for you! He warned Lord Tywin about that little arrangement so you could end up with the Imp. I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone my lady.”

“He wasn’t in the capital though, and if he wanted me for himself, why would he marry me to someone else? That…” Sansa remembered then how she’d told Ser Dontos about the Tyrell plan for her marriage to their heir Willas.

_If Ser Dontos knew, then Petyr knew, and he told the Queen._

_And it didn’t matter if I was married to Tyrion._

_Petyr always planned on framing him for Joffrey’s murder anyway._

Hearing those thoughts caused Sansa to shiver. A part of her had always understood that, that Tyrion had been framed for killing Joffrey just as much as she’d been, but she’d pushed those terrible thoughts away for how they painted Petyr, her only friend and savior.

She’d been so relieved to be released from her marriage to Tyrion but she hadn’t wanted him dead. He had been kind to her even when he didn’t need to be. When people whispered about him not bedding her, he’d continued to stay away per her wishes and she’d never considered how thoughtful that was of him.

Unlike Petyr, he was always finding ways to push Sansa further into kissing him, letting him touch her. He had never really protected her, not like Tyrion or the Hound. Now that she could see him clearly, more and more she came to realize how deeply Littlefinger had been playing her. He had even admitted to her that she was a piece in the game of thrones to him but she hadn’t allowed herself to believe it.

_He said he saved me. He didn’t save me at all. He endangered me in the first place._

_The Queen thinks I poisoned Joffrey along with Tyrion._

_Just as he planned._

“Varys told me to ask you about Jan Poole.” Ser Shadrich spoke, shaking Sansa out of her terrible thoughts.

“Jeyne Poole?” She remembered her friend from another life. They’d taken her away and she’d never known what they’d done with her.

 _Petyr said she would be safe,_ she thought with dread.

That was a lie too it seemed. The truth caused Sansa to feel a deep anguish.

“That’s the one. He put her to whoring in one of his brothels. Bet he never told you that!”

Sansa thought of poor little Jeyne Poole, her friend who’d thought Lord Beric was the handsomest man in the world. The girl she’d gossiped with and shared dreams with and even shared a bed with at times. She’d been so excited about the capital but so scared by the blood they saw at the Tourney. She’d also been scared the day that the Lannister men started killing everyone and Sansa hadn’t listened.

Instead she’d told the Queen about Jeyne and Cersei had placed Sansa’s closest friend under Littlefinger’s care. Her friend, who dreamed of marrying a knight, put to work as a whore.

_You betrayed her just like you betrayed father._

Ser Shadrich lost his taste for revealing Petyr’s plots after Sansa retched again over the side of her horse, and the others had slowly become accustomed to Ghost’s plodding pursuit behind them. Late in the afternoon the pass opened into a large, grass covered plateau. Snow was falling now and the hill was so wide and long that they could barely see the other side.

It took almost an hour to reach that other side, and waiting for them were the Spider’s mountain clans.

They looked even more terrifying than how she’d pictured them.

The clansmen gathered at the far end of the flat land were savage and filthy, all clad in furs and leathers. Some had bits and pieces of normal clothing or armor while all held weapons of good steel. They eyed the group without warmth and those who sat by fires stood to move towards them. Sansa tried to keep her eyes from meeting any of theirs and instead glimpsed more details of the men she wished she hadn’t.

Much of their clothing was stained, and many of those stains looked to be blood.

And others had necklaces of body parts, barely even beginning to rot.

“Hail the Painted Dogs!” Ser Shadrich called out and the clansmen laughed in reply. “I was told to ask for Rollo!”

“Rollo’s dead, you talk with Ruk.” A particularly ugly and fierce looking man rose from beside a fire.

He scared her more than the rest. His face was filthy and scarred, his eyes a mismatched brown and yellow. For a moment she thought of Tyrion’s scar before more of Ruk’s features added to her fear. A large sword was slung across his back and he looked to have a necklace made of ears hanging around his neck. That wasn’t as bad as the severed manhood hanging from his belt though.

“What tricks you before it kills you?” Ser Shadrich asked, eyeing the group around them warily. Ruk smiled then. It was an ugly smile which showed more stained yellow teeth than warmth.

“Spider.”

Ser Shadrich seemed to relax a little then and gestured to the other two knights. They began to dismount and Ser Byron came to untie her from her horse. As he did so, she saw the clansmen had begun to close in at her side.

“Is there food? We should eat before you lead us up, elsewise the girl may pass out.” Ser Shadrich stretched and nodded towards the approaching men coming slowly from the other side.

“Food will come later.” Ruk had stopped smiling and moved closer to them, as had many of the others. “Where is the gold?”

“The food will come now, the gold will be later." The knight countered as the clansmen drew closer.

The way they were looking at her made Sansa feel uneasy. It reminded her of the men who'd tried to rape her during the riots in the capital, of Joffrey whenever he threatened to take her virtue. 

Sansa shuddered at the memory.

“Mouse…" Ser Morgath hissed. "Mouse! They don’t have enough garrons.”

Ser Morgarth's tone was meant to be hushed but she heard it well enough, causing her insides to twist in terror. Ser Shadrich whipped his head around, seemingly counting the short, hairy beasts that the clansmen had tethered up to the side of the camp.

"We thought you’d have garrons for us, will our horses be able to make the climb?” Ser Shadrich asked, moving Sansa and himself closer to the other two hedge knights. She knew something was wrong when he’d lost that confident expression of his and the other two had their hands on their sword hilts. She noticed the clansmen were resting their hands upon their own weapons too.

_Ghost?_

_Oh Ghost please..._

She looked behind them but through the blowing snow she saw no sign of the direwolf. Nor had she seen him during their ride through the flat lands.

“Ruk will be having the gold. Ruk will also be having the girl.” Ruk drew his sword as the other clansmen closed in on them, their weapons glinting in the firelight.

“What is this? Do this and only half of what you were promised will be yours!” The Mad Mouse drew his sword and pushed Sansa behind him roughly.

“You dealt with Painted Dogs, we are Milk Snakes. Half their gold is good. Girl is Ruk’s first!” His last words were shouted to the men around him and it was the last warning before the clansmen charged at them.

“Get to the horses!” Ser Shadrich yelled as he backed away and cut at a man swinging an axe.

There were too many of them, she knew that. Still, Sansa ran towards her horse as the sounds of fighting and dying erupted around her. She was remembering the riot in King’s Landing and all the carnage it had wrought. So much violence had been done by hungry smallfolk without weapons; these were savages with steel axes. Her horse was her only chance and it was only steps away.

Until two clansmen came between her and her mount. She turned away from them in time to see Ser Byron lose his arm to Ruk’s sword before another man caved his skull in with a club.

Snow whipped at her face and the wind blew it around her like a white shroud. While around Ser Shadrich it became a red mist as he cut through a man’s middle, blood spraying forth. Two others pushed the knight away from her and another group had formed around Ser Morgarth so she saw no more of what happened to him.

Ruk was steps away from her when someone grabbed her arm roughly so she spun and struck out blindly. Her balled up fist connected with the man’s nose and he released her. He raised a maul before crying out and falling before her.

His leg was being ripped apart below his knee by the fearsome jaws of the direwolf behind him. The other clansman stabbed down at Ghost who leapt away from the jabs, grabbing at the spear with his jaws and snapping it in two. Ghost was jumping on the man when the horses began to flee out of fear of the direwolf. She grabbed her skirts and began to run after them.

_Run, you have to run._

She looked behind her and saw Ghost surrounded by Ruk and many of the clansmen, the direwolf snapping and dodging their stabs and jabs. She also saw a man chasing her, running much faster than she could.

“No!” She screamed as he latched onto her shoulder. Her nails raked down his filthy face, tearing away skin and causing the man to yell and push at her.

He raised his club up and she did the same with her arms to protect against the blow. It crashed down and a blinding pain flashed in the side of her head and she was falling. The ground met her roughly and something wet was streaming down the side of her face.

She tried to rise up and crawl across the snow covered ground but the world was spinning and the ground was shaking. A hand was grabbing at her leg and pulling when she saw them through the snow. She thought their horses were returning, that somehow the beasts answered her need.

But there were more horses than before. Nor were they riderless.

As they neared, she saw men upon them, waving weapons and charging towards the clansmen, yelling.

The hand released her foot and she tried pushing herself to her feet when she saw him. Atop a horse and riding hard, his sword flashing through the snow and his cloak whipping behind him.

Through the snow he was coming for her.

But he was long dead.

Even through her blurred vision, and the whipping snows, she knew him.

_Father…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion but whether it can truly be called a rescue depends on who you ask. Sansa has to face what she fears the most and worse still, what she has become. Jon must face a familiar choice, honor or love. 
> 
> Oh and Willem gets to ride in the snow.

**JON**

“Father?”

The word pulled him from his worries and he sought her face then.

Jon found her eyelids fluttering, her head lifting slowly from the pillow to stare at him, her eyes looking a little glassy. He brushed some of the hair away from her forehead, hair that was the wrong color. As wrong as it may have been though, he still saw the truth of her. It had been over two years. In that time she had grown into a young woman rather than the little girl he’d left behind, but he still knew her.

Even beneath the ugly bandage upon her head.

 _I’ve known her for as long as I can remember_.

“Sansa.” Jon choked out, reaching down to clutch her hand and holding it as tightly as he dared. “Sansa, I’m here.”

She’d been asleep their entire journey through the mountain range, almost a full day and night of hard riding. They’d found a village that was long abandoned, out of fear of the clansmen, Willem said, with some of the stone buildings still standing strong against the wind. He’d brought her to the strongest and most well-kept storehouse, to be warmed by a fire and rest on a soft mattress filled with hay. He’d covered her in as many furs as he could find before sitting vigil beside her ever since.

And now she was waking.

“Father?” Her voice was hoarse from disuse. “Father how?”

He was taken aback.

For a moment Jon feared for what the clansman’s blow had done to her senses and wished the man’s death by his hands hadn’t been so swift. Then he saw how her eyes squinted against the light of the fire, how she kept blinking like she couldn’t see him clearly.

_She must have been dreaming._

“Oh Sansa… I’m sorry.” He felt horrible having to say it. “I wish it was him but it’s only… it’s only me, only Jon.”

The immediate falling of her face at his words hurt a little but he understood. He could only imagine how it would feel to think that their father had returned, only to have that hope torn away again.

“Jon… oh Jon…” Sansa’s voice was shaky, tears filling her eyes. “You’re alive… we’re alive…”

“You’re safe Sansa, I’m here. I’ve found you. I looked for so long, for any of you. I’m sorry I never… I couldn’t…”

His voice caught in his throat and he bowed his head. He moved to slip his hand away but she gripped it tightly before saying something softly that he missed.

“I’m sorry, do you need something? Water?”

She shook her head slightly.

“I remembered a boy… not a man. You’re a man now Jon.” She smiled through her tears. “You look so much like father.”

“I think he was handsomer than that.”

Sansa gave a weak laugh before moaning and reaching for her head. He turned to pick up the skin of water beside him and offered it to her, making her drink slowly for fear that too much would make her sick.

“I thought you were dead.” Sansa said, wiping her mouth clean. “They told me you died at the Blackwater.”

“I almost did. It was awful… I was lucky to have escaped the fires… the killing… but I failed you.” It all came out before he could stop himself. “I failed father, I failed Robb, the boys… I’m sorry I never came for you Sansa. I tried but the Tyrells betrayed us all and-and I couldn’t even reach the walls…”

She made a soothing sound and reached for his face. Her fingers cupped against his cheek and it felt softer than anything he could remember.

“Stop that. You came for me.” Sansa smiled. “You came for me out of the snow. No one ever came for me. You’re my savior Jon… I didn’t think I’d have ever have someone to save me…”

“I’m not much of a savior. Lord Royce and his army will do better I think. He’ll be so happy to see you.”

He’d meant his words to be reassuring but Sansa’s features suddenly twisted into a look of terror.

“Jon, we are in grave danger.” She rasped, her eyes darting about fearfully. “Are the men who took me dead?”  
  
“The short one with the orange hair lives. The Mouse he called himself.” The man was apparently quite the warrior, outfighting dozens of clansmen long enough for Jon’s party to come upon him. “We’re putting him to the question, to learn what he knows. He’s under guard Sansa. I won’t let him-”

“Jon, he must be killed. He knows who I am!” Sansa began to push herself up but he gently urged her down before she fell out of the bed. She was determined though, so he placed a pillow behind her back to allow her a sitting position.

“You have to kill him… you must.” She acted almost hysterical. “He knows too much! He will tell people, it’s true… he must die Jon, you have to kill him…”

“Kill him? Why?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

_Sansa wishing someone dead?_

_She was always the most gentle out of all of us._

“Because they know who I am!” Sansa cried out, her hands balled into fists in front of her chest. “No one can know!”

“Sansa, the men who are with me know who you are. I’ve already sent word to Lord Royce that I found you. Killing this man does nothing…”

Sansa was shaking her head violently as he spoke and he glanced to her bandage, fearing again for what the blow might have done to her wits.

“No, they can’t know! I must be Alayne! Alayne is my protection. The Queen wants my head and they’ve killed everyone else. Petyr… Petyr will come for me Jon… he can’t find you. Not you Jon, please, not you.” Her hands went to her face and she looked absolutely terrified.

He barely understood half of what she said. The Mouse had told them that Lord Baelish had disguised her as his bastard daughter but said little more beyond that.

“I do not fear Petyr Baelish and nor should you. He will find me waiting if he comes to take you from my care.”

“You don’t understand him!” She screamed and he jerked back as if on instinct. He thought perhaps to give her some space, like he often did when they were children but Sansa was having none of it. Sansa reached out and pulled him close.

“The knight who took me, Ser Shadrich, he told me that Petyr… that Petyr had done things. Horrible things… he’s capable of more than anyone imagined… I thought he wanted to keep me safe, he made me call him father-”

“Eddard Stark is your father.”

“He was Sansa’s father Jon. I’m Alayne Stone now. If I’m still her, you’ll be safe… please… I’m trying to save you! Please!” Sansa seemed to fight against the tears but lost the battle in the end. Her whole body was shaking as the sobs moved through her. Sansa’s hands were clutching at her dark hair, pulling frightfully.

He brought his arms around her without thinking.

They’d never held each other like this, not for many years, not since they were very young. Lady Stark was gone though, she couldn’t stop him from comforting Sansa anymore, and it was clear that she needed it desperately. He moved her hands away from her head and smoothed the frazzled locks gently with his fingers, careful to avoid the bandage.

“Sansa, you could never be anyone else. I don’t understand now, but I promise I will. And I promise that you’ll be safe, I’ll make sure of it.”

If his words calmed her, he couldn’t tell. She continued crying for some time in his arms. When the sobs finally started to die away, he continued to hold her, saying soft, reassuring things while he ran his hands through her hair in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

Then a noise came from the doorway and he rose in alarm before calming himself. Standing there was one of the Royce guardsmen, looking abashed as he held a bowl of steaming stew in front of him.

“I knocked ser, but you did not answer…” He started and Jon nodded his forgiveness.

“Thank you Huett. See if the healer can come take a look at Sansa, now that she’s awake.” He walked forward to take the bowl before sending the man away.

When he returned to her side, Sansa was staring at him strangely.

“Ser?”

He smiled and even felt his face burn a little before he handed her the stew.

“I was knighted by Lord Bronze Yohn Royce some moons ago.”

“Oh Jon, how wonderful! Congratulations!” Sansa smiled brightly, staring at him with what seemed like such genuine affection. He wondered if she’d ever looked at him like that before. “Father told us you were to squire for Ser Robar. He seemed quite gallant and I was proud of-”

Her face darkened suddenly and she stared down at the bowl, moving her spoon about listlessly.

“I never came to see you.” She muttered with shame in her voice. “When you came to the capital… they told me you were there… but I didn’t want Joffrey to hear I’d been visiting my bast- my half-brother so… I…”

“Think nothing of it.” He meant it too. At the time it had hurt a little but holding a grudge now after everything felt foolish. “Trust me, I’ve been getting used to seeing you alive for only a day and not once did I think poorly of you. Now eat that stew, it’s really only edible when it’s warm.”

Sansa did as he bid, taking a small spoonful of what looked to be carrots and boiled salt beef. Her appetite overpowered her courtesies soon enough and she was almost shoveling the stew into her mouth.

He looked out the small window and saw the snow still falling, though somewhat lighter than it had been.

_He’ll make it._

_I know he will._

Despite what he’d said to Sansa about keeping her safe, he knew they were far from it. Ghost was out there somewhere, watching the darkness for any signs of riders and Jon was thankful for it. If any danger came their way, Ghost would spot it first.

It was thanks to the wolf that they’d found Sansa in the first place.

They’d still been tracking the clansmen’s trail when he’d heard Ghost’s howl. The others swore that they hadn’t heard anything but Jon knew that sound as well as he knew his own heart. Somewhere ahead, his friend had needed him.

Needed his help.  

At his urging they’d ridden hard, coming across a fight on the plateau just in time. Sansa and Ghost had been both moments away from death before Jon had cut down the clansman standing over her unconscious form. Seeing her staring up at him as he rode by had unnerved him enough for one of them to almost spear his horse.

He’d left most of the battle to his comrades, leaping from his mount to come to Sansa’s aid. Ghost had joined them not long after, having miraculously escaped the battle with only a few cuts and scratches. Though they’d darkened his snow-white fur with red, Jon had embraced his lost wolf, tears in his eyes from this small family reunion.

That joy felt queer compared to the dread he felt now while watching the snow fall. For Willem and his men were out there somewhere, putting themselves at risk while he sat warm under a roof.

“I’ll move as quickly as I can Wolf, but with the weather like it is, don’t expect help too soon.” Willem had warned him. “Littlefinger will have men out too. I believe the Mouse on that score at least. Your sister’s too great a prize for him to lose.”

“That’s why you need to get to Bronze Yohn.” Jon had answered, helping Willem and two other men in preparing for their journey. “His army needs to be on the move. Get to him, tell him of Sansa. Have him bring his men to us as we ride to the valley. With any luck, we can meet in the middle within a week.”

“You can’t be idle Jon.” Willem had urged. “I know you can’t push the girl too hard but keep moving as much as possible. Littlefinger’s forces are much closer to you than I will be to Bronze Yohn’s, and if it comes to battle I don’t think they’ll be-”

“I know Will.” He’d slapped the man’s horse. “Hurry back. Just hurry back.”

“Stay safe lad… ser… whatever.” Willem had spurred his horse away, the others following. “Just do as I say!”

The three riders had disappeared into the snowfall then. It had not stopped since and he cursed it with all his heart.

“Is it snowing?” Sansa asked sleepily, gazing towards the window.

“It is. Just lightly though.” He took the empty bowl from her, smiling against his worries. “No worse than our summer snows in the North.”

“I miss those.” She whispered, letting her head fall back against her pillow. “I miss so much…”

“I miss them too Sansa.”

"If I sleep... don't leave me... promise me Jon."

"I promise." 

He kept his promise. He sat and watched the snow falling outside long after Sansa fell back asleep. There was no need to ask it of him truly, he didn’t feel any need to leave her side.

_I’ll never leave her side, not after all this._

_Not now._

_Not ever._

**THE LOST DAUGHTER**

Something was touching her face and pulled her from her sleep.

As Sansa opened her eyes, all she saw was white fur. Then a pair of bright red eyes started into hers. For half a moment she panicked before she felt that strong warm tongue licking across her face, something that felt so familiar and comforting that it made her want to weep.

“Ghost!” She cried out.

The direwolf had been missing from her bedside the entire day before. She’d slept fitfully through the day and then the night, but still he’d made no appearance as far as she knew. It was morning now, the light streaming through her window, and waking to find the direwolf at her side was a pleasant way to start the day.

“Where did you go?” She asked, embracing the direwolf around its massive neck and pulling him bodily against her. “I owed both my heroes thanks but you were nowhere to be found!”

Ghost’s heart beat powerfully against her chest and she wondered if Lady would have grown so big. The direwolf endured her embrace for a moment or two longer before pulling away to begin lapping at the empty bowls at the far end of the room.

“You’re as bad as Jon at accepting praise.” She almost giggled at the similarities between the two.

Jon had been there when she’d fallen asleep last night, speaking of his journeys across the realm as if they weren’t worthy of song. He’d become a knight and a hero in her eyes, yet in many ways he still remained that shy boy she remembered at Winterfell. He was nowhere to be seen now though, and Ghost had left her door open after apparently forcing his way in.

This building must have been a storehouse at some point for she saw another room beyond her door with bits of grain strewn about a dusty floor. The frown that came to her face couldn’t be helped. She might be a fugitive but she’d been raised a lady and had been tending to a castle’s household for several moons now. A messy chamber was something she couldn’t allow.

_Even the bastard daughter of a lord must act like a lady._

She froze as she stood up from her bedding.

_But I’m not a bastard now._

Jon had come for her, and more of Lord Yohn Royce’s men would be coming as well. Not to escort her back to Petyr but to someplace away from him. A feeling of panic washed over her at the thought. Despite all that Ser Shadrich had said, Alayne still saw Petyr as the reason she wasn’t still suffering in King’s Landing.

 _He was the reason you suffered there in the first place,_ she chided herself.

_But… maybe Ser Shadrich lied._

_It’s all lies, forever and ever._

_That’s what Petyr said._

Sansa shook her head against her own thoughts and Ghost stared at her actions with an almost thoughtful manner. The direwolf came to her then, nuzzling at her side as if he knew she was troubled. Just as she knew deep down, for all of Ser Shadrich’s rough ways, the tales he told made too much sense to be denied, not after everything she’d seen Petyr capable of.

_His plots are endless._

_Lords with a hundred times his strength all fall against him._

It was true. No matter how strong some had been, if Petyr wanted them defeated, they were. Most never even realized it had been him to do it. That it was Petyr who betrayed them.

_I never saw it._

She knew Petyr had plans for her though. He wanted the Vale and the North, and he planned on using her to get both. Yet using her meant depending on her, and a small part of Sansa had always wondered why he would want to arrange a marriage for her that would only elevate her power. To raise her up as Sansa Stark would mean the realm knowing that he was not truly her father.

She would have no reason to obey him then.

 _He’d find a reason,_ she realized _, I’m underestimating him._

_Everyone sees him as weak, a lord without power, and that’s how he wins._

She laughed suddenly at another thought answering the last.

_And I’m even weaker than him, just as Petyr wants me to be._

Sansa stood up, tired of running circles in her head and wishing to see what the morning had brought with it. Outside the window, she saw Jon’s men moving about, preparing for the ride she’d delayed them from taking for far too long. One man was loading a mule with as much supplies as the beast could carry, probably to ease the burden upon his own horse.

For some reason that reminded her of Sweetrobin.

He was still in Petyr’s care, and as wretched as the little boy could be, she worried for him. Petyr didn’t love him. She didn’t think Petyr even cared if her cousin still lived after she was married off to Harry the Heir.

_In fact, the sooner little Robert dies, the sooner Harry comes into his power._

_The sooner I would come into ladyship over the Vale._

_And my power is Petyr’s power._

In her mind, she saw a little stone Robert Arryn being flicked off a game board before Petyr’s hand wrapped around a statue of herself. The thought made her stomach turn.

 _He’d have power over the North somehow, through me,_ she thought. _That’s his scheme._

_But I’d be home. Finally, after all these years, I’d be back in Winterfell._

_Maybe it’s safer in his grasp, safer for me._

_Safer for Jon._

She caught a glimpse of him moving about outside. Her half-brother, who was now a knight, was striding about a line of horses, looking taller and stronger than she’d ever remembered him being.

Jon was taller than their father was, she was sure of it now. He had father’s long-solemn face but Jon’s jaw looked a little different, sharper maybe. Then suddenly the image of father’s head on a spike jumped into her mind and she gripped the window frame tightly.

Ghost jerked at her side, the direwolf’s ears perking up and its whole body as tensed as Sansa was.

_Did he sense my fear?_

She reached to pet him but Ghost bolted away and out the door before she had a chance to try and stop him. From the room beyond, she heard the sounds of frantic scratching upon wood then the sound of a door opening, followed by a curse and a gust of cold air hitting her.

Turning to the window, she watched Ghost send many of the animals rearing as he ran through the ruined village to stand at its edge. Jon’s men were busy calming the horses but Jon ran after the direwolf. Coming to the wolf’s side as Ghost stood looking out into the snow-covered countryside.

Sansa squinted into the distance and saw a rider approaching. A Royce man, riding hard and fast towards the village, towards Jon and Ghost. When he neared them, the rider shouted something at Jon that she couldn’t make out. Whatever it was made Jon turn and run back towards the camp, shouting orders. The men started rushing about, trying to gain their horses in a panic.

_Something’s wrong._

The door beyond slammed open again and then Jon stood in her doorway as the cold wind blew past him.

“Sansa, we need to leave now.”

“What’s-”

“Sansa now!” He yelled and it scared her so she started to back away from him.

He came at her and she cringed, not knowing what to expect. Instead of striking her or treating her roughly, he went to grab her cloak and quickly fastened it about her shoulders. His touch felt strong and urgent but not unkind.

“Put on those riding boots I brought you. Quickly now, your feet will freeze without them.”

When she didn’t move and simply clutched at the trim of her cloak fearfully, he went and grabbed the boots for her. He pulled each of her legs up in turn and gently eased her feet into them. The boots were too large for her but he didn’t seem to care.

“Jon? Jon, what’s wrong?”

He rose and grabbed her arm, much more gently than Ser Shadrich had, and began guiding her to the door. She was shuffling her feet and pulled back enough for him to whip around and look at her. He seemed terrified.

“Jon…”

“Riders. A great many of them, and they’re on their way here.”

“Clansmen?” She asked, already fearing the answer. “Lord Royce maybe?”

“They bear the banner of House Arryn.”

“No!” Sansa almost didn’t recognize her scream. “I told you! I told you that he’d find me! Jon, you- oh gods Jon! You can’t be here! You can’t…”

She was trying to push him away when a man shouted from without, urging them to hurry. Jon reached out to grab her hands and pulled them to his chest.

“I swore to protect you, and I will.” Jon said softly, his dark grey eyes almost pleading with her as he pulled her forward. “We can still make it. I’m not giving up Sansa. We can make it.”

They couldn’t.

By the time all the men had gained their horses, another one of Jon’s riders had come from the opposite side of town, heralding more dark news.

“They sent some around us! More are back to the range ser!” The man cried out and others cursed and drew their weapons.

“Form up around Lady Stark!” Jon yelled as his horse left her side and she reached out feebly for him to stay with her. Strangers were about her suddenly, and she saw Ser Shadrich, bruised and bound on a horse beside her.

“If any see a way through, take Lady Stark and ride hard for Lord Royce’s camp!” Jon shouted from the front of their group. “No one is to touch her!”

“Give me a sword! I’ll do no better than you without one!” Ser Shadrich yelled at the men around him but all ignored his pleas.  
  
 _Please make them ride by_ , she pleaded to the gods,  _please don’t let them come here._

Just like Ser Shadrich’s pleas, her prayers went unheeded.

From the side of the town where she last saw Ghost, a great many horsemen had arrived. Spread out in a long line, wending their way through the buildings, closing in on their smaller party. One rider in particular stood out at the head of the newcomers.

_No, not him._

Those were her first thoughts as she recognized him. The shame came quickly after. If she could’ve ridden yesterday this wouldn’t have happened. They would’ve been a day away and far from his grasp.

Now Lothor Brune had found them.

Which meant Petyr had found her.

She saw no sign of Petyr himself amongst the riders, but the man leading them was a symbol of his power nonetheless. Lothor Brune was armored and attended by two score of riders and some mounted crossbowmen as well.

Jon’s men were horribly outnumbered and she cringed as he took a position parallel to that of Lothor’s, as if to challenge him.

_Jon, no._

_He’s a killer._

“Alayne!” A familiar voice pulled her attention away and Sansa saw a young woman riding forth from among Lothor’s men. “Alayne, are you well?”

_Oh Mya, why are you here?_

Her friend was wrapped in furs and dressed in riding leathers, her cheeks burning prettily from the cold. Mya’s eyes were full of worry as she took in Sansa’s bandaged head.

“Alayne! Don’t worry, you’re safe now!” Mya shouted as one of Lothor’s men barred her path. “I told them I could find you!”

 _No_ , Sansa’s heart fell.  _Mya… what have you done?_

Mya had been raised in the country around the Gates of the Moon for her entire life and knew them well, better than most, people had told Alayne. While others had fancy balls or grand feasts, her bastard friend would ride about the ranges, sometimes camping outside for days.

And she realized then that Lothor had put her friend’s experience to good use.

“Release the girl and my lord has offered to spare your lives!” Lothor called out, pointing a sword at Jon. “Resist and that offer will be rescinded.”

“This lady is under the protection of Lord Yohn Royce!” Jon yelled back. “Let us pass and your threats here will not be reported to him!”

He sounded brave but bravery wouldn’t matter against Lothor Brune, who had killed half-a-hundred men himself during the Battle of the Blackwater. Nor would bravery protect Jon with so many crossbows trained upon him and his men. Lothor certainly wasn’t put off by the threat, in fact he looked all the more menacing and confident at Jon’s threat. He even smiled a little.

“Bronze Yohn condones the kidnapping of young girls now? It would only be right to see justice done for such a crime.”

“You and I both know who is guilty of kidnapping here!” Jon shouted, now to the men about Lothor instead. “You men seek Alayne Stone? Well there is no such girl here! We protect the Lady Sansa Stark! Lord Royce is and always has been a friend of House Stark and he will see to her protection now!”

Looks of shock and surprised whisperings rippled through Lothor’s men at Jon’s declaration. None appeared more surprised than Mya, who gaped openly at Sansa, repeating the name she’d just heard to herself.

Lothor didn’t react at all, save to lift up his mailed fist, which was enough to bring total silence among his men. He gave Jon a hard look, then his eyes travelled to Sansa but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Lothor scared her and made her scared for Jon.

“My lord told me to return the girl who was taken from the castle, boy. That’s what I intend to do, even if it means gutting you and the rest of these men to do it.”

Jon shot a look back to his group and she could almost feel the men in his party tensing for battle. She gripped her reins so tightly that her knuckles whitened. While Lothor’s company glimmered in mail, with crossbows loaded and ready, Jon’s party had no bowmen she could see. Worse still, few of them had found time to put on armor before Lothor’s arrival.

“My lord thought if it came to this that I should remind the lady’s kidnappers that battle is a dangerous place.” Lothor sneered at Jon before waving his hand in the air at three crossbowmen near him. “The Mouse.”

The men loosed their bolts and she cried out. One came so close that she felt the wind of its passing brush at her hair.

“Sansa!” Jon cried out in worry.

Ser Shadrich didn’t even get the chance to cry out himself.

The hedge knight could only offer a hiss as the three bolts struck his chest. She stared as the blood began to seep down his tunic and drip down his feet onto the ground. He coughed some, reaching up numbly to touch his bloody mouth before he fell bodily from his horse. Even through the yells and outcry around her, Sansa heard the sad thud that Ser Shadrich’s body made as it hit the ground.

_He’ll do the same to all of them._

_He’ll do the same to Jon._

During the confusion, more riders were arriving from the direction of their escape route. Another score of armored men, waving the banner of House Arryn, came to join Lothor’s cordon. They moved to form a tight circle of death around their party and she saw no chance for breaking out like Jon hoped.

_There is no hope._

_Life isn’t a song._

“Come now boy, my men could just as easily aim at one of her guards and miss…” Lothor left the rest unsaid before tapping on his own blade. “You want to keep her safe? You want to protect her? Drop your blades and she’ll come to no harm. Keep them and I can’t say the same.

Sansa felt herself in a daze as she looked to Jon. He had turned back to face her and his expression reminded her of father at the Sept of Baelor.

_It’s happening again._

She wanted to scream at Jon to run. Sansa knew she should try and speak to Lothor’s men herself, to try and make them see reason or confuse them long enough for Jon to act. Instead Sansa became Alayne again totally, frozen in terror and just wishing it would all end.

She pulled her eyes from Jon’s and a moment later Jon did as Lothor commanded.

“I would protect her… lay down your arms… put them down… put them all down.”

The sound of clattering steel and disappointed men answered Jon’s order. She watched numbly as Lothor’s men moved to subdue their prisoners. Jon was the first to be pulled from his horse and had his hands bound in front of him. The welling in her eyes made Sansa miss the rest. Alayne did little better, for she lowered her head to the saddle of her horse to hide her tears and shame.

“Alayne?” Mya half yelled as she rode up beside her, her voice filled with concern. “Are you well? Alayne, please answer me. ”

“I… I’m…”

“She’s fine Mya.” Lothor answered for her. He was watching the pair closely but had yet to approach them. “We’ll be riding out shortly, and I’ll have you guide me as before-”

“For the way back? Bloody well follow the way we came! I’m staying with her! Look at her! She’s terrified!” Mya raged suddenly and Alayne saw Lothor was taken aback. “Those crossbows could’ve done for her! What were you thinking?”

“L-lord Baelish commanded me to do all I thought necessary to return her to us.” The man sounded genuinely hurt by Mya’s harsh words. “But… if you wish… you can ride with her… for a time.”

He left them then to oversee the gathering of blades and prisoners. Alayne washed away at Lothor’s leave and Sansa began shaking with fear and rage. What awaited Jon and her back at the castle brought on the fear. That she’d done nothing to stop their capture fueled the rage.

 _It’s your fault_ , she cursed herself.  _They have him because of you._

_Just like it was with father._

“M’lady…” A Runestone man she knew to be named Huett spoke as he was being bound beside them. “I’m sorry… I would’ve fought for the Starks, like my father did.”

He said no more before Lothor’s man cuffed him upside his head and dragged him away. Her shame grew even greater that a common born man was willing to fight for her family while all she did was cower.

Mya watched his rough handling with a confused expression across her face.

“They called you Sansa Stark.”

_I am Sansa Stark._

“Why would they call you that?”

_Because it’s true._

“Alayne! You’re scaring me!”

“I am scared Mya.” She answered softly so that only her friend could hear. “I’m in danger… and you are too…”

“Lothor will get us back. We have too many men for the clans to-”

“No, you don’t understand. He can’t let people know the truth. You know the truth.” Sansa stared into her friend’s eyes and hoped Lothor was still distracted. “About who I really am. He’ll hurt you. Petyr will hurt you.”

Mya stared at her, as if taking stock of Sansa’s warning. The girl spared a glance down at the corpse of Ser Shadrich before her eyes moved back to Lothor and the collection of prisoners he’d just taken.

“You’re telling the truth?” Mya whispered back. “No lies? Going back puts you in danger?”

“It does. Mya, please believe me. It puts us both in danger.”

Mya leaned back in her saddle then, looking about the riders and countryside again. As the wind blew past, she brushed the coal-black locks of her hair away from her face.

A small part of Sansa hoped her friend was thinking of a way to escape.  It would be a comfort if at least Mya could be spared whatever Petyr had planned for her.

_Let me save at least one person._

Yet Mya made no move to escape. Instead she started playing with her sleeve in an almost nervous manner.

“Let’s get these men back on horses! We’ve a hard ride ahead of us!” Lothor began shouting and his men began heaving Jon and his men bodily back onto their mounts.

With all the activity, Mya finally seemed to finally break free of her spell.

“No one will hurt me. Or you.” Her face was dark and her words sounded odd. Then she reached out and pulled Sansa’s hand into her own. “That won’t happen.”

“Mya please, you have to understand-”

“I do.” Sansa felt Mya force her fingers open before placing her hand over top of them. “I’m a bastard Alayne. Bastards see the truth of the world before anyone else because no one bothers trying to protect us from its ugliness.”

Sansa thought of Jon’s childhood and a different shame hit her then.

“Mya-”

“I learned long ago to protect myself. I thought a bastard like you would know better but if you’re truly Sansa Stark…” Mya’s grip tightened and Sansa felt a slight pain there. “No one hurts me because I don’t let them. Do you understand me?”

Sansa felt cold then.

As cold and hard as what Mya placed within her hand.

“Don’t let them.”

**JON**

“Come now boy, that’s enough for now.”

Blood welled in Jon’s mouth so he spat it out upon the floor, feebly crawling away from his tormentor’s boots. Considering how little comfort the man’s words offered him, it seemed a fair response.

Nor did Lothor Brune seem particularly comforting as he stared down at Jon, wiping blood from his knuckles.

It hadn’t been the worst beating he’d ever taken, but Littlefinger’s man knew how to use his fists and Jon suffered for it. The strange thing was that Brune hadn’t asked any questions of him and gave no reason for the beating. Jon had been quietly searching the chambers they’d locked him, looking for any tools he might use to unlock the irons upon his wrists. That’s when Brune had arrived. The man had said nothing before his fists came on, hard and punishing.

_Fine by me._

_I’ll ask the questions then._

“How is Sansa?” He asked, reaching up to touch his rapidly swelling eye.

“She lives.” Brune said as he threw down the rag he’d cleaned his fists with. “For how long depends on you. Come now.”

With that, Lothor Brune pulled Jon to his feet and forced him out of the chamber and into the corridor. He knew little of the Gates of the Moon, so whether he was being led to a dungeon or a privy, he couldn’t say.

When he’d realized Baelish’s men were returning them to this castle, he’d had hope. No matter how scared Sansa had seemed during the ride, Jon had still clung to hope. The Gates of the Moon were held by Lord Royce’s own cousin, and despite his criticisms of Nestor Royce, Bronze Yohn had always said he was a fine man.

Yet it was a different lord who awaited them when they rode through the castle gates. This lord was short and slender, with a pointed beard, and clothing fine enough to make him almost appear handsome. The authority he wielded over Jon’s captors and the guards within the courtyard betrayed his identity long before Brune hailed him.

Bound and at his mercy, this was how Jon met Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Protector of the Vale, and Sansa’s captor.

“Sweet Alayne! I worried so for you.” Littlefinger had opened his arms to embrace Sansa while the guards roughly pulled Jon and the other Runestone men from their horses. “I can barely believe the size of this conspiracy to rob you away from me.”

Had Jon not been gagged, he would’ve shouted the truth for all to hear. He felt for sure that there were true men amongst the castle guard. Instead his grunts were met by a fist to the gut from one of the guards and indifference from the rest.

Sansa had seen it though and made to move towards him. She’d been stopped by Baelish grabbing her arm, pulling her towards him. Words passed between them, too quiet for Jon to hear, and ending with Sansa nodding slightly.

“Take them to the dungeon but have that one taken to guest chambers.” Baelish had pointed to Jon. “He’s a person of great interest after all!”

Jon was dragged away, struggling the entire time, the men handling him roughly as they pulled him from the yard. He could only watch as Baelish led Sansa within a stone archway, a hand upon the small of her back.

For two days he’d been held captive. In truth, the chambers were better than any he’d had since his time in Highgarden. Servants had come to deliver his meals and take his chamber pot, but none had spoken to him, nor would the guards without his door allow him to yell for long.

Their beatings had been nothing compared to Brune’s though.

The man shoved him again as they came upon a large oak door guarded by four men-at-arms. They were all bearing the sigil of House Royce of the Gates, yet parted at Brune’s command. They opened the door and Lothor led him into a large solar, well lit and furnished.

As the guards pulled the door shut behind them, Jon gazed up at the banners depicting both the falcon of Arryn and the black gate of Nestor Royce. The two people standing by the hearth grabbed Jon’s attention next.

His heart stopped at the sight of her.

“Ser Jon, I welcome you to the Gates of the Moon.” Baelish said with a bow.

Jon didn’t look at Baelish. His eyes were focused entirely on Sansa. She’d been dressed in a clean gown, and besides the bandage upon on her head she seemed unharmed. Something about the blank expression on her face and the faraway look in her eyes scared him though. He’d never seen her so empty of hope or happiness in all their years at Winterfell.

Sansa stared at him as if she didn’t truly see him.

_See me Sansa._

_I’m still here, you’re not alone._

“I welcomed you to this castle ser. It would be polite to respond.” Baelish said as he came to inspect Jon. He made a disapproving sound, gesturing to Jon’s face. “I must apologize for my man. He takes his duties seriously, and at times can be too severe. I disdain violence myself but with such foul plots about, sometimes I fear it necessary. As necessary as the answers we would have from you.”

“It would’ve helped if he’d asked me questions then.”

Baelish laughed.

“An excellent idea! But now that you know what Lothor here is capable of, I’d hate to have to remind you.” Baelish gave a sly smile as he went to pour a goblet of wine for himself. “Now that the pleasantries are done with, I’d dispense with idle chatter if you don’t mind. We’re both serious men I believe, so let’s speak as such. If you could tell me how long Bronze Yohn has known Sansa was here in the Vale and under my care, I’d be grateful.”

He ignored the question.

He kept his eyes on Sansa, willing her to see that he was there, hoping to see some sort of defiance in her towards her captor. No matter how much she feared Baelish, he prayed that it wouldn’t blind her from any opportunity she had of escape.

His silence hadn’t gone unnoticed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Baelish make a motion and a moment later Brune’s fist drove into Jon’s back.

The blow set his side aflame, causing him to grunt in pain. He began to stagger but Brune gripped his arms to keep Jon in place. A small grin pulled at the sides of Baelish’s mouth as leaned against the table, swishing the contents of his goblet before him.

 Sansa didn’t seem to have noticed, her eyes still staring off at nothing.

“How long ser?”

“I imagine since he was told. Some days now.” Jon tried to lie convincingly.

Willem may have found their lord by now but Jon doubted it. Not with how foul the weather had been during their ride back to the Gates of the Moon, but he still needed to make Sansa and Littlefinger think help was coming, to give her hope and him pause.

But the lord showed no intent of stopping.

Baelish signaled his man again and another blow fell to the exact same place in Jon’s back. Pain blinded him and he almost went to his knees before he was quickly steadied again. Jon felt a cold sweat break out upon his brow as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

_I’d give anything for a sword._

_Or to be unchained. My own fists would do._

Baelish shook his head, sipping lightly at his wine.

“I take the blame for your discomfort ser. I only just learned of your presence here in the Vale a short time ago. Bronze Yohn did well in keeping your arrival secret, I commend him. Had I known sooner, I would’ve had you join us here in a much different manner, one that would’ve spared my sweet Alayne much suffering.”

Littlefinger’s demeanor changed for a moment. It was something akin to how Ghost looked over recently caught game. Just as quickly as Jon saw it, the predatory expression was gone and a genial smile stretched back across Baelish’s face.

“It was my arrogance, nay, my pride in how well Alayne performed her mummery. I thought Yohn would never see the girl he’d met years ago at Winterfell in my dear daughter. But I’ve obviously I underestimated his guile. I see now that Ser Mychel’s obvious attempts to earn my favor were merely a distraction…”

Jon betrayed Mychel then by reacting to his name, and he cursed himself for doing so when Littlefinger tapped his temple in a knowing manner. If the man truly knew Mychel’s reason for being at the Gates, Jon hoped his fellow knight still lived.

“Sending his goodson as a spy? That I could expect of old Yohn… sending sellswords here to seek employ, while plotting to kidnap my ward from my own safekeeping? It is beyond shocking… it even speaks to a level of creativity beyond Lord Royce.”

 _Bronze Yohn knew nothing of Sansa being here,_ he thought, _what is he talking about?_

“I don’t think it was his idea to bring you to the Vale, was it? Not really up to Yohn’s usual marshal strategies. Familiar enough from my days at court though.” He guffawed at Jon then, like he’d said something foolish. “How is Varys faring these days?”

“Who?”

It took Jon a long moment to understand before he remembered the name from fearful whispers in his travels, but never from his time at Runestone. Baelish held up his finger again and this time Brune struck to the opposite side of Jon’s back. The other side still throbbed in agony, so Jon was almost thankful that the man had not struck there again.

“Was it Varys or Yohn who bid you here?”

“I came… to return his son’s sword…” He rasped out between gasps and Baelish laughed.

“You are one of the few people in the whole realm that none would question in identifying Alayne as Sansa Stark. Yet you mean to tell me that you travelled all the way to the Vale… to deliver a sword? This is the tale you feed me?” Baelish’s smile was gone now, his face had darkened and his eyes were on Sansa. “Or that you happened upon her by chance?”

“Hey, hey! Don’t you look at her!” The way Baelish looked at Sansa caused Jon to fear for her. “Sansa, whatever he’s threatened you with do not-”

He was half expecting it yet Brune’s strike to his side robbed him of his strength anyway. This time no one stopped Jon’s fall and he landed hard upon his knees and his bound hands clenched in fury as much as in agony.

“I think perhaps your fists are getting tired Lothor.” Baelish mused somewhere above him. “Perhaps you should find some tools that could be of use?”

Brune didn’t get a chance to answer, for Sansa broke her silence then.

“Please, father… stop.”

 _He’s not your father!_ Jon screamed within. _Sansa, don’t ever call him that!_

“Oh Alayne. Sweet Alayne.” Littlefinger’s voice sounded soothing as he went to Sansa’s side. “I suppose you’re too gentle for the harsh realities of this game. I’m afraid our deception is at an end. Varys and Yohn have forced us to hurry our plans along some and I must know how much things have changed.”

The man then reached to cup Sansa’s face in his hand, tracing a finger over her cheek. Her eyes were downcast as he moved to kiss her lightly upon the cheek he didn’t molest. Jon made to rise in disgust and Brune shoved him down roughly, his knees hitting the stone hard enough to make Baelish jerk his head towards him.

“And your father’s bastard complicates things. You see that don’t you? He has the look of Ned Stark, and you remember how he failed to keep you safe… you remember that don’t you?” Baelish reached down to grasp Sansa’s hand and caress it as they both regarded Jon. “To give you the North and return you home, you must be the only claimant for the northmen to rally around. Before, we only had that mummer’s Stark in Bolton’s care to contend with, but now? Could you imagine the problems Jon Snow would give us with Lord Royce at his back? You know how men are. Some would prefer to follow a bastard son instead of a trueborn daughter.”

“But Lord Royce doesn’t have Jon, we do.” Sansa said quietly. “We can use him now.”

“Such a gentle heart you have. We could, but how would we control him I wonder?”

With that, Sansa’s face contorted into one of terror and Jon saw Baelish’s grip had tightened on her hand. Squeezing it so hard that it turned a bright red and Sansa uttered a pained sound.

 “Stop! Don’t hurt her!”

Jon’s words were desperate. He’d sworn to keep her safe and just because he was a prisoner did not mean he would forsake that vow. He couldn’t fail Sansa, not like he had father and Robb. As much as it disgusted him to do so, he pleaded with Baelish.

“Please stop. I’m not seeking the North, nor is Lord Royce. I just wanted to find Sansa. She’s all I have left in this world…”

Baelish smiled as he released Sansa’s hand, patting it gingerly and whispering a soft apology to her before placing a kiss in her hair. Jon couldn’t hear everything, but he picked up snippets of what Baelish said, something about this being a game and that Sansa had played her part well. He turned to Jon then.

“Many would find that hard to believe of a bastard brother. Although like I said before, I see much of Ned Stark in you ser. So while you will tell me of what your lord has plotted, I will in turn offer you a chance to protect dear sweet Sansa from any harm.” Baelish waved his hand upward and suddenly Jon was yanked to his feet. “I intend to present you before a group of lords sometime in the future. And there, before them and as many other people of import I can find, you will admit your guilt to this terrible crime. How you plotted to kidnap Sansa so you could return her to the Lannisters for gold.”

Jon was dumbfounded.

It took him but a moment to realize Baelish didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. This must have been plain to see, as Baelish gave a dismissive chuckle.

“You will admit to misleading Lord Royce in your quest for wealth. That Queen Cersei used you as an agent to seek her vengeance and that our poor Lord of Runestone was quite innocent in all of this, though it was foolish of him to believe you so easily.”

“Pe-father… they’ll kill him.” Sansa protested, clutching at the sleeve of the hand where Baelish had gripped her.

“Oh they’ll want to. Hatred for the Lannisters runs deep here in the Vale but I’m not so cruel as to let the ser die like that.” Baelish put his hand upon her middle and pulled her close to him, holding her in a way that made Jon’s fury reach new heights. “I will plead his case myself, pointing to the nefarious nature of bastards, and the wickedness of Cersei in trying to exploit those flaws. I’ll convince them to spare poor Jon Snow and allow him to take the black.”

With that, Baelish turned from her and strode towards him, leaning in to whisper quietly in his ear.

“And in return for all of this and for your silence, I promise Sansa will not suffer as much as she could.” His breath smelled of mint this close and Jon looked away from his smile. “A rare beauty she is… there are men in this world who would do such foul things to such a body… terrible things.”

Jon hated Petyr Baelish more than he thought he could hate anyone. His hands balled into fists and he wanted to reach up and choke the life from the small man’s throat. Brune’s grip tightened upon his shoulders as if he read his thoughts, and Jon had no doubt that such foolishness would be quickly stopped.

_And Sansa possibly hurt for the attempt._

The proposal before him was as vile as he could imagine. Baelish would have him name himself a Lannister tool and a kinslayer at that. It would bring shame to Lord Royce and it made Jon sick to think of betraying him.

But he would do it.

Despite the cost to his honor, despite everything else, it was the only path to sparing the girl before him.

 _I did not find her to fail her,_ he reasoned against himself. _I can’t falter after all this._

Sansa still stood in front of him, numbly watching what unfolded, still favoring her wrist. Jon thought Baelish must have twisted it in his manhandling. He thought that to be only a small taste of the cruelty Baelish could do. Jon remembered the terror on Sansa’s face, how frightened she’d been of Lord Baelish finding him. He hadn’t understood it then but he did now. He was scared too, more for her than himself.

If this was the one act he had left to do her any sort of good, he would not balk.

He could not balk.

“I’ll do it. I’ll swear to it to any way you want, before any gathering you wish.” Jon held back from spitting into Baelish’s grinning face then. “For her.”

“Excellent!” Baelish clapped his hands together, causing Sansa to jump some as he walked straight towards her before planting a kiss upon her brow. “It is done sweetling! I give you the Vale and North, free of all other claimants! All I do for the love I bear you, and your gentle heart.”

“I-I thank you.” Sansa gave a weak smile.

But Baelish wasn’t satisfied with such.

“I proclaim my love for you and such is my reward? We should show your brother what safe hands you are in… who you truly love.”

With that, Baelish kissed Sansa on her lips and Jon struggled some against Brune’s hold. The man’s grip was like iron, and Jon stood numbly as Sansa was used, his shame growing because he could not stop it. Worse, though Sansa seemed to cringe while doing do, she reached up to Littlefinger’s neck and deepened the kiss further. When Baelish finally moved away from her, he turned to give Jon a wink.

_He can do worse._

_Unless you keep faith._

“Hmmm… thank you Alayne, much better.” Baelish said with a little chuckle.

“Of course.” She said numbly. “Anything for my father.”

He wished Sansa could read the look he gave her. That he was sorry and would stop all of this if he could. But her eyes were not for him. Instead Sansa was staring at Baelish’s back and he noticed something strange.

Something had flashed across her face when Baelish turned to face Jon. Not an emotion, for she remained eerily calm, instead a gleam of light had appeared across her cheek. As if something was catching the torchlight behind her. For a moment, Jon thought it must be some jewelry he could not see, but then Brune seemed to spot it too and had grasped its meaning quicker than he did.

That iron grip was gone all at once as Sansa made a jerking motion.

Baelish stepped forward and cried out, the sound almost drowning out Sansa’s words as she followed his move and he gasped again.

“I love my father.”

Littlefinger stiffened after that, his eyes widening in shock as he reached behind himself at his back. He gave a groan of agony and stumbled away from Sansa so that Jon could finally see it.

She held a small blade.

Brune shoved past Jon, moving towards Sansa and reaching for his sword at the same time. Jon acted just as quickly.

He lunged forward at the man’s back, lifting his manacled hands up so he could drag the chain binding them across the Brune’s throat.

Wrenching backwards as hard as he could, Brune made a loud, choking sound as he was pulled to an abrupt halt. The man no longer reached for his swordbelt and instead clawed desperately at the chain across his neck, jerking his body away from Jon’s grip. Jon drove his elbows into Brune’s back in answer to his attempts at escaping, the manacles digging into Jon’s wrists.

The pair stumbled into a table and then against the wall. Jon caught a glimpse of Baelish collapsed on the floor, gasping in pain as he gazed at his own bloody hands.

Brune fell then, taking Jon with him. They landed hard upon the floor, Jon still atop Brune’s back. Jon arched backwards, pulling on his chain with all his might. Blood dripped down his arms as the manacles cut deeper into his flesh. He felt skin tearing from his wrists but he wouldn’t stop. He kept pulling as long as Brune fought beneath him.

It was an eternity before the man’s struggles finally ended. Jon only stopped pulling when it became clear a new threat was bearing down upon them.

There was pounding against the doors, doors that had evidently been barred by Brune earlier. Men were shouting for them to be opened, yelling about the noises that they heard. Jon knew the door would not keep them out for long and untangled himself from Brune’s corpse.

_You have to finish Baelish._

_Kill him before they can stop you._

He gained his feet and saw Sansa standing over the prone form of her captor. She still held the bloody dagger in her hand, staring down upon Baelish’s body with a strange, child-like curiosity. Blood was pooling around the man as Jon came besides her, meaning to finish it.

There was no need.

Baelish’s eyes stared back up at them with a frozen expression of surprise upon his face. Yet those eyes saw nothing.

The man was dead.

His blood on Sansa’s hands.

"He never had me searched." She said softly. "All of you, but not me."

A loud thud against the door made Jon break out of his disbelief. The door was splintering from the blows outside and soon men would come in to find this scene.

“He thought I was too weak…” Sansa babbled as she held the dagger close to her chest, staining her gown in blood.

“Sansa, give me the dagger.” He pleaded. “Quickly.”

Baelish had been the lord here and had commanded the guards who would soon break in. When they did, they would find Jon holding the weapon that killed their lord rather than Sansa.

When she looked at him, he’d expected her to be scared but Jon saw no fear in her eyes. Instead they’d lost their earlier listlessness and became bright and alive. Full of the same hope he’d seen when they were first reunited.

_Protect her._

“Sansa! The dagger!”

“It was for father, Jon.” Sansa’s eyes beseeched him to understand. “For father.”

He didn’t get a chance to argue further as the doors swung open with a crash and five armed men charged in.

Nestor Royce’s guards found two men dead in their lord’s solar.

With their killers at their mercy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vale plays host to another trial, loyalties are declared and a mysterious invitation offers Jon and Sansa something they've both wanted for a very long while.

**THE ACCUSED**

 

"Sansa please! You must think this through…”

“No. No, never. I would never.” Sansa said firmly. “Nothing you can say will change that Randa.”

Myranda released Sansa's hands from her gentle hold and turned away so the lady could dab at the tears in her eyes. Apparently Sansa’s current predicament weighed heavily on her friend.

The lady was enthralled that the girl she thought had been but a bastard all this time was actually Sansa Stark in truth.

Sister to a King. Wanted by the Iron Throne.

And soon to be a confessed killer.

_If only they’d let me confess._

“Father will help you, I know he will.” Myranda turned back with a pleading look. “But you must make the task easier for him. Let Ser Jon take this burden from you and-”

“You call it a burden? To die for me?” She asked more shrilly than she meant to. “He almost did already Myranda. I wouldn’t allow it then and I won’t allow it now. I killed Petyr, not Jon.”

She felt Jon’s hand in Myranda’s current behavior. It was part of something he’d started when the guardsmen had stormed into Lord Nestor’s solar. When they saw what she had done.

“It was me! I killed them both! Leave her be!” Jon had yelled, pushing her behind him. “I’m the killer!”

He had continued shouting his false confession even as the guards knocked him to the ground and began beating him with the butts of their spears.

“He lies! I killed Lord Baelish! Stop it!” She’d tried to stop the men from hurting him but one of them had dragged her from the room screaming. “Leave him be!”

The last she’d seen of Jon, he was hurt and bloody with men raining blows down upon him.

Ser Andar Royce, acting as castellan to the Gates while his father was away, had locked Sansa in her chambers, apparently at a loss of what to do. So when Lord Nestor finally returned from his search for Alayne Stone two days later, he’d found his castle in an uproar. The man who’d granted his lordship was dead and the long missing Sansa Stark was the confessed killer.

To say Lord Nestor was flustered when he came to her was an understatement.

“Do not lie to me girl, I cannot help you if you do.” Nestor had said when Albar and Myranda had joined him in attending her in her chambers. “Now tell me your name.”

“Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, sister to King Robb Stark.” She’d said with little hesitation yet a shiver ran down her back at finally saying it out loud. “The killer of Lord Petyr Baelish.”

Albar had cursed at that and his father had not been much happier with her response.

“One of us will lose our heads… if not both.” Nestor had said grimly before Myranda hushed him.

“Father, she did no such thing. Ser Jon claims to be the killer and was found with blood on his hands.”

“It was his own blood!” Sansa had argued.

At the time, she’d naïvely thought that her friend had merely misunderstood what Sansa had told her.

“He claims to have plotted to kill Baelish all along father.” Albar had added with Myranda nodding calmly.

It quickly became obvious what the younger Royces were up to and she’d almost screamed in frustration. Now she believed Jon had urged Myranda to speak such lies all along. They’d been kept apart with no way of communicating since the guardsmen had taken them, save through Myranda.

Nestor Royce denied his daughter little and she’d been permitted to visit both Jon and Sansa in their chambers. It had been at Sansa’s urging that her friend visit with Jon and offer him her words of love and comfort. Rather than listen to Myranda and find hope in Sansa’s words, Jon had decided to use the lady to further his own end.

Jon was trying to take all the blame for Petyr and Lothor Brune’s deaths upon himself, most likely in some attempt at chivalric protection. Once Sansa would have found such an act heroic but now she couldn’t stand for Jon to act so foolishly. He didn’t seem to understand that even if he took the blame for this crime she was in no less danger of being executed. The Lannisters would want her head whether she was believed innocent of Petyr’s killing or not.

She took a small comfort knowing Petyr’s last attempt to fool her had failed. Petyr had shocked her by making his false offer to Jon right in front of her. Had Petyr known all Shadrich had told her she doubted he would ever have been so confident.

For the lord had offered Jon the same deal her father had been given. To admit to a false plot and save her life and in return be allowed to take the black. The plot Petyr had forced Jon to agree to was a perfect example of who Littlefinger truly was, exceedingly clever and poetically cruel at the same time. Petyr had had no trouble convincing Joffrey to kill father anyway, Sansa was sure he would do the same to Jon, afterwards he’d likely try to convince her that there was nothing he could have done and that he’d tried his best to save Jon.

So once again Petyr would have murdered someone Sansa cared about, pulling her closer into his embrace, making her need him all the more as she became alone in the world again.

She’d feared something like that happening since their return to the castle.

It’s why she’d hidden Mya’s blade in her sleeve when they came for her.

Sansa had been so afraid that Petyr would know. That somehow he would see in her eyes that she had it on her body. When he’d grabbed the wrist near the dagger’s hiding spot she’d almost lost her composure. The sight of Jon being beaten and the way Petyr clearly delighted in continuing his torture had already tested her strength. The mention of making a deal had almost set her into a screaming panic.

She’d had to numb herself to Jon’s treatment to protect him for Petyr would have hurt him all the worse if he’d seen her true feelings towards Jon. Sansa had even gone as far as to return Petyr’s kiss the way he’d always wanted, to try and distract him and assure him of her loyalties. The feel of his lips had set her skin to crawling and strange rage to boil in her stomach. That rage had helped guide her in doing what needed to be done.

She hadn’t expected to survive it. The moment after she’d stabbed Petyr Sansa had expected Lothor to be there with his sword drawn, to cut her down in vengeance. After everything she’d been through Sansa had accepted that fate, her reward for finally finding the strength to act as a Stark. Yet she’d held hope that Jon would have a chance to survive somehow.

Their trial would be that chance.

She hoped so at least.

For Jon and she would sit before the judgement of Nestor Royce and the lords Horton Redfort and Lyonel Corbray with Sweetrobin also set to attend. The lords would give judgement and her cousin would be permitted to pronounce whatever sentence the older men decided.

Today was to be the day it all began, a day she’d been preparing for.

She’d been steeling herself for anything they might accuse her of and anything that they might threaten her with. Her own fears were the worst trial of all as it was more than her life at stake. If she lost her nerve or failed somehow, it would be the end of her, but more importantly, it would be the end of Jon.

 _I can’t let that happen,_ she told herself _, not again._

 _I’m ready_ ,  _I know these people_.  _I know how Petyr would handle this._

What little confidence Sansa had was not shared by Myranda.

“I just wish this could be over. Father should’ve just commanded it to be over. It’s our castle now and he never really cared for Littlefinger. If you die for that little man… oh Alayne….” Myranda caught herself then and smiled sheepishly, an expression Sansa had never quite seen on the brash young woman. “Sansa, I’m sorry, truly, it will take some getting used to. And I want to get used to it, I do. Yours is such a sad tale, I can’t have it end so terribly.”

“Perhaps it won’t Randa.” She replied, trying to smile herself. “There are things I would say to your father and the others which could help Jon and me but I must be able to speak to them. A trial can only help me. A trial where everything can be known… where the truth can be known…”

“But the risk… you told me what Littlefinger did for the Corbrays. Even Horton Redfort has been acting oddly of late. Talking of plots and the Iron Throne setting its might against us…”

_Yes, Petyr would have been threatening him with that._

There was a slight knock at the door and Myranda dabbed at her eyes again.

“I’m sitting here crying when I’m supposed to be helping you get ready!” She moved to fuss about Sansa’s hair.

Myranda had offered her skills at preparing ladies for feasts to help Sansa’s cause. She’d put Sansa’s hair up in several charming braids before dressing her up in a fine gown of bronze and black. It was touching to think Myranda was trying to shield her, in her own way at least.

_Pretty gowns and hair didn’t protect me from the Lannisters._

_I can’t pretend they’ll do so now._

The knocking came again and Myranda huffed.

“Come in then!”

Her brother Albar appeared in the doorway, dressed in a fine blue doublet yet appearing slightly out of sorts. Sansa rose to smooth her skirts, preparing herself for what was to come.

“Is it time ser?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, I- time? No, no it is not time. Not today at least. There is to be no trial today.” Albar said simply, avoiding her eyes. “They’ve put it off until tomorrow.”

“Oh thank the Seven.” Myranda clutched Sansa’s arm and smiled. “I didn’t want to it to happen so soon.”

She didn’t share Myranda’s relief.

Something about Ser Albar’s manner of speaking seemed forced and uncomfortable. He hadn’t smiled at Sansa since learning the truth but now he kept offering up charming, weak grins. He was also dressed too finely if all he was doing was walking about the castle.

_He dresses for a grand occasion._

_And why send him to tell me this and not a steward?_

“Why is it delayed?” She asked, eyeing him carefully.

“Well, the young lord Robert has had a spell…”

She took a step forward and Albar’s voice trailed off. His shifting stance betrayed his lie almost immediately. All her time in King’s Landing, her lessons with Petyr, Tyrion’s noting of the liars at court to her after their wedding, all of it pounded in her head as she looked at Albar now.

“May I speak to your lord father then?”

Albar’s mouth opened but no words came, his eyes blinking as he tried to come up with some other lie.

As he did so, she rushed at the door, a desperate attempt to escape her chambers. Albar may have been a poor liar but he was a skilled knight. He reacted quickly enough to bar her path and she screamed and beat her fists against his chest. When her fist almost reached his neck he gripped her wrists and held her back.

“You lie! You lie! What has happened?” She fought to escape Albar’s hold as both he and his sister urged her to be calm. “Jon! Jon! What did you do to him? Jon!”

“Nothing! Lady Stark, please!” Albar held her away from him, his strong grip easily containing her struggles.

“The truth!” She looked up into his eyes, which themselves were full of doubt. “Please ser, I beg of you.”

Albar escaped her gaze and sought Myranda for help. His sister was quite confused at everything but ignored his silent plea, waving at him and urging him to speak. He sighed loudly before nodding, letting her wrists go.

“As you wish. My father will have my head for telling you this. It is true that your trial has been put off… but Ser Jon’s has not.”

_No. He can’t._

_They wouldn’t…_

“Albar!” Myranda’s hand went to her mouth in horror.

“Ser Lyn arrived during the night and he and his brother convinced Lord Redfort and father to accept Ser Jon’s claims.” Albar spoke slowly and looked down to hide his shame. “They’d do this quickly to avoid… to avoid complications.”

“Jon needs someone to speak for him!” Sansa cried. “It can be no true trial without it! A knight deserves better ser! For the honor of your family, you must let me go!”

She reached up to grasp his hands before turning to her friend.

“Please Myranda! It is such a foul thing to do! They condemn him without letting anyone speak for him!”

Sansa prayed her friend, who pretended to think so little of chivalry and true men, would see the right of this. She hoped that Albar cared for the good name of his house as much as her father had cared about the honor of House Stark.

Myranda offered no help though, staring at the floor and doing her best to ignore Sansa’s words. She probably welcomed this turn of events. Albar disappointed her like all the knights Sansa had ever met, save Jon, by staying silent.

Someone from behind the knight answered for him though.

“The lady is right.”

They all turned to doorway.

Standing without between her guards stood a comely looking young man, bearing the red castle of House Redfort upon his chest. Myranda had told her that Ser Mychel had been released from his imprisonment after Petyr’s death but she saw no reason for his presence now.

Neither apparently did Albar.

“Mychel you shouldn’t be here…”

“My father is wrong in this too Albar. We both know this is not a true trial. They only wish to condemn Ser Jon quickly before anyone can offer denials against it.” Ser Mychel spoke earnestly and gestured behind him. “And I know Jon, he deserves better. He deserves to have someone speak for him.”

“Then let someone else do so!” Myranda answered fiercely.

“They won’t let us!” Someone else shouted back.

From behind the knight Mya came forth, appearing very uncomfortable and out of place. When their eyes met, Mya’s sincere expression of worry heartened Sansa some.

“The lords won’t let me tell them about the dagger… about what I saw at the village… I tried and they sent me away.” Mya stood taller for a moment, her attention on Albar now. “And it’s the truth! They want to keep it away from the trial so I told Mychel and… and…”

“We’re knights Albar, born to proud houses, and what they’re doing makes us little better than Freys.” Mychel added. “Are you really happy letting the Corbrays have their way in this?”

Whatever resolve Albar had left escaped with the curse he uttered at Mychel’s words. His shoulders slumped some as he turned to her, his look almost beseeching Sansa now.

“They’re not Freys my lady… they just don’t know what to make of all of this.” Albar admitted before sighing and nodding his head, gesturing at the door for her. “Let’s see if you can help them with that.”

“Albar…” Myranda protested but he waved her off.

“You can tell father that you tried to stop me. He always liked you more anyways.”

Sansa hugged Albar before running to the doorway and kissing Ser Mychel upon his cheek. He was a married man and blushed at her actions but she had little time to worry about manners now. When she turned to Mya it was plain her friend was upset. For her to seek out Mychel after all that happened between them showed Sansa her friend’s worth.

“You’re braver than any woman I’ve ever met.” Sansa said as she kissed Mya upon her cheek gently.

“And stupid to boot… if I hadn’t led them to you or given you that bloody dagger…”

“You brought Ser Mychel here and gave me the courage to do what I must.” Sansa kissed her other cheek. “You were Alayne’s friend, you’re mine still.”

“You finally take time away from your mules and look what happens!” Myranda snapped at Mya as she pushed her way out into the corridor. “Well if we’re going, we should be going.”

Myranda gestured for her brother to follow before turning to the guards.

“And you all come as well! You’re supposed to keep her safe and I believe you’ll be needed…”

They took a quick pace as they headed to the great hall but it would never feel quick enough to Sansa. When Albar and Mychel shouldered past the guards standing without and threw open the large oak and iron doors, she saw that the hall was already filled with people.

Many turned to behold the new arrivals, their expressions ranging from surprise to outrage when they recognized her. Sansa’s party continued on through the crowd, Mychel and Albar pushing through the collected nobility as they gaped and whispered about Sansa.

She ignored them as the knights cleared a path to where a ring of guards held the crowd back from a great open space. Within it, a trial was taking place. A high table upon a dais hosted three lords all too familiar to her while seated behind them, upon a ridiculously tall weirwood chair furnished with cushions, sat young Robert Arryn.

Standing far below all of them was Jon. He was still in irons, and as he made to face the commotion, she saw the toll that all the beatings had taken on him. His left eye was blackened and swollen shut, his lip was broken in more than one place and cuts and bruises adorned almost every spot of his face.

A face that twisted into a pained expression when he saw her.

The lords had taken notice as well. Lyonel Corbray and Horton Redfort were speechless and red with anger yet she thought Lord Nestor’s expression bordered somewhat upon relief. Sweetrobin appeared half asleep until he saw her and his face brightened.

“Alayne! Alayne!” The little lord cried out, waving a scepter about childishly. “We’re going to make a man fly!”

“You will do no such thing!” Sansa called back, hoping she sounded stronger than she felt. “I am Sansa Stark and that man before you stands innocent! I would be heard!”

“She was to be kept away! Lyn!” Lord Lyonel yelled furiously at a knight standing beside the dais.

“So she shall be.” Ser Lyn Corbray growled back at his brother as he strode towards her, drawing his sword, with more men at his back.

“Hold ser!” Mychel moved between them. “The lady has asked to be heard.”

“Mychel move.” Ser Lyn grunted, not slowing his pace.

“Mychel stand down!” His father shouted as well but her protector stood firm as Albar took a place beside him.

Ser Mychel defied both the knight he’d squired for and his own father, leaving Sansa touched. She had not thought to see an act so noble from a man she hardly knew.

“I am in service to Lord Yohn Royce! As is Ser Jon, who I know to be a good man and a true knight!” Mychel shouted as Ser Lyn stared down at him menacingly. “And he deserves a witness in his defense!”

“He wants no such thing!” Lord Corbray shouted back as Ser Lyn placed his hand upon the pommel of his sword, raising an eyebrow at Mychel.

“Hold!” Nestor rose while Sweetrobin laughed and clapped at the chaos. “This castle is under my lordship so all will keep their blades sheathed!”

“Father, Lady Stark has demanded the right to speak. Do we deny the daughter of such a House that right?” Albar asked and a murmur went through the crowd.

“If she is who she claims to be, that’s a Lannister standing before you. One wanted for the murder of young King Joffrey.” Lord Corbray added and Horton nodded.

“It’s that trial Lady Lannister should be attending.”

“I am a Stark still!” Sansa screamed as hysterically as she could. “I was wedded but never bedded! On my honor, I would not have the Imp touch me!”

_That’s only half true… Tyrion never tried to touch you..._

_It’s for Jon_ , she reminded herself _, it’s all for Jon now._

“Lies!” Ser Lyn sneered. “She spread them for the Lannister or I’m the Imp himself.”

That mocking expression was still on his face when Jon jerked free of his guards and bowled into the knight, catching him off guard and toppling him to the ground.

“I’ll kill the bastard myself!” Ser Lyn roared as his men began a charge at Jon.

The Royce guards protecting Jon and the Corbray men-at-arms fell upon each other and she lost sight of Jon in the fray. Then he appeared at the edge of it, held up by Albar while Mychel was forcibly staying Ser Lyn’s hand from unsheathing Lady Forlorn. It took much time for order to be restored, with Sweetrobin clapping and laughing the whole time at the chaos.

When Lord Nestor’s men finally had everyone in their places and the commotion settled, the lord of the Gates of the Moon sat exhausted and looked at her in thought.

“I would hear the lady’s testimony, if you agree Lord Robert?” Nestor turned to look up at Sweetrobin who nodded enthusiastically. Her arrival had evidently made the proceedings much more entertaining to the young lord. “Our lord wills it so come forth and speak child, only the truth or you will answer for it.”

Sansa squeezed Myranda’s hand as she left her friend’s side. She walked forward, remembering to curtsy before a collection of lords. Appearances and ceremony mattered, now more than ever. As she took her place next to Jon, she offered him a small smile to reassure him.

It didn’t work.

“Sansa… let me do this.”

“Trust me… just trust me.” She whispered back to him. “It’s my turn.”

“Your testimony Lady Lannister.” Lord Corbray’s words earned him a rebuke from somewhere in the crowd and Sansa knew where its sentiments truly lay.

_My father was well liked here in the Vale and Petyr largely reviled._

_I can use this… just like I planned._

“I shall speak as a Stark, for my words are on my honor and the Lannisters have none.” She glanced back to the crowd and Myranda led some in a chorus of agreement. “My testimony to this matter is as simple as it is true. Ser Jon is innocent. I killed Petyr Baelish.”

The lack of disruption and outbursts from the crowd let Sansa know that her claim was already widely known. The lords however all shook their heads and Nestor slumped slightly in his chair, sighing.

“And we’re to believe a girl killed Lord Baelish and not a knight with blood upon his hands?” Lord Redfort asked with a laugh.

 _Yes,_ she thought _, dismiss me because I’m just a stupid, foolish girl._

_Just like Petyr did._

“My lord, forgive me for doing so, but I would remind you that Ser Jon was born a Snow.” She felt poor using such in Jon’s defense but the path before her was clear. “Whereas I am a trueborn Stark and the Starks were besting Littlefinger in fights long before today.”

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd for it was well known that her uncle Brandon had defeated Petyr in a duel for her mother’s favor years ago. He’d only survived because of her pleas on his behalf, a shameful display by most standards.

Lord Corbray displayed nothing but disdain for the reception her words had earned.

“And what of Lothor Brune? The man bore the marks of the bastard’s chains clearly across his neck!”

“Ser Jon is guilty on that charge.” She admitted. “Guilty of protecting me from Littlefinger’s dog! The man sought to harm me in revenge for killing his master.”

“A true knight!” She heard Ser Mychel shout and others yelled in agreement.

“Silence!” Lord Redfort answered back, obviously becoming flustered by his youngest son. “Are you claiming that Lord Baelish meant you harm? That he threatened you? You, who he hid and kept safe from the Iron Throne?”

 _Now,_ she tried to gather all her courage _, it has to be now._

“No.” Her answer pleased Horton Redfort at first, but not for long. “No, I claim he meant us all harm!”

For some reason she felt the winds from the Moon Door all around her then. All the fear and panic she’d felt during her aunt’s attempt to kill her came back then, as if to hold her back from saying what she needed to. It was like the truths that could very well damn her wanted to stay hidden. With an effort that made her head spin, she forced them out.

“I say he plotted against my father, a true friend of the Vale! I say he kept me captive for his own ambitious ends and perverse desires! I say he made every effort to worsen Lord Robert’s ailments and I say he threatened me with a return to the Lannisters to keep… to keep…”

“Keep what girl?” Nestor bellowed.

“To keep his murder of Lysa Arryn quiet!”

The thunderous reaction of the audience matched the panicked beating within her chest.

 _It’s all out now_ , she couldn’t quite believe it.  _The truth is out now._

Jon was as shocked as the lords were, none of them bothering to shout down the loud cries that echoed from the crowd in the aftermath of her statement. She let it all wash over her, comforting herself with the knowledge that her honor was intact. For she had told no lies, it was all the truth.

_Finally… the truth._

“Lies!” Lord Redfort called over the still rowdy audience. “You yourself named a singer as the killer!”

Sansa remembered the relief she felt when Marillion had taken the blame for her aunt’s murder. Not only did it spare her and Petyr from facing justice by the lords of the Vale, it spared her ever having to look upon Marillion, a man who had tried to rape her and most likely would have tried such again, if not for Lothor Brune protecting her and Petyr wanting her for himself.

In truth, she was glad that Marillion was dead but that would not do now.

 _Think of father_ , she told herself,  _of mother and Robb._

_Of the poor boys._

_Of Arya._

It worked and the tears came bursting forth from her in one long wail. The lords cringed back from it and Nestor even raised a hand as if to stop the sound from reaching him. The grief he heard was genuine though. Thinking of all she’d lost and all they’d suffered threatened to break Sansa even now.

But to all others, it seemed as if she broke under some other strain. She made it look a struggle to continue on, peering through her tears to find something of use to her.

“I am as you see me my lord! A girl… only a girl.” She sobbed, reaching out to grab hold of the guard beside her to steady herself. “The last of her line… hunted by the Lannisters… monsters by any name.”

She turned to face the crowd then, her hands clutching at her skirts.

“What was I to do when Lord Baelish told me to choose between lies and lions?”

Someone cried out and she saw Myranda coming towards her, arms outstretched. Sansa fell into her friend’s embrace as she continued to wail. All eyes in the hall were on her until another spectacle grabbed their attention.

For Sweetrobin had stirred at last. He stood up on his chair, beating the arms of it feebly with his scepter.

“He killed mother!” He raged. “He was horrid! Alayne says he killed mother too! She was kind and told me stories and I hated him! He hurt me! Make him fly!”

The young lord’s outburst quickly devolved into a violent shaking that led to some servants and the maester rushing forward to calm him. As Sansa sobbed into Myranda’s shoulder, she felt a great weight lift from her heart. She’d spent so much time living a lie, but if she was to die, Sansa wanted the truth to be the last thing the world had of her.

Some small part of her hoped that the truth would be her shield against such a fate.

The three judges sat shocked in indecision while the assembled nobles showed no such division. Littlefinger was despised among the highborn of the Vale and even those who did not hate him disliked the Lannisters or felt shame at the peace forced upon them by her aunt. For too long events had been beyond their control and now they had something they could face. All their anger and rage came forth in shouts in her favor.

In Jon’s favor.

“She avenged the lady!”

“They killed a killer!”

“For the falcon!”

“As high as honor!”

The tears were wet against her cheeks as she looked over Myranda’s shoulder to Jon. He was watching her with concern, and as much as she truly did grieve for her family, she forced herself to wink at him.

His eyes widened at that.

The commotion from the gallery grew louder as the lords above argued amongst themselves. She wondered if whatever plot the Corbrays had to protect themselves was unraveling, for surely they had one.

The most likely plot was that, with Jon executed for Petyr’s murder, they could move freely and deliver Sansa to the Queen themselves. Then they alone could reap in the riches that the Lannisters would offer for her rather than just her body.

_Cersei would prefer me alive._

She did not like to think of what fate could befall her in Cersei’s grasp. Her mind was sparred doing so when she was distracted a new development. For behind them the tone of the fervor changed suddenly, beginning to quiet overall yet she heard shouts of alarm go up as well.

Sansa released Myranda to see a large party of soldiers entering the hall. At least twenty armored men were making their way through the crowd. Some of the audience were even screaming and falling over themselves to part before them.

Either in a sign of respect for the lord leading them or out of fear of the beast that strode beside him.

“Ghost!” Sansa smiled despite herself. “Oh Ghost!”

Her heart leapt to see the direwolf alive and well. He’d disappeared the day of their capture and she’d worried after him every moment since. Ghost must have been worried too, for it ran full bore at Jon, leaping over a fallen man to do so. Jon’s guards moved to retreat quickly as he dropped to a knee and greeted his friend, Ghost knocking the knight over in his excitement.

No less impressive a sight than Ghost was Lord Yohn Royce, who stood tall and strong looking, armored in shining bronze plate with runes of the First Men adorning his chest. He joined them before the lords, stopping only to tower over Jon as he eyed the knight’s battered face with concern.

As Jon rose to stand, Lord Royce raised an eyebrow and gestured to the lords who sat at the high table.

“Littlefinger’s men or theirs?”

Before Jon could answer a short man at Lord Royce’s side grunted and glared towards Ser Lyn, placing his hands upon the pommels of the two swords at his side.

“Oh please say it was Corbray…”

“Lord Royce!” Lord Redfort called out. “You are interrupting-”

“A farce Horton!” Bronze Yohn barked. “If I hadn’t ridden ahead of my men, what would I have found here? Some of the finest lords of the Vale doing Lannister work for them?”

“We’re merely trying to learn the truth behind Lord Baelish’s murder…”

“The truth, Lyonel, was that the man was a fiend, a pretender, and a schemer who is better off dead!”

Silence followed Lord Royce’s pronouncement and his eyes fell to her. The last time she’d seen Bronze Yohn Royce, she’d prayed he wouldn’t see her for who she was. Her prayers had been answered then and the lord had seen Alayne Stone instead of Sansa Stark.

She hoped he’d see the opposite now and tried to help him along.

“My lord, you met me once long ago when you came to Winterfell…”

“I’m not such a fool as to mistake you a second time.” The lord said before dropping to a knee before her. “And I beg you forgive me that discourtesy… your grace.”

_Your grace?_

The Royce men were falling to their knees as well, echoing the title that their lord had just given her. Some in the crowd followed suit, drawing hesitant others to join them upon the floor until almost half of the room was kneeling.

Slowly it donned on her what Lord Royce was doing, what he and his men had started in this hall.

Petyr called her the true heir to Winterfell. But Petyr had ignored what the Lord Royce embraced now.

That Robb had been a king.

And they'd have her be queen.

 

**JON**

 

“Say that again! I’d have her say that again!”

The urgency in Lady Waynwood’s voice surprised Jon. The Lady of Ironoaks was not known for sudden displays of emotion nor discourtesy. She’d remained calm and proper through all of Sansa’s testimony, even while others had not. At several points during Sansa’s telling of all she knew of Littlefinger and his plans the assembled lords had interrupted with outbursts of outrage or arguments amongst themselves.

Jon bore witness to all of this from where he stood behind Lord Royce, acting as his cupbearer rather than a guard. Besides Bronze Yohn and Lady Anya, four others had been chosen to bear witness to all Sansa knew. The lords Nestor Royce, Redfort, and Corbray were also joined by Ser Symond Templeton, in listening to how Littlefinger had manipulated the Vale.

Getting angrier all the while.

Sansa had borne it all with grace and a patience he’d not expected of her. She spoke calmly and quietly, awaiting the lords to quiet whenever arguments arose. When Jon realized that they were meeting in the very room where Lord Baelish had met his end, he’d worried how Sansa would hold up. If being within this room again bothered Sansa, she’d given no sign.

Though now she showed a shocked expression at Lady Waynwood’s reaction, evidently thinking the same as him, that the lady was acting out of character.

“M-my lady? Which part?”

“Repeat what Lady Lysa Arryn spoke to Lord Baelish before he murdered her.” Lady Waynwood grasped the table before her and leaned forward expectantly. “You must say that part again.”

The woman had listened calmly when the other lords had heard of how Littlefinger expected to manipulate the lady by using her family’s debts. Yet for some reason, hearing Sansa’s terrifying account of Lysa Arryn’s failed attempt to kill her had now set the lady off.

“She said she loved Petyr. That he took…” Sansa repeated, before pausing to gaze at the table. “That he took her maiden’s gift and-”

“You think she remained unfaithful to Lord Arryn with the fiend Anya?” Lord Redfort interrupted, only to have the lady wave away his words, her eyes intent on Sansa.

“Not that, the part about the crying! Say that part again and be sure of it please.”

“Aunt Lysa said that Petyr told her to cry into Lord Arryn’s wine…”

“She said cry?” Lady Waynwood sounded desperate. “Are you certain that is what she said?”

“The woman was almost mad.” Lord Corbray asked and Ser Symond nodded some at that. “Can we be surprised that she rambled on about such things?”

“No, that wasn’t it.” Sansa’s forehead was furrowed in thought. “Tears… she said she put the tears in Jon’s wine. That Petyr told her to put them in Lord Arryn’s wine… yes, I’m sure of it.”

Bronze Yohn started and Lady Waynwood whipped about to face him, the two of them sharing a look that was lost to Jon. It was not lost on the others though.

“This is important, isn’t it?” Lord Nestor asked. “It means something?”

“It does Nestor…” Lord Yohn ran a hand down his face, his eyes towards the ceiling. “By the Seven, it means much and more. To think we blamed the Lannisters for so long when all along…”

“All of us know Jon Arryn’s death was suspicious.” The lady continued for him. “All reports say that our lord was hale before his death. His sudden illness gave us reason to think that he’d been poisoned.”

“Had it been poison then the Grand Maester-”

“Pycelle is a Lannister puppet and always has been!” Bronze Yohn shouted down Lord Corbray. “Had they wanted Jon’s death to seem natural, I have no doubt that the Grand Maester would have obliged them.”

“Nestor, you remember the talk we had with Yohn?” Lady Waynwood asked. “Of Jon Arryn’s symptoms and what poisons could have caused such.”

Nestor grunted an agreement before his eyes suddenly widened and his goblet tipped in his hands to spill onto the floor. As his cupbearer dove to refill it, the lord began to sputter.

“By the Seven, she put tears in his wine… Tears of Lys…”

_Tears of Lys… the poison?_

Jon knew little of the Tears of Lys except that it was supposed to be very deadly, hard to detect, and a poison favored by eastern assassins.

_Not lady wives against their own husbands._

Sansa and the others shared his shock at what was being proposed.

“Tears of Lys? Truly?” Ser Symond asked.

“Madness… it has to be…” Lord Corbray mumbled.

“She accuses the lady of murder!” Lord Redfort shouted, pointing at Sansa who appeared startled at all of this.

“Lady Sansa did no such thing Horton.” Lady Waynwood snapped as Lord Yohn bristled.

“ _Queen_ Sansa obviously had no idea of the importance of what she heard.” He added, styling Sansa as he had for days now. “It is for me to make the claim of murder against Lysa Arryn. I claim now that she and Littlefinger plotted to kill our lord and my friend and this testimony we’ve heard makes me sure of it.”

“And myself.” Lady Waynwood added.

“Lady Stark’s words by themselves do not make a strong case.” Lord Corbray offered. “Especially considering she’s already spoken falsehoods once on the matter of Lady Arryn’s murder.”

“Which she did when under threat by the man who did the deed himself!” Lady Waynwood answered, seeming aghast at what Lord Corbray was saying.

“Again, so she claims…”

“My lords!” Ser Symond broke through the argument. “If there is strength to this claim, it comes not only from what we’ve heard today. Lady Lysa was devoted to Littlefinger, we all saw that. She spurned matches from lords at this very table, men whose blood made them worthy enough for such a station. All so she could wed one the Vale’s pettiest lords. A man whose bloodlines are not even Andal…”

“He’s right.” Lord Redfort nodded. “She rejected a score of others beside Nestor and myself, men of means and noble birth. Folly I named it, madness by others. To call it a plot… I can name it so.”

Lord Redfort’s words were met with sounds of approval from Nestor Royce and Ser Symond. All in the room save Lord Corbray soon named Lysa Arryn the murderer of her husband, with Littlefinger as her accomplice. Lord Nestor seemed enraged that the Lord of Heart’s Home would not speak with them on this as one voice and another round of arguments seemed ready to come to a head when Bronze Yohn rose.

“I think Queen Sansa has given us enough to discuss for today. I say we excuse her so we need not trouble her further.” Bronze Yohn smiled warmly at Sansa, who lowered her head in agreement before turning to Jon. “Good ser, I ask you to escort her. Send in Morris to take your place, with better wine this time.”

“Of course my lord.” Jon bowed before making to take his leave with Sansa. When she rose, Lady Waynwood and Ser Symond did as well.

_They give her the courtesy due a queen._

Like the others, Jon thought of Sansa as his queen and felt ashamed that he hadn’t thought of it when he first found her. Since Bronze Yohn’s arrival, things had been moving quickly. More of the lord’s allies had arrived in the days following while none in the castle had been permitted to leave. The two Royce leaders had agreed that until the Lords Declarant, which Nestor had now joined, sorted out the mess at the Gates of the Moon they wanted little word of what happened here escaping.

Days before, Jon had been desperate to escape this castle yet now the Gates were a safe haven. Men who’d once thought to execute him, now spoke with Jon on how to safeguard Sansa and his future here in the Vale.

_If we stay in the Vale._

_I made a promise to see her home._

As they left the lords to their talk, Jon joined two other Runestone men in following behind Sansa. It would be presuming too much to try and walk beside her. She was a queen and he was but a newly made knight.

_A bastard knight at that, not worthy of walking with a queen…_

Sansa had other ideas though and waved him forward.

“Please don’t make me walk alone.” She smiled. “I feel an outcast.”

“I do as my queen commands.” He answered and together they continued down the corridor, side by side.

They did so without speaking, which surprised him some, for he remembered Sansa as a talkative girl in their youth. Yet now Sansa’s face was creased in thought and Jon thought not to worsen her state by being a bother himself. It was clear she wasn’t leading them back to her chambers. Rather, they travelled to a window overlooking one of the castle’s courtyards. The window had a clear view to the stables.

To look higher was to gaze upon the Giant’s Lance and the Eyrie, sitting high above them and covered in frost. For some reason Jon thought of the Wall then, and how terrifying it would have been to climb up such a structure.

_I’m glad I didn’t have to climb it to find her._

_I would have though... I would’ve climbed the Wall itself…_

“I wasn’t lying.” Sansa said suddenly, barely above a whisper. “To the lords… I didn’t lie once.”

“I didn’t think you had.”

“You should’ve.” She stared up towards the Eyrie. “I lied for so long… for Petyr… for myself. My world was lies for so long Jon… father would’ve been ashamed of me.”

Had it been Arya, he would’ve reached out to comfort her and ease the despair that he heard in Sansa’s voice, but they’d never been so close. So he used words instead.

“No.” He said feebly. “Father would be happy that you survived and proud of the bravery you’ve shown.”

“I wasn’t brave though. I was scared the whole time. Terrified. I just couldn’t let you die… not like father. Not for my mistakes.”

“I would be dead without you Sansa. Twice over.” He held up two fingers as if to demonstrate. “In truth, I make a pretty foul savior.”

Her laugh was quiet but a relief to hear. Jon didn’t want her to continue blaming herself for things well beyond her control. Some shouts from outside drew his gaze to the courtyard where people were making a path for Ghost as the direwolf loped through the yard. Terrified sounds came from the stables as horses took wind of the beast and Jon shook his head.

“Either we’ll have to keep Ghost confined to the godswood or this castle will need to become better accustomed to him.”

“They won’t have to, we won’t be here long.”

“I don’t think Ghost can have the run of Runestone either.” Jon grumbled. “Lady Ysilla doesn’t even care for hounds.”

“Runestone?” Sansa gave him a puzzled look. “We’re not going to Runestone. Has Lord Yohn not spoken to you?”

“Of what?” He knew Bronze Yohn had met with Sansa several times over the past week but it was not his place to pry into their business.

“Of what he is proposing to the Lords Declarant now. It’s why he asked us to leave. If it all goes as he hopes we’ll be leaving for Coldwater soon and-”

“Coldwater?” Jon knew the castle along the Bite held allegiance to his lord but thought it otherwise unimportant. “Why there?”

“To meet the ship waiting there for us… truly, Lord Royce has said nothing of this?”

“Sansa, I’m but his sworn sword, not his confidant. If these are matters he’d prefer to keep between the two of you…”

“I want you to know!” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Because I won’t go without you and I’d not keep this a secret from you. You saved me when no one else did and-and I want you by my side when we do this.”

It was touching for her to say. Had she not asked him to go, he would’ve begged to do so anyway. Asking to leave Bronze Yohn’s service for Sansa’s was something he meant to do soon. He respected the lord greatly, but after all this time, he could finally be of service to House Stark and he’d delay it no longer.

 _Then act the part_ , he thought,  _you can’t be much help when you know nothing._

“I will be at your side for as long as you can tolerate me.” He tried to sound serious but Sansa offered a small grin, making him feel a fool.

“What ship awaits us then?" He asked through his blush.

Sansa leaned close to him, whispering so that he struggled to hear her.

“A northern one.” She said. “Lord Royce says it is a strange matter. Some weeks ago, a ship no one expected came to Coldwater. The crew wanted word of their arrival sent to Runestone immediately. They wanted the lord to know that they came for the heir to House Stark.”

He jerked back at that.

“How did they even know you were here?”

“When Lord Royce was told, he thought for sure the men he’d sent to the Sisters had found some of Robb’s bannermen and that it had spurred them into seeking you out. The castellan at Coldwater was ignorant of what they spoke of but took them into his custody anyways. This all gave Lord Royce hope for his plans for you…”

“What plans for me?” He was deeply confused. “Bronze Yohn sent men to the Sisters? What for?”

“Jon, you’re the only surviving son of our father. As soon as you arrived at Runestone, Lord Royce began efforts towards making you King in the North. To help you reclaim the North from Lannister rule and giving the Vale an ally against Petyr. It was only the problems here in the Vale that gave him pause. Now with Petyr dead, he’s free to help us.”

He had no words. Hearing that Bronze Yohn had thought to make him King in the North made many of the confusing things that the lord had said to him in Runestone suddenly make sense.

_But I don’t want to be a king._

“I’m glad he came to his senses and named you Queen then.” He said truthfully yet his words were meant as a sort of apology for, even unknowingly, standing in her way. Sansa didn’t look comforted though. Instead she lowered her head and wrung her hands nervously.

“You could still be a king if you wanted Jon… I wouldn’t stand in your way… I-I’m not the leader the North deserves…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everyone in the North thinks that I’m Tyrion’s wife still, and I spent the whole war a prisoner while you spent it fighting… you deserve the crown not me.”

She sounded so sad that he almost reached out to take her hand but again, it felt like it would presume too much of her.

“You’re father’s heir, not me. It’s not about deserving the crown Sansa… and even if it was, you deserve it more than me. You stayed in the capital and I left, and even after everything you’ve been through, you still had the courage to kill-”

“I don’t deserve it!” She snapped, her lip trembling and her eyes glistening with tears. Sansa choked up then and he couldn’t hold back this time. He reached out and grasped her arm gently, leaning forward to find her eyes when she avoided his gaze. They were so blue and so filled with hurt.

“I don’t deserve it… you did what father told you to… you didn’t betray him…”

“Sansa…”

“You didn’t tell the queen of father’s plans. You didn’t let them kill him-”

He released her and took a step back before he really knew what he was doing.

“No.” The word came from him reflexively. “No you didn’t.”

_She couldn’t have betrayed him._

_Sansa may have been spoiled but she would never have betrayed father._

She still wouldn’t meet his eyes as the tears began flowing down her cheeks. Some part of Jon wanted to step forward and wipe those tears away, to help ease this pain that she felt.

Instead he just stared at this girl he didn’t know.

“He wanted to leave… he told us we were leaving. I still thought I loved Joffrey then and I didn’t want to leave the capital so I told the queen, thinking just to say a proper goodbye and maybe… I-I disobeyed father and they killed him for it…”

For a brief fleeting moment he wanted to strike her.

Less for choosing Joffrey over father than for all the times she’d been haughty and rude to others. For all the times she’d acted better than Arya or him.

_As if we weren’t worthy of being in Winterfell._

_Like we weren’t worthy of father._

He realized then that he’d felt this way before. As a young boy, the first time father had taken Robb and Sansa to visit Castle Cerwyn without him. He thought again of when she refused to see him in the capital and the disappointment he felt that she hadn’t seen fit to even say good bye to him. They were childish feelings of jealousy though and as he watched Sansa weeping, he felt ashamed of them.

Her shame was so great now that she seemed a different person than the one who’d awoken in the cabin, after battle with the clansmen. She’d been full of hope then.

_When she thought you were father._

_She loved him too. We all loved him._

Sansa had acted so bravely the last few days, it was easy to forget the girl she had been. For all her faults, Sansa had been so young when she left Winterfell.  She was always prattling about romantic tales and brave knights while she danced about the castle, ignorant of the ugliness that had been Jon’s entire childhood. He’d seen a lot of that in the Reach, people confusing tales with reality.

Some of those men had been great lords, not little girls.

_Sansa wasn’t ready for the world and its monsters._

_Someone should have protected her._

_Instead she had to see father’s head on a spike._

Sansa’s reddening eyes found his then. They were still as blue as ever and he couldn’t remember ever seeing them so sad in all his memories of her.

“I know you can’t forgive me… that you’ll hate me… and I deserve it. For everything I’ve done.” She sniffled and tried wiping away her tears. “Just please don’t leave me. You’re all I have left in the world and I swear if you want to be king, I’ll never disobey you Jon. I’ll always listen to you like I should have father…”

The anger was falling away from him even as his thoughts drifted to the Sansa shunning him in the capital and his own last moments with their father.

“I should have disobeyed him…” His voice sounded so hoarse, he wondered if he’d even spoken.

“What?”

“Disobeyed father.” He said again, more forcefully. “He told me to do something and I was wrong to listen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about… but it doesn’t change what I did.” Sansa shook her head. “There’s no excuse.”

“Do you think that me having an excuse for leaving you all in the capital makes it any better?” His hands were balled into fists and now he couldn’t look at her, the shame was so great. “Father told me you were all in danger there. I wanted to stay and help but he sent me away. He ordered to go and I went with Ser Robar when I should have stayed. Damn him and damn my honor.”

“Jon…”

“Damn what he told me to do!” He gritted his teeth. “You were a girl! Barely more than a child! You thought you were just some lady from a song didn’t you? You always pretended like that but I knew the truth Sansa. I knew it was no song and that there were people in the capital that meant you harm and I left you all.”

“Jon, it’s not the same-”

“Robb and Bran asked me to stay at Winterfell, did you know that? I stopped there on my way back from the Wall. Did you know Bran cried and asked me to stay?”

The memory made him strike the wall in anger. Sansa cried out, trying to grab his hand before he pulled it away.

“I left them! I left Robb! I left father! Arya! You! All because to disobey father would dishonor me… well, I kept my honor and lost everyone I loved because of it…”

“Your grace, is everything alright?” One of the guards had approached and Sansa moved between them.

“All is well, please, some privacy.”

The man gave them both a confused look before retiring further down the corridor with the other guard. When she turned to face Jon again, he dropped to his knee before her.

“How many times did we all disobey father? Bran with his climbing, Robb and I sneaking through the gates at night… you being kept away from the boy you loved…”

“It was different!” She shrieked.

“You were an innocent and I can’t fault you like I can myself. You didn’t know and I did. If you seek to condemn yourself then take my blade now and condemn me for the same.” He looked up at her and saw the surprise there. “Please Sansa… I couldn’t serve father or Robb but I can serve you. I’d serve my queen.”

She stood speechless, staring down at him as if she couldn’t believe all he’d said. After a while, she wiped her hands across her eyes and he remembered his courtesies then, pulling out a cloth tucked in his sword belt and offering it up to her.

Sansa smiled faintly as she took it, drying her eyes.

“Please get up.” She asked softly and he did so, her blue eyes seeming a little clearer now. “It’s not the same but I thank you for trying Jon. If you can forgive me… you who are so much like our father… I think I can make him proud of me. I’ll always bear that shame but I can try to live my life as father would have… I remember him. I never forgot him Jon. The north remembers and so do I.”

_Spoken like a queen._

_My queen… the Queen in the North._

“We all shame ourselves sometimes. I think it is how we redeem our honor afterwards, that’s what matters most.” He said before grasping her hand when she made to return the cloth. “You’re right, the north remembers… and they’ll remember that you gave father’s true killer northern justice. I know I will.”

“Your grace?” A guard interrupted then, causing Sansa to roll her eyes.

“I asked for some privacy…”

“My apologies, but there is a summons.” The guard gestured back towards one of Nestor Royce’s stewards. “The lords have asked for your presence again, with their own apologies.”

“It is no bother, we shall be there soon.” Sansa’s words sent the man away and she began feeling at her face. “I probably look frightful…”

“You look fine Sansa. Do you think Lord Royce proposed what you said?”

“We will know soon enough.” She gestured for him to come forward and take her arm as an escort. “If you’d see me back ser?”

He obeyed his queen.

This time upon their arrival, every lord save Lord Corbray rose when Sansa entered and sat only after she did. Jon went to take his place by Lord Yohn again but the man held up a hand, permitting him to stay by Sansa’s side. She seemed pleased by that and her tone was happier than it had been only a short while before.

“Is there more you’d hear from me my lords? I’m most willing to be of any help.”

“Less a question and more of a request your grace.” Lord Nestor gestured to a parchment on the table and the maester unfurled it before Sansa. “We must ask something of you… in regards to the care of young Lord Robert.”

The maester began to read it for Sansa when she excused him, explaining that she was capable of doing so herself. Jon kept the grin from his face while Lady Waynwood chuckled some. When Sansa finished, she handed the parchment to Jon to read himself before turning her attention to Lord Nestor.

“You name my cousin your ward and yourself high steward of the Vale.”

“Not just I…”

“We all agreed on this matter.” Lady Waynwood spoke quickly. “With Harrold Hardyng under the protection of my house and the Gates of the Moon being the winter seat of House Arryn, we see no reason to remove Lord Robert from Nestor’s care and guardianship.”

“Baelish was a fiend, but in naming my cousin lord of this castle, he proved himself wise.” Bronze Yohn slapped a hand on Nestor’s shoulder and shook it warmly. “And Nestor ruled the Vale for all the years Jon Arryn acted as Hand. I trust no one more.”

“So say we all.” Ser Symond’s words were echoed by the others, although Jon noticed Lord Corbray spoke with less enthusiasm than the others

Nestor took the praise in stride, keeping his attention focused upon Sansa.

“As the closest living relative of our lord… or at least one who is not held captive, we hoped to have your blessing for such an arrangement?”

“And I give it gladly. Before me sit the greatest lords of the Vale, who were so concerned with my cousin’s safety that they laid siege to the impregnable Eyrie itself. I can sleep soundly with you all caring for him.”

Sansa was all smiles as she spoke and the brightness of it infected several of the others, Lord Nestor even blushed some. When her smile suddenly faded, Jon couldn’t help but notice how many others disappeared as well.

“My lords, I’m sorry, but I must ask something terrible of you. And only because my cousin is so young and frail do I fear burdening him with such a request, and must instead come to you all.”

“Please do, for all you’ve suffered, fear nothing of us.” Lady Waynwood spoke in a matronly tone and the others nodded assent.

“My father… many of you knew him and him you. He always spoke fondly of his time in the Vale, of the honor of its men and the strength of its people. No more so then when he spoke of rebellion against the Mad King. When the Iron Throne demanded Lord Arryn surrender his wards, late King Robert and my father, to a fate that was almost certain death, Jon Arryn refused. He called his banners in rebellion rather than let the Baratheons and Starks s-stand… stand alone…”

At that Sansa faltered, reaching for a cup of water. Jon moved first, picking it up and handing it to her. She held his wrist as she drank and did not release it as she continued speaking.

“House Baratheon and House Stark once again stand alone. Jon and I are, as far as we can tell, the last of our father’s children. Our true sister is missing and all our brothers lay murdered. Our home is stolen from us, our lands held under the thumb of a monster… and I fear…” She seemed to shake some then and looked to him. He had no idea what to do except pat her hand comfortingly and nod. Sansa straightened then and he wondered if she’d been truly afraid at all.

 _She’s become disquietingly good at that,_ Jon thought. _It’s a bit worrying._

_Then again, I had swords and Ghost to protect me._

_Lies were her only protection all this time._

“I’m afraid I must ask for House Arryn to stand with us again, to remember the bond it shares with House Stark and fight for a cause that is good and just.”

“You’d have us declare in rebellion?” Lord Corbray asked incredulously. “The Vale against the rest of the realm?”

“The rest of the realm? What’s left of it you mean!” Bronze Yohn answered. “The Riverlands lie in waste, the Westerlands without Lord Tywin, the Reach besieged by ironmen, and parts of the Stormlands still declaring for Stannis. We’re the only ones besides Dorne to be spared any of the fighting!”

“Shame indeed my lord.” Ser Symond thumped the table with his fist. “I would’ve marched years ago your grace. It was the murderess who kept me from doing so. My desire to fight has not dwindled, nor my men’s.”

“The Warrior knows that the men sworn to House Arryn have been unhappy with the state of things.” Nestor wrapped his fingers upon the table in thought. “But as well provisioned as we are, we could probably muster an army of twenty thousand… maybe even march against King’s Landing within a few moons…”

“A few moons? Don’t be foolish!”

“Craven!”

“My lords!” Bronze Yohn barked so that Ser Symond and Lord Corbray calmed their tempers. “Cousin, you have the right heart but we are entering winter. Snows will close many of the passes and not all the lords of the Vale are gathered here. Some will require convincing and by then our enemies may be prepared for our attack south. We could march into our own Blackwater.”

Jon couldn’t believe his ears. He’d thought Lord Royce as the one most likely to press for an attack against the Iron Throne. He was even more shocked when Horton Redfort began to agree with caution.

“Nor are the clansmen like to give our lands much peace if all our men go on the march. I’m sorry Nestor, but I fear the course of action you propose leaves too much to chance.”

“Sense if I ever heard it.” Lord Corbray gestured to the two lords with an air of respect. “We should use this time to strengthen our position while our enemies grow weaker. Our granaries are full while theirs are not. The mountains keep the Lannisters and Tyrells at bay and our ports are well defended. Should we choose to march, we should do so when it benefits us best.”

“Like Littlefinger would’ve-”

“Lyonel is right!” Bronze Yohn again cut off Ser Symond’s attempts to argue. “And Horton is as well. We are quite alone and before we take on the Lannisters and the Tyrells both, we need allies. And before us sits one.”

Bronze Yohn stood and raised his cup to Sansa.

“Your brother was a king so I name you a queen. As the people of the north will as well. Northern honor demands nothing less. So I say we do as the Queen in the North asks of us. Stand with House Stark and help them retake their lands and castle, so when it comes time to throw the false king from the throne, we do so with direwolves at our backs.”

“Sense if I ever heard it!” Ser Symond’s mood had come full circle, his smile wide as he rose as well. “House Templeton will march for that.”

“As will House Redfort.” The lord rose and offered his hand to Lady Waynwood as she stood as well.

“House Waynwood will do its part.”

“No more than your own kin, your grace.” Lord Nestor stood, with his hand over his breast. “As your cousin’s protector, I command the swords and spears of House Arryn in his name, and as they marched beside your father all those years ago, they will march beside you now.”

The most powerful lords of the Vale were pledging themselves to reclaiming the North and Jon stood there, dumbly, clutching Sansa’s hand. When she squeezed his hand tightly, he broke away from the sight before him to seek her eyes. 

Sansa and he stared at each other, the hope in his heart reflected in her face and he saw the path laid out before them.

_We are going home._

 

**THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH**

 

 

She retched again.

Some of the bile stayed in her mouth, causing her to hack and retch again. As she had done countless times during this journey. Except this time she missed the bucket completely and hit Jon’s leg instead.

“I’m sorry.” She groaned but could do little more as the sickness came over her again. Sansa thanked the gods for Jon’s hold upon her hair then.

For days she’d been like this. Whole days she’d spent more as a sickly girl than a queen.

It had only taken four days at sea in the crannogmen’s ship to reduce her to this. Four days she’d been regretting not joining her Vale escort in one of Coldwater’s larger, cleanlier looking galleys.

As the others had begged her to. Bronze Yohn among them.

“Your grace, please, I would be bereft of your company for this journey. A worst condition I could not imagine.” Lord Yohn had said when she’d announced her intention to travel aboard the crannog boat rather than one his vassal’s ships.

“These men travelled very far to collect Jon and me. I would do them the honor of returning successful.” She hoped her admiration for the men hid her doubts about sailing on their ugly ship. “And it sailed here… well enough…”

The Reed ship was but a single mast galley, salt-stained all over, with a worm eaten prow that was no longer distinguishable as anything but wood. The Coldwater galleys were newer, larger, and most likely offered more amenities. Yet the enthusiastic cheers that had rippled through the crannogmen when Jon and she appeared at the quay had hardened her resolve.

“I think they’d prefer it if you arrived alive.” Jon’s quiet words had drawn a scowl from her but agreement from the lord.

“Ser Jon is right, there’s the matter of safety… I fear this vessel has seen too many journeys your grace.”

His worries were met with laughter from the leader of the crannog party, a man named Korjen, sworn to House Reed. He had an easy smile and was quick to laugh. Sansa had thought Ser Willem and he would get along famously.

“I’d be trusting my boat more than one of these untested rafts. This boat has made more journeys through the Bite than you’ve seen years, m’lord.”

“That’s a lot of journeys to be sure.” Ser Willem had added, earning a sharp rebuke from his lord and cousin.

Jon had chosen that moment to pull her aside and press his case.

“We barely know these men. Yes they are from the North but so were the Boltons…”

“And you think sailing in one of Bronze Yohn’s ship will prevent any treachery? What if they ambush us on arrival? That what the hostages are for Jon.”

In the end she’d had her way. Sansa would return to the Neck with the Reed men while Lord Yohn and his men would follow in the Coldwater galleys. Jon’s worries were only slightly eased by each of the Vale ships taking a member of Korjen’s crew, namely Korjen’s first mate and eldest sons, ostensibly to act as guides if their ships became separated, in truth to act as hostages to the captain’s good will.

Her protection aboard the northern ship was also formidable. Besides Jon, Ser Willem and a score of Arryn and Royce men joined her for their voyage.

She’d been honored by how each member of the crew had come forward to beg her favor. When they’d set sail, it had been a wonderful moment, Korjen even pronouncing it the first step in her journey to return to Winterfell.

Yet the swaying took its toll barely half a day into their fateful voyage. Fortunately she'd escaped to her cabin before any of the men saw how sick she became. It was small and now thoroughly reeked of vomit yet remained drier and warmer than the rest of the ship, according to Jon.

He’d been forever by her side whether she wanted him there or not.

A woman was aboard the ship, a wife of the first mate, and had been meant to act as Sansa’s servant during the voyage. Since she had little reason to dress though, the woman had been useless and Sansa had ordered her away. Jon defied those commands and despite her protests, had cared for her himself.

He was always wiping the mess from her face, offering her water or broth when she felt able to take any and was often dabbing at her brow with a cool cloth, just as he did now.

“I’m sorry…” She said between dry heaves. “I’m sorry about your pants…”

“They’ve been blessed by a queen. I am honored.”

“I’m a poor queen now.”

“I doubt there’d be so many men working above in the cold and wet for a queen they thought poor.”

His words made her feel worse for lamenting her own illness while her men labored every moment she lay idle.

“Do we know how much longer we shall sail?”

“Korjen says the launches of the Neck are hard to see and that foul weather makes it even harder.” Jon sighed. “But he told me perhaps a day. Time enough for me to clean my pants.”

_Another day… another day of hell…_

A sudden rocking made her stomach turn and the thought was almost unbearable. Despite her best effort, a sob escaped her throat. Jon's fingers wrapped around hers and the cool cloth dabbed at her brow again.

“We’d all spare you it if we could, but it’s for your own safety. Without the others following, we can’t risk setting aground anywhere for even a night.”

Jon had been worried ever since a squall had driven the ships apart. Whether the Coldwater galleys had already landed safely or were sent to the bottom of the sea was something none of them knew yet.

“Yohn and the others will be well… they have to be…”

“I don’t think Bronze Yohn could bear disappointing you.” Jon smirked.

He wrung out the cloth and made it to dampen it again, yet she shook her head against any more of his treatment. She had a better idea for how he could help and gestured to a chest at the far side of the cabin.

“Jon, I’d rather you read me the letters Lord Royce gave me. I have not had the chance to look at them.”

What she meant was attempting to read them made her even sicker. Jon nodded at that, drying his hands and retrieving the three letters that had awaited their arrival at Coldwater. Lord Yohn had been insistent they leave the Gates of the Moon with little delay, so she never got the chance to bid farewell to those she’d come to care for at the castle.

So it had been ravens that carried their farewells to her.

“This is one is from Lady Myranda Royce.” Jon cleared his throat, steadying himself by bracing an arm against her bed frame, holding the parchment up to catch the light of the lamp. “Queen Sansa, I am as sad as I am angry that you had to leave without any word to me. Do not fear, I will pray for you as I do for my lord cousin and the comely knights accompanying you. The next time I see you, a crown will adorn your head and men will clamor for your favor. I will it to be so, your friend, Randa.”

As he finished reading he held up the parchment in disbelief.

“She truly thinks Willem is handsome?”

“I think she speaks of you Jon…” She did her best to tease and Jon blushed some before quickly moving to pick up the next letter.

“This one is from Lord Robert Arryn. I think the maester put it to parchment or his hand writing is much better than my own.” He paused then, as if something about the letter bothered him before reading on.

“You shouldn’t have left. Lord Nestor is ugly and smells. The donkey girl won’t take me back to my castle and no one reads the stories like you do. The North is horrible and cold. Everyone says so. Come back. I command it.” Jon made a face at the end of Sweetrobin’s letter and set it aside quickly. “I hope whatever ails him will be cured soon, he needs a good beating.”

“Jon…”

“He’s but a boy, I know.”

He didn’t apologize though. Nor could she blame him. Missing out on a farewell with Sweetrobin had not weighed on her too greatly.

Someone knocked on her cabin door then and she weakly called for whomever it was to enter. Ser Willem poked his head in with eyes to the floor, as if seeing her in her sickbed was unseemly.

“Sorry your grace. Wolf, you should be seeing to that other wolf. Poor beast got out of the hold and is retching all over the ship. Korjen’s acting like it’s a bloody pleasure barge…”

“I’ll come in a moment.”

“Something ails Ghost?” She was genuinely concerned; the poor direwolf was stuck in the hold, a far cry from the comforts she enjoyed.

“You live up to your sigil.” Jon sighed. “Ghost takes as poorly to the sea as you do.”

“Then you must tend to him as well as you do me.”

“He can survive without me long enough for me to read the final letter. It’s from that kind young woman, Mya.” He looked at it grinning. “Sansa, stay strong and do not let them beat you. Remember you are worth it. Alayne was my friend and you are my friend, Mya.”

Of all the letters, that one brought a tear to Sansa’s eye and she was glad when Jon took his leave. She’d wept too often in his presence and she hated knowing that he was watching and worrying.

Worries still filled her mind in truth. The Vale had finally become a place of safety for her, where she had friends who knew her true name and still stood by her. So of course she had abandoned it on a quest to retake her home from men even the Vale lords feared.

This trip to the Neck would determine much of what was to come, hence why Bronze Yohn journeyed with them. If the Neck lords would not support her claim against the Boltons, then the Vale strength she so depended on might wither away. The Lords Declarant wanted proof that there would be support for her in the North before they risked their lives for it.

House Royce, House Redfort, and House Templeton were confident though and had already begun gathering men in support of her claim, some even taking sail to the Three Sisters in anticipation that she succeeded in the Neck.

As she rested, her dreams were not so hopeful. Instead they were tainted by sickness and foul memories.

Sansa dreamt Petyr was kissing her while spinning her about in a hall of horrors. For all about them were disembodied heads, thrust upon spikes. She saw father’s alongside Robb’s, Bran’s besides little Rickon’s. She dreamt of Arya and mother crying as men with blades advanced upon them, a loud drum beating the whole time as a lone wolf howled into the night.

Then it was Jon, helpless beneath Lord Nestor’s guards who, instead of beating him with the butts of their spears, were stabbing at him with the sharpened points over and over again. Then it was her stabbing Jon, just like she had stabbed Petyr.

Sansa was killing Jon.

_‘You’re poison to everyone… around you…’ Jon gasped as he lay dying. ‘You’re going to kill me too…’_

A loud slam woke her suddenly.

She tried to rise but the nausea remained so she lurched for her bucket instead. As she did so, she realized there were others in the room. The noise had been someone closing the door of her cabin, someone who now threw another person bodily down upon the ground.

The man standing on his feet she saw to be Ser Willem.

“Ser?”

“Your grace! A thousand pardons but I can’t let him die on this wreck!” The knight answered as he bowed and pointed down at the body below him. “I beg you, command him to see reason!”

“Who is dying?”

“No one.” Jon’s voice alerted her to his presence as the body on floor. As he tried to gain his feet, Willem swore and pushed him back down.

“Again, your pardons. The man has been sick with fever for days and will not heed anyone about how to stay out of an early grave!”

_Fever?_

_He never spoke once of a fever._

“It is nothing, a chill I took on a watch. They need all the eyes we have searching the shore…”

“He can barely stand!” Ser Willem’s protest was cut off when Jon stuck him soundly in the leg and the knight responded by shoving him down again. “Your grace, I beg you to order him to seek his cabin and be dry.”

“I do not need-”

“I so order it.” She tried to rise and make the command but could only manage to prop herself up on one elbow and look down at her knight. “Come here, I would feel this chill.”

When Ser Willem had to help Jon do so, she realized how bad he must have been. The heat of his forehead against her palm made her gasp. He’d been tending her and standing watch in the damp while she laid abed in a warm, dry cabin.

_He is a fool!_

“How warm and dry are your cabins?” She asked.

“Not very.” Ser Willem admitted. “I’m surprised more aren’t ill.”

“Damper than here?” Her question earned a nod from the knight and she made up her mind. “Then fetch a pallet and blankets. Jon shall bed here. Let this be the sick chamber of the boat.”

“It’s not proper.” Jon protested, “Sansa-”

“I’ve retched in front of you for days, unable to change out of my nightgown during all of it. Proper is well passed us ser. Fetch him dry clothes as well.”

Jon continued to argue with her as he moved to tend to her again and earned as forceful of a shove as she could manage. Ser Willem returned and helped in setting up a makeshift bed to the wall opposite of her own. When they were alone again, she took notice of Jon’s damp clothes as he made to rest.

“Change your clothes.”

“Sansa I can’t while you-”

“I will look elsewhere but do as I ask, please.”

Sansa shut her eyes and somehow kept herself from retching as the boat moved around them until Jon gave his assent. He had changed his filthy, wet pants but had not done so with his shirt. She was about to scold him to put a fresh shirt on, that the fever was only making him feel a false warmth, when the words caught in her throat.

For across Jon’s chest were horrible scars.

Sansa had imagined he’d been wounded in his travels but what she saw went far beyond anything she’d expected. Even in the poor lighting, she could make out two long cuts across his chest and a jagged looking scar near his stomach. There were others but Jon must have seen her gaze because he quickly bent to collect a wool shirt from the ground and cover himself.

“I apologize, I forgot myself.”

“It’s alright Jon, just rest please.”

She meant what she said. He needed to rest. Yet those marks bothered her, troubling her thoughts so much that sleep would not return to her. After what seemed like an eternity of staring up at the ugly ceiling of the cabin, she chanced at seeing if he was still awake.

“Jon, can I ask you something? Not as your queen?”

Surprisingly he replied.

“I would answer no matter how you asked...”

“The marks upon your body… how did you get them?”

“Fighting mostly.” He said simply.

The silence between them felt awkward. Sansa should have respected his privacy but she pressed on. The scars bothered her that much.

“You would not speak of it?”

No answer came save the sound of water against the hull and the creaking of the ship. She looked over and saw Jon staring up at the ceiling of the cabin, looking more somber than usual.

“The worst ones weren’t from the Blackwater and for that I am ashamed.”

“And for that I’m thankful.” She said. “And the others?”

“The worst are from Loras Tyrell. After he murdered Ser Robar, I thought to challenge him and… it was foolish. Robar was a far greater swordsman than I and Loras bested him. If not for Ghost, I’d be dead… I hope to have justice for Ser Robar someday…”

His words were interrupted by her retching. It wasn’t the sea that made her sick this time but the memory of how she’d praised Ser Loras and held a secret desire to marry him.

_You’d wanted to do that even after he joined the Lannisters._

_After he did that to Jon._

To her shame, Jon came to her side, trying to help and standing firm against her attempts to push him away.

“Loras never told me he did that…” She surrendered, reaching out to cup Jon’s sweat soaked face instead. “I would have never thought well of him… I didn’t know, I swear…”

“Hush.” Jon said, laying her back down in her bed and pulling her blankets about her.

She shook her head and offered feeble arguments and apologies but the last retching had drawn her strength. As Jon’s fever robbed his. Later, she couldn’t say how they had both fallen asleep in such a way. The last moment frozen in her mind, she remembered her arm was upon his and he was crouched beside her bed, resting his head against her side. She awoke at one point and knew Jon would probably feel embarrassed at sleeping in such a way so Sansa said nothing.

Having Jon there put her at ease and she slept better for it.

It was a peaceful rest.

Untroubled by nightmares or sickness.

And ended only by Ser Willem arriving to announce they’d arrived in the North.

 

 

**JON**

 

“Beautiful country this.”

“Shutup.” Jon shot Willem a glare. “Be courteous.”

The decent folk guiding them through the bogs didn’t need to hear Willem’s mocking of their lands. Without them, he didn’t think they would ever have made it so far into the Neck. As some strange creature slithered into a creek to his left, he realized that they might not have even survived turning back.

He’d travelled through the Neck once before but upon the Kingsroad, not the meandering, treacherous paths that the crannogmen led them through now. The country about them was pockmarked with deep watery pits, creeks that spread out like webs upon the land, and tall willowy trees with long stretches of dark brown moss hanging from the branches.

Their column at its thickest was two riders wide, for no more could fit upon narrow parts of dry land they rode along. Falling from it could mean sliding into the jaws of a lizard lion or a pit of muck that would suck you down in moments and guarantee your death just as surely. They could not even set tents upon the ground without ensuring every flap was securely tied, for fear of the venomous snakes which dwelt within in the shadows.

Ghost had killed a score of them already, the direwolf adapting fairly well to these lands.

When they’d arrived along the shores of the Neck, Ghost’s snow white fur had looked out of place upon the rocky, moss covered beach. The only thing more out of place had been the tall, proud looking Northman, standing amongst the party of crannogmen gathered to welcome them. Even if the mailed fist of his house had not been borne across his tunic, he had visited Winterfell enough for both Jon and Sansa to know him by sight.

“Your grace!” Galbart Glover had shouted happily, dropping to his knee in the sand before them, rain dripping from his hair and beard yet smiling all the same. “In my dreams I thought to find you, but never did I dare hope for both of you.”

“It is all because of Ser Jon. Rise, it is too wet for such.” Sansa had said, offering her hand while Jon’s feverish mind remembered Galbart Glover hesitating at her words.

“Ser Jon?”

“Knighted by Lord Yohn Royce himself.” Sansa had to pull at Galbart’s sleeve to remind him to stand, which he did after a moment. “Jon was the one who found me in the Vale and the reason I am here today.” 

“The Queen does me too much kindness.” He had done his best to sound stronger than he felt, offering his hand to the man. “We rescued each other in truth.”

“The Queen… yes…” There was an awkward pause when Galbart did not grip his hand back so Jon let his own drop instead.

“It is good to see you survived all of this my lord.” Galbart Glover was not a lord in truth, only being of Masterly rank, equivalent to a knightly house in the south, but House Glover remained one of House Stark’s principle bannermen and Jon afforded the man extra courtesy, a habit he’d developed as Eddard Stark’s bastard.

Yet Galbart reacted as strangely to Jon’s calling him such, as he did to Jon’s offer to shake hands. Rarely had Jon ever interacted with his father’s bannermen in the past, and when he did it was often with absolute respect so as to give no offense at being presented before them. He specifically remembered father telling him to refer to Galbart as ‘my lord’ and the man had accepted the title in the past, though now he seemed surprised by Jon doing so again.

_Is it my new knighthood? Should I give him some new title?_

_Is there some new courtesy that is expected of me now?_

“For a few days more at least… ser.” Galbart had answered, seeming to finally shake away his stupor and smile. “I’m to lead your party back to Greywater Watch, and I’ll be damned if I don’t see the looks on everyone’s face when they see the both of you.”

They were forced to postpone that journey as they awaited the arrival of Bronze Yohn and the other ships. Jon still had a fever then and was sickly for most of the wait. Yet Sansa’s recovery had been remarkable.

The look on Sansa’s face when she stepped out onto dry land was still etched into his memory. She had been much too pale and the light rain had flattened her hair some, yet her smile more than made up for all of that. Sansa probably would have said she looked dreadful but Jon thought her beautiful all the same.

Galbart Glover told them as much as he could about what awaited them at Greywater Watch. Lady Maege Mormont and he shared the grim honor of being the last of Robb’s battle commanders not killed or captured. The two along with Lord Howland Reed had done their best to gather and lead the surviving remnants of Robb’s army through the Neck, to shelter in the shadow of the swamps and Greywater Watch.

It worried Jon when Galbart did not give firm estimates on the size of Robb’s forces there yet was assured that the man did not balk at the thought of retaking the North.

When Bronze Yohn’s ship and the others finally arrived, they set out into the swamps, Sansa more eager than anyone to be on their way. She spent much of the time riding beside Bronze Yohn or Galbart but frequently sought him out as well.

Not a day into their ride she’d called back to Jon in joy upon finding something she thought to be a good omen.

“Look Jon! They’re like the winter roses at Winterfell!” She’d laughed, pointing down at several blue flowers growing at base of a fallen log.

They were no winter roses in truth, the shape was different but the shade was right, and more importantly, it made Sansa smile. So he dismounted long enough to snatch one free and bring it to her.

“It wouldn’t be right to leave a good omen like this behind then.” He’d smiled as she held the flower up to her nose and closed her eyes at the smell.

Sansa had ended up tying it into her hair, and as pretty as it looked, he thought her true hair color would make it even more so. Alayne Stone’s dark hair wasn’t ugly in any way. In fact it was closer to his coloring and sometimes reminded Jon of Arya.

Yet it just wasn’t Sansa.

Her natural color had begun to appear at the roots again and others took notice as well.

Specifically the women in their crannog escort. Not servants or handmaidens but strong women, ready to fight and dressed as warriors. They wore leathers, carried spears, and at times were a bit fearsome to behold.

Yet they remained women no matter their appearance. It wasn’t long before three came to Sansa as they camped on the dry bank of a particularly large stagnant pond. He’d spotted them earlier gathering roots and other growth native to the Neck that he knew little of. With what they collected, the crannogwomen made some sort of paste and lathered it into Sansa’s hair one evening before she slept.

It had smelt foul. So foul in fact that Ghost, who’d been sleeping beside Sansa’s tent since they’d begun their ride, had kept his distance that night.

In the morning the women had returned to wash Sansa’s hair clean and Jon had marveled along with others. The dark dye had been nearly stripped away and Sansa’s natural auburn color had been almost restored.

Sansa had risked lizard lions to stare at her reflection in the water. When she’d looked up again she'd been close to tears, so great was her joy.

The crannogwomen rubbed the paste into Sansa’s hair for two more nights until nothing was left of Alayne Stone. Sansa, as Jon had known her, rode before him talking quietly with Galbart, her thick auburn hair flowing down from her shoulders.

Willem’s complaints distracting him from that fine sight.

“I’m just saying… I’ve seen better views in a dungeon.”

“It’s a pretty enough view for me.” He answered without thinking.

After Willem followed his gaze to Sansa he laughed.

“Careful man, take too much of a notice and they’ll be calling you a Lannister.”

“And they should call you a fool for thinking to joke about such.” Jon shook his head. Merely taking stock of Sansa’s beauty was nothing close to what the Lannister twins were accused of.

“Fine! What else should we talk about save the weather and the view? Which scaled beast is most like to be the end of us?”

“What about the crannogwoman I saw leaving your tent last night?”

The short knight made an effort to deny it for a moment but quickly offered a wide grin. Holding his hands up in mock defeat and whistling.

“Now there’s something to talk about… all the noises here keep me up at night, so I figured I might as well do something to pass the time… and lad, it was something.”

“That good?”

“There’s certainly something to be said about a woman who can handle a spear.”

Willem was still laughing at his jest when Sansa turned back towards them. Her face beamed with excitement. He looked beyond her and saw what she had. Ahead through the willowy trees of the swamp, he saw a great many lights, even some smoke rising into the sky.

And soon enough he heard voices calling out welcomes. He rode forward to be at Sansa’s side then.

“Have we arrived?” He asked. “Is this Greywater Watch?”

“It could be nothing else.” Galbart answered without turning back.

Greywater Watch was like no other castle Jon had ever seen. Over half of the fortress floated upon the water, much of it supported by thick, half-submerged logs. How they bore the weight of so many wooden structures was beyond him, especially considering that some rose up to just over the height of the canopy. The lights he’d seen through the trees were hundreds of burning lamps outlining the walls and walkways, connecting the sprawling collection of buildings that made up the castle.

One tower, made of a strange greenish timber, rose up higher than the rest. It appeared to be the only part of the castle which rested upon dry land. The trail they followed led straight to it while Jon saw plank bridges connecting the different parts of the castle to each other and the lands beyond. Other paths and trails dotted the land around them and his eyes followed one which led to a pale white tree with blood red leaves.

He dismounted before Sansa and came to help her from her horse. She accepted his help as if in a daze, her eyes wide as she took in the marvel all around them. Many others were doing the same thing so he took the chance he was offered and leaned in to whisper to her.

“Sansa, let’s not have our horses unsaddled just yet.” His words caught her attention and made her frown. “I’d have them ready and waiting in a place we knew, guarded by our men… just in case.”

“Jon…”

“Not too many, Willem can guard them.”

People were calling down from the wooden ramparts above them and more were emerging from the gates ahead, so Sansa quickly nodded to him and he went to tell Willem of the arrangement.

“Of course! Go in and enjoy yourself.” Willem spat and glared at him. “What am I supposed to do out here meanwhile?”

“Learn how to handle your own spear.”

Jon left his friend cursing as he ran and caught up to Sansa. She was patiently waiting despite the crowd forming up in front of her. A large number of people had come from within the castle and, to his embarrassment, all stopped and stared as he joined her side. 

Three stood out more than the others.

A small dark-haired man with eerie green eyes stepped forward, his tunic matching his eyes, a black lizard lion displayed across his chest. To his side was a short, slim woman, more similar in appearance and dress to the man than the woman to his other side. She was large, donning mail which made her look all the larger with a mace hanging at her hip.

She was as familiar to him as Galbart had been.

“By the gods they made it… you made it... I can’t believe it.” Lady Maege Mormont laughed with tears in her eyes. “There is so much to tell you…”

“Your grace.” The shorter man interrupted as he knelt before Sansa, the woman beside him doing so as well. “I welcome you to my castle and offer you the fealty and protection of House Reed.”

The rest of the crowd quickly followed and soon everyone save their own party was kneeling before Sansa.

“Rise, please, it is I who should be honoring you.” Sansa smiled and waved them to do as she asked.

Maege looked utterly confused while the crannog pair did as was asked. Both came to stand before her, the man introducing them both.

“I am Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch and this is my wife, the Lady Jyanna.” He took Sansa’s hand in his own, kissing it lightly. “I knew your father, I served your father, and I loved your father. I am forever a servant of House Stark.”

“My lord, my lady.” Sansa reached to clutch both their hands. “I thank you for all you’ve done. We both thank you.”

She turned to Jon as she released their hands and he offered his own.

“My sworn sword and protector, Ser Jon the Wolf, son of-”

“I know this face well. It is one I recognize from long ago.” Lord Reed’s interruption seemed quite rude to Jon but he shook the man’s hand nonetheless.

Behind the lord, he saw Galbart whispering quietly into Lady Maege’s ear, her head suddenly jerking away in surprise.

_What happens here?_

“Bread and salt.” He spoke so suddenly that most turned to gaze at him curiously. He’d interrupted Sansa’s introduction of Lord Royce and she looked annoyed but he pressed the matter. “Lord Reed, please, I must ask for bread and salt.”

“Forgive Jon my lord. He is too protective of me sometimes…”

“As he should be your grace, after what befell your brother. I’m glad to see such behavior.” Lord Reed waved a man forth and presented them with plates of cooked snake with salt, as well as pieces of fresh, torn bread. “And I’d insist that your men remained armed within the castle, for your protection and my confidence.”

Jon thought that gesture was going far beyond correcting the lord’s earlier rudeness and felt embarrassment for his demand then. Yet Sansa, Lord Royce, and he still ate of the offering as Maege approached them and gestured within the gates.

“I’m sure you’re both weary after your journey. We have clean clothes and warm lodgings awaiting you, your grace.”

Sansa accepted on their behalf and Jon thought it a kind and welcome thing for Lady Maege to do.

Yet something about her manner marked it strange.

Even as they walked within the floating castle, something bothered him. Not a feeling of dread or worry.

Something more akin to confusion.

_Why did she look at me when she said your grace?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths and wounds, both old and freshly made, are laid bare as the heir to the Kingdom of the North is raised up while others cast down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suggest listening to the first part of this chapter to The Prince's Tale from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows OST.

**SANSA**

 

“Your grace.” Lord Reed announced, prompting the others to rise as he did.

“A fine evening to you all.” She said earnestly.

Greywater Watch was a humble keep, built in a way that was both curious and confusing. Many of the rooms attached to side halls which led outside to canopies in the trees but were somehow still a part of the structure itself. They said that the keep was built of old ashwood and reeds, very different from the stone and marble keeps of the Vale.

All the rooms she’d seen so far had been small yet this room was apart from the rest. Behind an iron hinged door lay a room larger than the others, with a council table that was fit for the lordly company it now kept.

Maege Mormont sat next to Galbart Glover on one side of the table while Howland Reed sat at the opposite end of the room. As lord of this castle, it was only proper that he be seated at one head of the table while Sansa sat to the opposite side. She knew who she wanted to fill the empty chair to her right, for it was a place of distinction.

 _Jon deserves it,_ she thought, e _ven more than he might think._

The knight stayed quiet as he pulled her chair out for her, always remembering his courtesies. It made her smile. Once Sansa was seated, the others followed suit. For a moment it seemed like Jon would stand behind her, acting as a guard, but she gently pulled his hand down so that he would sit in his rightful place. He hesitated for a moment but eventually obeyed his queen.

_For however long I remain one that is._

“The hour is late my lords.” Jon said, sounding wary. “I had thought you would allow our queen some time to rest. Is something amiss?”

_He's always so cautious now._

She knew he was not nervous by nature, her knight was just always preparing for the worst. It made her feel sad and grateful all at once. In their situation, they had every reason to be wary yet she wouldn’t show her unease. These were to be her bannermen. She would act grateful and trusting of them.

Even if her fears since arriving in the Neck were well founded.

“No your… ser Jon.” Galbart answered awkwardly. “It is just that Maege spoke the truth earlier. There is still much you should know. The lady and I had another reason for being here at Greywater Watch, besides preparing for King Robb’s return north. We were… well… we did not want to delay the news any more than necessary.”

Galbart’s eyes remain locked on Jon the entire time he spoke, only giving her cursory glances. During their entire ride, Galbart had acted cautiously towards her, not wanting to offend but also acting reluctant to treat her as a queen. It led her to suspicions she knew Jon would not like.

Lady Maege reached within her cloak and presented a rolled up piece of parchment that she handled as gently as a newborn.

“King Robb, before his murder, tasked us with carrying his will here while the rest of his army marched towards the Twins. Greywater Watch was the lone secure Northern fortress from where we could attempt to locate you.”

Sansa thanked the gods that Robb had been as much a king as she’d hoped. The will protected his rule and without it, the fates would’ve decided where his crown sat. She felt Jon stir beside her and saw an uncomfortable grimace on his face. It was likely he now sensed what she had on their ride here.

 _Jon must have seen it by now_ , she thought,  _how they act around him._

_How they both defer to him, even now._

“My brother was as wise as he was brave.” She could not keep the grief from her voice at the thought of Robb’s murder. “Have you read this will, my lords?”

“We were party to its writing, we know its contents.” The lady spoke softly, trying to treat the moment gently while Galbart looked on with pity.

“And I’m afraid it will change some things… my lady.”

_There it is._

The signs had been there since they arrived in the Neck and Sansa had half expected this since the Gates of the Moon. Jon clearly hadn’t though. His face darkened and she saw his anger rising.

“It is proper to style a queen as your grace.”

“No. I am truly sorry, but no.” Maege sounded sincere and it took away some of the hurt. “Lady Sansa, I knew and respected your mother deeply, and having to say this to the daughter she so cherished wounds me deeply… but King Robb did not name you his heir.”

“He didn’t?” Jon appeared more crestfallen than she felt herself. Perhaps because he hadn’t expected the worst like she had weeks ago.

“With Sansa wed to the Imp, our king could not allow Winterfell to fall into Lannister hands.” Galbart said carefully. “He feared that once she became with child… that Sansa would not live much longer past the birth.”

“He did not disdain you my lady, he had duties to his realm.” Maege added.

“The marriage was a farce!” Jon’s anger broke free. “The Lords of the Vale are shouting it from their castles for the entire realm to hear! It was never, er…”

Jon stopped then and she thought he almost blushed. He glanced quickly to her and she gave him a small smile to let him know he had not offended her.

“Jon means to say that I may have been wedded but never bedded. Tyrion Lannister did not take me to his marriage bed as a wife and I remain a maiden.”

Both Galbart and Maege were stunned at her words. It was a moment or two before the Mormont woman recovered enough to speak.

“That… that is the sweetest news I’ve heard since learning you two lived!” Maege smiled while Galbart remained dumbstruck by the revelation.

Lord Reed remained silent however, watching all these developments without offering any of his own input. Again it fell to Maege to speak for Robb’s will.

“But… I’m afraid it doesn’t change what the king willed.” Maege’s joy slipped away from her face. “Another is still named as heir…”

“My brother had no way of knowing the truth of my marriage. I love him still and I will accept whoever he decreed as my king.” She placed her hand on Jon’s then, already guessing at the identity of Robb’s heir.

Maege saw this, offering Sansa a small look of understanding. The moment passed however before the large woman elbowed the man beside her. Galbart reacted to the nudge by sighing.

“My apologies, I thought to… it is you Jon. The King named you his heir.” The words hung in the air until Maege broke the seal and handed it Galbart for him to unfurl. “His royal decree legitimizes you as a Stark, as well as making you the heir to Winterfell and the crown of the Kingdom in the North.”

“Our swords are yours, your grace.” Maege nodded.

Jon’s hand pulled away from her grasp at Maege’s words, his face unreadable. Sansa found his hand again as he slowly shook his head against what he’d just heard.

It touched her that he felt so troubled.

 _He was my true knight,_  she thought,  _he can be my king._

“No.” He closed his eyes and shook his head again, his brow furrowed as he appeared to be battling something within himself. “I am not… Sansa is the Queen, I can’t do this to her. My lords, my lady, Robb didn’t know the truth of her marriage or he wouldn’t have done this.”

“Jon, Robb loved you. He knew the kind of man you were… the kind of king you could be.” She squeezed his hand to reassure him. “Those are the truths he knew. I know them as well, your grace.”

Sansa smiled as she pictured a crown upon his head and knew he would still see her home. There was no doubt in her mind he would protect her and take back Winterfell. For a brief moment she saw him riding through the snow towards her again.

_I trust him._

_Even if he does not trust himself._

Jon plainly disagreed.

“No, no this is not right, I won’t take it.” Jon shook his head almost violently, causing Maege and Galbart to glance warily at each other.

_No, that will not do. He’s forgetting himself._

_He can’t show weakness like this in front of his bannermen._

“It is right.” She soothed, placing her other hand over his to try and comfort him but he jerked away.

“Sansa, no… I am a Snow, not a Stark, no matter what any will might say. No matter how much I may have dreamed of being one as a boy…you are the true Stark here. I may be a bastard but I have my honor. Winterfell is to be yours, not mine. Never mine.”

“Jon… Robb has simply given you what our father never could. I don’t hold this against you, I promise.” She tried to go for his care for her as a tactic. “Besides, this is as it should be. I grew up believing I’d be the lady of some castle south. Not of Winterfell. You know that.”

It was the truth. In her youth she had dreamed of some dashing knight taking her away to a beautiful castle far from her home. She hadn’t wanted cold, drab Winterfell as a little girl. Even if the woman she was now wanted it more than anything.

_Fate is cruel like that._

“I said that I would see you home and that I’d see you with a crown. I vowed it Sansa.” Jon looked desperate for her to take this from him.

 _I can’t,_ she thought _, Robb wanted this. It’s what is right._

“That was a vow made by a knight and I trust King Jon Stark to bring me home just as much as him.”

“I have no right to it!” Jon hissed as he clenched his fists and looked to the table. “That paper does not change who I am or what Sansa was born to!”

Galbart cleared his throat, preparing to take up the will’s cause, when some mumbling came from the end of the table where the Lord of Greywater Watch sat.

His eyes closed, brow furrowed.

“Howland?” Maege had caught it too. “Did you wish to-?”

“Jon is right.”

The crannogman had not mumbled that time.

His voice had taken a commanding tone and his eyes opened, displaying his eerie green eyes once more. As stern as he’d become, Sansa thought he looked paler than he had been earlier. His eyes were fixed upon the door to the end of the room yet when she glanced there she saw nothing.

“Howland… the King wanted this.” Galbart recovered from the interruption and sounded irritated. “Jon is the last son of Eddard Stark and shall be King in the North, willed by the last.”

Lord Reed sighed and appeared very sad to Sansa then.

“Ser Jon said it himself. Had the king known the truth he would not have asked for such.” His eyes once again focused beyond them, still gazing at something invisible to the rest of them. “Jon is right.”

She hoped the man did not mean to insult Jon. To say his bastard birth made him unworthy or something cruel of the like, she wouldn’t condone that, not anymore. Just because he was their father’s bastard did not mean he was unworthy.

_He is a brave knight._

_He saved me._

“We can’t know that Howland…” Maege began to protest.

“I speak not of Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion Lannister.” Howland almost snapped. His lack of respect added an air of unease to the conversation.

Jon was the most put out. The lord's odd behavior made her protector eye the man carefully. At that moment the lord decided to meet Jon’s gaze. She saw no malice in his eyes though.

There was only pain there.

“What truths did my brother not know my lord?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“King Robb named the last living son of Eddard Stark as his heir.” The crannogman paused as he struggled with what he said next. “Jon is not that.”

There was a pause and a silence fell upon the table. Then Sansa’s anger rose.

“How dare you!? Father never denied Jon! Robb only legitimized what he always was!”

“He legitimized a half-brother, born of the same seed as his father.” Howland swallowed and closed his eyes. “There is Stark blood in him but Jon is not of your father’s line. He is no son of Ned Stark.”

Sansa felt her eyes widen and her heart stop.

_No son of Ned Stark._

The words made no sense. Jon had been at Winterfell since before she was born. Her father and mother fought over him at times but father had treated Jon just the same as his other children. She looked to Jon and saw shock clear upon his face. Her own feelings were all over the place.

“Forgive me Ned. And you Jon… you most of all.” Howland seemed to pray, his hands balled into fists upon the table. “You most of all.”

“My father claimed Jon as his own from the day he was born!” Sansa recovered her wits but the lord shook his head somberly.

“That is not true-”

“Anyone can see the boy is a Stark Howland!” Galbart shouted. “Stop this nonsense!”

“Jon is of House Stark, just not of Ned’s line… but of his sister Lyanna’s.”

Sansa had no more words for that.

The others joined her in stunned silence. Galbart even spilled his wine in his shock. He made no effort to clean it and Lord Reed seemed too lost in thought to care for the mess upon his table.

“Lyanna’s son? How can that be?” Maege asked. “She had no son Howland…we both knew her and she… she…”

The lady made a choked sound then, her face twisted as if struck by some sort horror.

“You can’t speak of her time with… no, Howland that can’t be…”

“I do Maege.” The lord nodded. “It is no matter how much Ned and I tried to deny it. It is the truth of things.”

“I don’t understand.” Jon struggled with his words. “I’m Ned Stark’s son. Not my aunt’s… he would have told me…”

“It was a tale he never wished to tell, for all our sakes.” Howland lowered his head. “Yet one that must be told now…”

 And so Howland Reed began a tale that would haunt Sansa for a very long time.

_‘We all know the story that is told, of how Rhaegar Targaryen stole Lyanna Stark and of the war that followed. It was a war that wrought such death and loss, where so many wrongs were committed, even against children._

_Yet so much of that tale is wrong. No one knew that it started with an act of love._

_For Lyanna was not stolen by Rhaegar but left with him._

_Loved him._

_For us who knew her well it’s easy enough to believe._

_Hers was always a wild spirit. Lyanna was a woman born as much to adventure and laughter as any man. As willful as she was beautiful, few men could think to try and tame her._

_I’ll admit that when I heard of her betrothal to Robert Baratheon, it was hard to imagine Lyanna being given to such a man. To be given to any man._

_It was hard for Lyanna to accept as well._

_Harder still after finding such a kindred spirit in the Dragon Prince she met at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Perhaps this all would have gone differently if those two had remained unpromised until that day._

_How many people would have been spared? How fewer tears would have been shed?_

_It is best not to think on that._

_I believe paints the lovers in a light they don’t deserve. The love they shared was as true as any, truer than most perhaps. That love took them south, to the Tower of Joy, and there they hid from both their families. Their stay there was likely a sweet time for Lyanna, a time when their love was all that mattered._

_For her to have that short happiness, the thought is some comfort to me._

_That time was doomed to end… as doomed as their happiness. What followed after was wrought in so much blood… far too much. The murders of Brandon and Rickard Stark by the Mad King Aerys forced Rhaegar’s return._

_And his death._

_If not for Ashara Dayne telling Ned of where her brother Arthur had travelled, we would have wandered for months. When we came upon that tower… the seven of us… the Kingsguard awaited our coming. Knights who were ready to do their duty._

_All finer men than I had any right to be among._

_Why did they guard the tower? Why were Rhaegar’s most trusted swords here rather than with their prince? Why did no one ask these questions then?_

_That fight haunts my dreams still. The sounds of the killing… the dying of good men. The Kingsguard fell protecting Lyanna, our men to trying to save Lyanna._

_In a way the memory is worse than the fight itself… to know that we all fought for the same cause. Lyanna knew it. During the whole fight she screamed at us to stop. Her cries always await me when I dream of that day._

_Ned and I found ourselves the only survivors of the battle and so we went to her. We found Lyanna dying upon a blood stained bed. The entire canopy was adorned with the winter roses she loved so much,_ _the petals fell all around her even as she wilted before our eyes._

_She wept tears of blood, cradling a babe to her chest._

_As she died, Ned made her a promise, to protect her son, to show him love. She begged for Ned to love the boy as he had loved her. To do what she and his father couldn’t. As I held that child, a boy who looked so much like Lyanna, I saw the path before us as clearly as I knew the way home._

_Ned saw the same._

_As soon as Ned took the child our treason began. We would betray our new king to protect the son of a dead prince._

_Eddard Stark was no ordinary man. For he fulfilled his promise. He made the boy his son, loved him as a son. To protect his wife, his new family, and even the boy himself, Ned made his nephew into a bastard. The boy would inherit no titles or forces that could threaten the new king._

_The secret was ours alone. Should it ever be discovered, Robert’s wrath would fall upon our shoulders, not theirs. Perhaps not even the boy’s._

_The child could live his life in peace… never knowing his mother but knowing the love of brothers and sisters. The love of a father who risked his life for him. We made a choice that day._

_To make that child a bastard that lived rather than a prince who died._

_To both keep and give peace…_

_We damned ourselves._

_We turned a dragon to snow… may the gods forgive us for it.’_

When Howland ended his talk, Sansa found her hands at her mouth.

There was total silence in the room save for the crackling of fire in the hearth. The whole chamber seemed to have grown darker in the telling, their shadows flickering along the walls. There were no words to say, nothing that could make sense of this. Only one thought echoed through her head.

_Jon is not my brother._

_He is the son of a Targaryen._

_The son of a dragon._

As she sought Jon, she saw that the spilt wine had spread across the table in front of him. The dim light of the fire made it look like blood, the flames of the hearth leaping in its reflection.

Sansa’s hand fell to her chest and her mind swirled.

_Fire and blood._

“Peace?” Jon choked out.

His face was dark and his hands gripped the table tightly. He was hunched over the pool of wine, glaring at the lord. His eyes scared her. She’d only seen Jon make such a face once. When he was killing Lothor Brune.

“Live my life… in peace?”

“Ned wanted so much for you Jon-”

“What of what I wanted?!” Jon roared and Sansa jumped at the rage in his voice. “What peace have I ever known?!”

He rose to tower over the table and she feared he meant to hurt Howland so she reached for his arm but Jon threw her touch aside.

“An outcast in a home that was never truly mine? Living my life as the sole stain on the honor of Eddard Stark?” He paused then and raised his fists to the sides of his head. “The death! By the gods, all the people who died! The people I’ve watched die! The blood and the pain! I am the cause of it all and you dare to tell me- what peace did I have Lord Reed? Tell me!”

“Jon… you were loved. You are loved.”

“By a father that wasn’t mine! By brothers that weren’t mine… sisters that… it’s all a lie! I am a lie!”

The sheer anger pouring out of Jon was nothing she had ever seen from him. She was scared of him. She was crushed for him.

“Jon…” Galbart started but a long howl from somewhere beyond the walls cut him off.

Then Jon’s cry joined it.

He grabbed his chair and flung it violently against the wall. It exploded into splinters and everyone but their host rose from their seats. The door to the chamber swung open and two guards entered with swords drawn while Jon started towards them.

“No! All is well. Let him be.” Howland said, once again using his soft, commanding tone. “By the gods let him be…”

Jon pushed by the guards and disappeared from sight.

“Leave us.” The lord commanded of them. “Leave us and do not enter again.”

The guards left but the others remained staring at the crannogman.

_He’s a monster._

“Howland… how could you?” Maege asked in a red-faced rage.

“What choice did I have?” Lord Reed finally rose to stand, facing the fire instead of them. Ghost howled again and Sansa thought it was a mournful sound. “What choice did any of us have?”

She turned and began to walk out of the room.

“My lady… are you sure that is wise?” Galbart began to round the table towards her.

“Considering what wisdom has earned Jon today, I care little.” She looked to Lord Reed with disgust. “He is the only family I have left. I know what it is like to feel alone, just as Jon must surely feel now. I beg your leave Lord Reed and ask that no one disturbs us.”

She hoped the tone she’d used let no one mistake the last part as any kind of request. Without waiting for a response she turned to follow the man who had brought her here.

And had been damned for it.

 

**JON**

 

_You know nothing Jon Snow._

Melisandre’s voice came back to him, a clear sound among the chaos of his thoughts.

The cool air outside Greywater Watch did little to comfort him. He imagined little would but still he had chosen his route of escape from the wooden fortress carefully. After almost running out of the gate, he’d taken the path they’d arrived on, finding his way to the trail he’d spotted earlier.

The path had been wet and the muck slippery yet he’d arrived at the shelter he’d hoped to find.

Hidden upon an island of sorts, the weirwood stood tall before him. It was the only company he wanted right now. Beyond the weirwood lay the swamps of the Neck, where the other trees rose like corpses from the muck, the fog around them their death shrouds.

This dry area was no Winterfell though. Nothing had ever felt as comforting as those walls and the country surrounding them. This swamp wasn’t the godswood he’d sought sanctuary in so many times as a boy. He would run there to escape the whole world at times, to hide from every person who held his birth against him.

This place offered few of those comforts.

A part of him wanted to break down and weep. Another part wanted to fight and rage. Greater still was the desire to march back and force the crannogman to take back everything he’d said.

So everything would make sense again.

The lie itself made sense though. Deep down, he knew that. It explained so much. It fit so perfectly. It was Jon that didn’t fit.

How could he?

Everything he thought he knew had been torn to shreds.

_‘She loved you Jon… loved you more than you can know.’_

His father’s words in King’s Landing came back to him and he pushed the memory away, only to have others come unbidden in its place.

Running with Robb along the castle walls. Laughing with Arya and Bran as they threw snow at one another. Bouncing baby Rickon on his lap. Watching in awe as his father cleaned Ice.

_Not your father._

_An uncle,_ he lamented _, only an uncle._

An uncle who’d lied to him for his entire life. An uncle who had let Jon grow up believing himself the bastard of an honorable man while thinking his true father was dead, a murderer and raper besides. 

Jon took a deep swig of the wine skin he held.

He had stolen it from Willem during his flight from the fortress. His friend had been drinking with some guards at the entrance to the castle when he’d snatched it from the knight’s hand. Jon had ignored Willem’s worried cries while taking the first drink.

The crannog spirit burned down his throat now but less so than before. On the walk here he had drained over half of it. He was glad Willem and the others hadn’t followed.

Only Ghost had.

The direwolf lay amongst the trees watching him intently. Those red eyes showed no emotion but Jon always thought the wolf was smarter than any animal had any right to be.

_Had Ghost ever guessed at the lie?_

_Did he smell that my blood was different than the others?_

“I fear Lord Stark betrayed you as well Ghost. You and your siblings were meant for his children… you thought you had a bastard… but I’m only a pretender.”

Another swig. He never drank like this but the pain and rage was more than he could stand sober. Robar had taken him as a squire because he was Eddard Stark’s son.

Another drink.

Robb had embraced him and bid him stay with his brothers one last night in Winterfell.

_My brothers… my cousins…_

Again he drank.

The pain he’d felt when he learned his father’s death, of Robb and Bran and Rickon, it returned all at once and struck him. He had loved them so much. They were supposed to mean less to him he supposed, but the pain was still so strong. It was always there. That he stood now in such gloom was not lost to him for the place fit him well.

_Promise me, Jon._

He had promised her. Sansa would be a queen and he’d help her return to Winterfell. Finally, _finally,_ he would be able to help his family. But somehow he’d befouled even that and stolen Sansa’s crown from her.

Now he couldn’t even be the king to take her home.

_I’m no more a king than I am a wolf._

_Only the bastard of a dragon._

“I’d rather be your bastard!” He yelled at the weirwood, the spirit spraying from his mouth like a mist.

Jon needed his uncle, his father, whoever Eddard Stark was to hear him. He fell to his knees before the weirwood. The swamp mist was thick but Jon could still make out its mournful eyes. They gazed down in pity. 

“I wanted no dragonsblood father… I only wanted you… the others… Robb as my brother… please… please… I only wanted to be your son…”

_“Jon.”_

He looked to the weirwood’s carved mouth, sure that he’d heard his name but the tree was silent. Its leaves were moving some, the branches creaking slightly in the wind, but nothing else came from it.

Jon drank again, a mirthless laugh coming forth.

 _I can’t even feel the wind_ , he thought _, that’s been denied me as well._

“Jon.”

He looked to the tree at first but then heard the snag of a twig behind him. Despite his wishes, Jon knew he had company then and it wasn’t the gods. From what he knew of the old gods, they would never speak in such a soft, sweet voice. He turned and saw her walking through the fog, a flickering torch in her hand.

He had not heard her approach and Ghost had given no warning.

_The traitor._

Jon turned and stood to face her but he did so shakily. His body felt warmer than it should and responded poorly to his wishes. Sansa’s face became gradually clearer in the torchlight, and she placed the flame between two branches of a dead tree to hold its place. He could not look her in the eyes, noticing instead that her skirts were stained with the mud from following him.

Jon drank deeply from the skin again, the burning bringing tears to his eyes. He sucked the air deeply into his lungs and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He took another swig before he spoke again.

“Your grace… you should not have come unguarded.”

“The guard I trust most is the one I came looking for.” Her answer was spoken so softly that it was almost lost in the sounds of the swamp.

Sansa knew what to say and how to say it. He barely recognized her from the girl he’d known at Winterfell, and during their journey she’d changed even more in his eyes from the scared girl he’d found in the Vale. Now because of him and that damned will, this girl would not be queen.

_Gods, what a queen she would be._

Facing her made it too hard to say what he wished so he turned away, stumbling on a root as he did so. Once again he was on his knees before the weirwood. While Sansa gasped he let out a drunken laugh, waving his hand to show he was unharmed.

“Sansa, what was done to you in there… what Robb’s will said… I hope you know that I’d never wish that upon on you. I am no more a King in the North than I am a Stark. You shall have your home.” He stared ahead at the tree without really seeing it. “It should be home to one of us at least.”

He didn’t want her to see his face. If she saw the pain his words caused him she might hesitate to take her rightful throne. Sansa was too giving like that. Another part of him wanted the gods to hear his words. To know that whatever plans they’d had for him would be thwarted.

As had all his hopes and dreams.

He could’ve been a Stark. Being denied it made his hands clench in anger. He didn’t want the crown, but knowing that Robb had wanted him to be a trueborn Stark meant everything. To be a true brother to Robb and the others, it was something he’d wished for since he was old enough to understand that he wasn’t one.

“Jon I have suffered worse than what Robb laid out in his will. It was wise and well meant. You are the one who is owed apologies… you’re owed so much…” Sansa had moved closer to him. He felt a hand touch his shoulder but he threw it away and stumbled back to his feet.

“Not by you… you have treated me well. All the people who would owe me anything are dead. A father I never knew… a mother… a mother I think I loved but never knew… and an uncle who was the only father I knew… and I knew nothing Sansa.”

He drank the spirit again, remembering how the red woman had tried to warn him.

“I know nothing.”

It was funny. He thought once that he had a name to give his mother, Wylla, and even then he was wrong. Jon felt little joy in learning the truth.

“Father loved you Jon. He loved you as much as any of us. Surely you see that.”

“I was his shame. That’s what I always knew. I just thought it was his shame for bringing a bastard into his home, a constant reminder of the one mistake he’d made during his honorable life. Every time Lady Stark looked at me I felt it! Even you!” He hadn’t meant to say that but his thoughts were blurring and it had come out. “I’d see it sometimes Sansa… you felt the shame too. I was the shame he carried. A lie he carried into his castle and placed before his lady wife.”

Jon drank again and Sansa tried to grab at the skin. His grip was too strong and she shouted at him as they struggled.

“He was never ashamed of you Jon! The wrong was ours! If I could go back and throttle the girl I was for ever looking at you with anything but love I would!”

He watched a tear travel down her face in the moonlight as he moved away from her, his back pressed against the weirwood.

_Her eyes are too pretty to weep so often._

“The love you had for a brother… but I’m not that. I never was. Who’d want me as their family? Truly? My life meant so many deaths… a war… how can anyone be asked to love someone born of so much pain?”

The shame of bastardy was nothing compared to this. After Lord Reed’s story, Jon felt a new burden to his existence that he wanted no part of. His parents had caused the deaths of so many with their recklessness. His life had cost the lives of some the finest men in the Seven Kingdoms.

“None of that is your fault Jon. None of it.” Sansa moved towards him again, her hands folded in front of her. Her eyes locked on his face and he couldn’t help but look into them.

“You don’t understand…” He raised the skin to his mouth but her hand stopped it from reaching his lips. She gently pushed it away from his face.

“I understand feeling responsible for people’s deaths.” Her hands grasped his shoulders and her blue eyes bored into his own. “You called me an innocent, one who meant none of the pain she caused and I was not an unborn babe. If you were right then, I am right now.”

“I don’t want this Sansa.” His voice felt weak and pitiful. “I want them back… I want it to be like it was.”

It was a plea. Perhaps to the gods, perhaps to her, he couldn’t be sure. His shoulders slumped and he felt what strength he had leaving him.

“I know Jon, but it won’t be.”

Sansa embraced him then. Pulling her body against his, her hand guiding his head into the crook of her neck to hold him there. They’d only hugged a few times since being reunited and never like this. Her hold was warm and gentle.  As pathetic as it made him feel, he let her comfort wash over him and started crying again.

_She smells like the summer. She smells like the sunlight shining down in the godswood._

_She smells of the home I had forgotten._

“I am here though. I’ll be here for you, just as you are there for me when I need you. And I do need you Jon… winter is coming.” She said softly, moving to look at him letting her hair brush softly over his face. “Those are our words Jon, Stark words, and Stark blood runs through your veins as much as it does mine.”

“I’m so sorry Sansa…” He said into her hair. He felt Ghost beside them then, nuzzling into their embrace.

“I’m sorry too Jon. Don’t forget that I love you. Please?”

He was surprised by her words but the answer came without thought.

“I love you too, Sansa.”

Amongst the fog and trees, before a carved weirwood, the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark comforted the only son of Lyanna Stark.

The gods offered them that small comfort at least.

 

**SANSA**

 

She found Howland Reed breaking his fast with a simple porridge.

His wife had told her to seek him in what looked to be his solar, and when she knocked his voice had beckoned her. She had slept poorly that night and not because of the strange noises of the swamps outside her window. It appeared Lord Reed had had similar troubles. The man was as pale as when she’d left the lords to search for Jon, his strange green eyes glazed with a tired and haunted look.

He was simply staring into the bowl.

“Lord Reed.”

“Your grace, I hope the day finds you well.” He said as if she’d been expected.

“Better than Jon I’m afraid.”

Last night’s memory of Jon in her arms would not leave her mind. After taking the wineskin from him, they’d simply stayed before the weirwood, comforting each other for hours.

They spoke little more about the meeting and instead shared memories of Winterfell and their family. Almost none of their memories were of being together, which made her sad. Yet they found moments to laugh about, moments which made them smile to think on. He’d even told her of a time long ago, when she sang to him whilst he was abed with sickness. She’d forgotten that moment until he mentioned it.

Yet a part of the night felt full of loss. After some time Sansa realized they sounded like they were speaking of yet another brother she’d lost. Where once she’d had four brothers and now she had none, only a cousin she still knew far too little of. Jon seemed to sense the mournful tone to their talk and they’d returned to the castle not long after. Walking together in silence, arm in arm, the whole way.

“To fear for Jon… it is something your father and I knew well.” Howland shook his head and gestured to a chair beside his own. She sat as the lord pushed aside the bowl of porridge with a look bordering on disgust.  

“You must think me very cruel, so careless for telling him as I did. To share his true origins in front of others… it is a poor excuse but know that was not how I planned it. Often how and when we wish for events to occur is not possible.”

She had not come to hear his excuses. That her father had trusted this man and called him a dear friend had lulled her into thinking that he would not harm them.

_Petyr claimed to have been mother’s dear friend as well._

That was lesson of she would take to heart for Lord Reed had already harmed her greatly by hurting Jon.

“You took a crown away from him. You took his father away from him.”

“A crown we both know he did not want. Your father may have never revealed this to Jon, that’s true. I did not have that luxury.” The man did not flee her glare nor did he seem to challenge her. His tone reminded her of Maester Luwin when he taught her lessons he knew she disdained.

“I am not a man who hopes for too much from the gods, yet I pray Jon will forgive Ned and love the only father he ever had.”

_As do I._

Sansa did not say so though. Something had bothered her about the tale but she hadn’t the time or the energy to question it the night before. Depending on the answer Lord Reed would give her, she preferred to ask him in private.

“You said my aunt _chose_ to leave with Rhaegar. Why would she choose to be a mistress to a prince? Rhaegar was already married to Elia Martell.”

He had even had children. The Lannisters saw to their murders just as they’d murdered her own family. She realized then that both sides of Jon’s family had been murdered by House Lannister.

“Yes… Targaryens have an interesting history in regards to wives. Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne out of duty to his father.” At that he cupped his hands together before his chin and raised an eyebrow at her. “Lyanna on the other hand, he married out of love.”

Sansa nodded. She’d feared as much.

“He took two wives, like Aegon the Conqueror did.” She whispered the next part.  “So Jon is not my father’s bastard nor is he Rhaegar’s. He is Rhaegar’s trueborn son, the heir to the Iron throne.”

Whichever identity Jon chose would lead to a crown and enemies sharpening their blades against him. The Lannisters and the Tyrells on the Iron Throne to the south and Roose Bolton to the north.

Howland nodded at both her words and fears then.

“You understand now the fear we felt for the boy. Rhaegar’s children had been butchered and Ned saw their small bodies with his own eyes. He spoke against that crime but Robert was blinded by his hatred for Rhaegar. Their murders _pleased_ our new king. We both loved Lyanna too much to see her son suffer such a fate.”

Sansa saw no hint of deception in the small lord’s pained face or his tired eyes. He reminded her very much of father then, when he came to her rooms in Winterfell. The day that Bran fell. Father had had the same exact face while he was explaining to her and Arya that Bran might not ever wake up.

“In truth Jon is heir to nothing but war.” The lord continued, leaning back against his chair and gripping the arm rests. “Just another claimant to a throne already picked over by the lords of this realm like hounds fight over a bone. He would be but a symbol for all the others to rally against and destroy.”

“You wouldn’t allow him to be Robb’s heir either. Jon could have been King in the North and never known the truth.”

_The Lannisters and Boltons would want him dead either way._

_Whether he took the crown or helped her gain it herself._

Lord Reed shook his head once more.

“Robb named the last son of Eddard Stark as his heir without knowing he was Ned’s last son. For the false reasons he thought to disinherit you and name Jon his heir. Was I to stand by while our lie stole your rightful crown? I loved your father too much to do that to his daughter.”

The idea that he’d hurt Jon for her benefit was a cruel thing to think on. Sansa began to object but he cut her off.

“Today I intend to put forth that we set aside the will. I’d hoped to speak with Jon on the matter but it pains to me to think of such a conversation.”

It was becoming quite normal for the crannogman’s words to shock her into silence. Asking that Robb’s will be put aside made her the heir again. Without meaning to, she saw the wisdom in allowing him to do so. Lord Reed asking for such would not reflect badly upon her and the others would look to her to see if she supported it.

Jon would also look to her.

 _Stop it,_ she cursed herself _, such thoughts are unworthy._

“No matter what action I take, I place the two of you in harm’s way.” Howland ran a hand down his face. “I knew my friend and this was a fate Ned would never have wanted for his children. Whoever is named as Robb’s successor faces challenges that could mean their death. I am a man grown and a lord who has seen much of what the game of thrones can cost. So I fear for what it could cost two so young.”

The last words were so quiet they were just above a whisper. As he finished, Lord Reed looked towards the small fire burning just to the other side of the room. His sad green eyes watched the flames in silence. Soon it became apparent that he had nothing left to say.

Unfortunately for him, Sansa did.

“My father named you his dearest friend. Do as you wish but I ask one thing of you. Let me speak to Jon in your stead. Of what you propose and what you have told me.”

That was not the move she should make. Petyr would have been disappointed but she could see the pain the lord felt. All for the well-being of her family, and she thought her real father would want her to speak these words.

“I fear hearing so much from you will earn you nothing but anger from Jon… an anger I am starting to feel you might… that you might not deserve.”

“As you will your grace.” Howland reacted little to her words.

Sansa stood to leave and was almost out the door when she thought he spoke again, his words too quiet to hear.

“My lord?”

“Jon… I was the first one to hold him.” He still stared into the flames. “Lyanna let no else touch him before we arrived. She asked me to be gentle with him… she told me how he liked to be sung to. From the day I took him from his mother and placed him in Ned’s arms, I was a part of his life. Bound to keeping it. Bound to fear for it.”

Sansa thought he would say more but he didn’t. She had to see Jon after this and wanted as much time with him as possible.

So she left the lord there, sitting alone in his solar with his fears and his memories.

 

**JON**

 

“My lords, I ask you to set aside this will.”

Jon did his best to sound firm despite his discomfort in asking this highborn audience to heed him.

No matter what he’d been told last night, Jon had been a bastard his entire life and a knight for barely half a year. He had grown up trying to avoid offending highborns with his presence, not giving them counsel.

“Are you certain ser?” Galbart asked as he ran his hands over the will in question.

“Last night Sansa told me Robb had acted wisely and meant well. I believe she was right, she often is.” He looked to Sansa and gave her the slightest of nods. “But Robb erred. I can no more be a Stark than the next King in the North. Sansa is the rightful heir to Winterfell and Robb’s crown, not me.”

“Jon, I did mean to sway you into doing this.” Sansa broke in.

“Nor did you.”

She had come to him twice while he’d been weak. The night before at the weirwood, when he’d been as angry as he was drunk, then again this morning when he suffered from the excesses of the previous night.

They’d spoken of Lord Reed’s plans and Jon had been relieved to hear of them to be honest. He agreed that the truth of his parentage was a distraction from their quest to return home to Winterfell. While the lord’s idea would make Sansa the heir, she had never pushed him into asking for the will to be set aside. Sansa had acted uncomfortable even mentioning it, and Jon suspected that she felt badly for benefitting from Lord Reed’s proposal.

She was being unfair to herself of course.

_I want her to benefit from it._

“You all heard me last night.” He continued. “I supported Sansa’s claim before the will was even read and I will fight for her claim even after knowing its contents. If you still urge me to inherit the crown I will simply disinherit myself to place her ahead of me in the line of succession. The will is for naught.”

“The will also legitimized you.” Maege added.

He tried to speak but his mouth became dry then. His whole life he had wanted to be a Stark and to pretend otherwise was beyond his heart’s ability. Now the chance lay before him in Galbart’s hands.

Sansa had urged Jon to accept that part of the will at least. Yet, deep down, he knew it was folly to consider that. They couldn’t keep some parts of the will and reject others.

If Sansa was to be queen, Jon could not be a Stark.

As if sensing his thoughts Sansa reached for his arm then, her eyes pleading with him. As they had once before.

_Promise me, Jon._

“As I said… Robb erred… the will is for naught.” He felt like someone else was speaking the words. “I am no Stark."

“I will be honest ser, I found myself hoping to call you a Stark rather than a Targaryen.” Galbart sounded somber as he poured himself some wine.

“You won’t be asked to do either. None of you will. My name is Snow and so it shall remain.”

“Jon!” Sansa protested, just as he predicted, for he hadn’t told her of this decision beforehand. “Jon please, you don’t have to! Howland will attest to your bloodline.”

Sansa pushed at his arm, as if to bid him look to the crannog lord. Still he would not acknowledge the man.

“Let him do so, there is no shame in being Jon Targaryen.”

“Less shame than being Jon Snow?” He said.

Sansa blinked as if he’d slapped her. He knew better than to throw that in her face after everything they’d been through together, but this conversation needed to end. As a child he had dreamed of dragons but he’d been raised as a wolf. A bastard wolf at that. He’d already denied himself his lifelong dream of being a Stark, forsaking a Targaryen name was no great sacrifice. Besides, there were other matters to discuss and Jon was quite done with this one.

Howland saved him there, to his displeasure.

“Perhaps one day Jon will take his name, perhaps not.” The lord dipped his head in a respectful way. “Adding an unknown prince and possible claimant to the Iron Throne would only muddle what we seek to accomplish. I say we respect his wishes.”

Jon felt a quiet rage against the man burn hot within him. He pushed it down, like he had so many insults towards himself over the years.

_Dragons were beasts of fire._

_Let me be ice._

“Northmen would’ve rallied to a son of Eddard Stark. A man knighted and bloodied by battle.” Galbart looked half ashamed to be saying such for his meaning was clear.

No matter her family name Sansa might not find the support she’d need to make her claim to Winterfell. The North had followed Robb, a great leader, to some of the greatest victories seen in this war. Such men may not be as inspired by a daughter who’d been a prisoner of their enemies for the length of the war. 

Jon reflected on the worries he’d had himself on that account while Maege made a sound that was half a laugh and half a grunt.

“Come off it Galbart.” Maege sounded irritated but her eyes gave away the hope she had. “As if any northman would stand by and let the sister of their murdered king, the daughter of their liege lord, fight to avenge House Stark alone. I have more faith in our people than that. I say Jon is right. The will should be set aside.”

Galbart took a deep drink from his cup before nodding.

“I cannot argue against what we’ve learned here. This will would do naught but hurt the North. I agree.”

“Unless any of you deem to challenge our claim that Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion Lannister was not consummated…” Jon paused then to see if any would. Only Galbart reacted, by pouring himself more wine. “Then she would be the eldest child of Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell. And to Robb’s crown.”

“It is how I view her.” Howland agreed. “The issue of her youth will come into question though.”

It surprised Jon then how he hadn’t considered that. They both had been through so much already it was easy to forget how old they truly were. He had reached the age of manhood only recently and while Sansa might be a woman flowered, she was younger still.

“The North needs a symbol, not a regent.” Galbart said firmly, his eyes challenging the crannogman. “It will be divided enough when we announce ourselves against the Boltons and naming a lord on the queen’s behalf will only hurt our cause.”

“I fear you’re right Galbart.” Howland said. “But forgive me Sansa. You are not experienced in marshal matters or in matters of court or diplomacy.”

“She brought the Vale to our side.” Jon put in.

He was annoyed by all of this. The lord knew well enough that it was Sansa who had negotiated the alliance, the Vale was now their best chance at taking back the North.

“Why not continue as this?” Sansa asked looking around the table. “I may not be experienced but many of my bannermen are. Let my crown be a symbol and you all my counsel. It will be a sign of confidence in my rule and give all who doubt our strength pause.”

They all were silent in consideration of Sansa’s words. He saw the wisdom in it. Galbart and Maege were both experienced battle commanders. Despite his anger at the man, Howland Reed had been Eddard Stark’s dearest friend. Jon believed the uncle who had been his father would have wanted these lords to help Sansa through the hard days ahead.

_They will guide her to victory._

_And I will protect her from danger._

“Who says she has no experience in diplomacy?” Maege laughed. “Seems to have quite a mind for it. I offer my counsel gladly, if you’d have it.”

The other two quickly added their assent and Sansa smiled before turning to him. She was waiting for him to say something but he wasn’t sure what.

“Jon… I’d have your counsel too.”

He thought that a foolish notion.

Except the other lords were nodding in agreement before he could protest. It amazed him that such battle-hardened lords would be willing to accept him among their number. How he ever rose to such esteem in their eyes, he did not know. He could only blame it on Sansa.

“You have it your grace, though I cannot speak to its worth.” His words made Sansa laugh and he thought Lord Reed was staring at them in an odd way.

He didn’t care.

_This is it._

“Our king is dead.” Howland said solemnly, a hand lightly placed upon his chest. “Long live the queen.”

Maege placed a hand over her heart and smiled as she gazed at Sansa.

“That you survived all your trials to find us here, others might call it a gift from the gods but I call it the mark of your mother. She was strong and so are you.”

“I fought for King Robb Stark.” Galbart followed the lady’s lead and put his hand to his chest as well. “I will fight for Queen Sansa Stark.”

None spoke then and Sansa seemed at a loss for words. So he rose from his seat and knelt, looking up at her surprised face.

“I swore that I’d see you returned to Winterfell and restored to your rights, do you have faith that I will uphold my vow?” Jon hoped the memory of that moment was as pleasant to her as it was to him.

If she was still surprised at the turn the meeting had taken it showed little. Sansa smiled down at him and shook her head.

“You have my faith, my trust, and my love ser. Always.”

“I would have you as my queen Sansa Stark.” He drew his sword from its scabbard and offered his blade to the girl who was once his sister.

The young woman who was now his queen.

The sounds of chairs moving came and Howland was suddenly beside him, kneeling with a sword held out as well.

“The Queen in the North.”

Maege and Galbart were soon on their knees as well.

“My blade is for Queen Sansa Stark.”

“The Queen in the North.”

 

**SANSA**

 

_I am not used to this._

The smell of cooking meat and the sounds of laughter were all around her. No one was in a foul mood despite knowing the truth of her. They only wished her well.

Once, such treatment had been normal for her at Winterfell but that felt like a lifetime ago. Becoming accustomed to it again was difficult but she was trying very hard. It was all so marvelous.

It almost made Sansa forget they were in a swamp.

Well, on the drier edge of a swamp in truth. Where there was room enough for people to eat and drink and celebrate her coronation. In all her girlhood dreams of becoming a queen, she’d never pictured a scenario like this.

Sansa could only imagine her reaction if two years ago someone had told her that she would become a queen but that her coronation would be in a swamp. That during people’s cheers she would have to hold up her skirts to keep mud from ruining them.

The idea made her laugh.

The weather was cool but the sun was bright as the Reed pole boat journeyed through the marsh waters to the gathering place. The elevated patch of land served as a sort of field to fit the assembly of Neck lords, Northmen, and her escort from the Vale. Sansa had wanted as many allies as possible here.

Her nervousness had worsened when she saw the throngs of crannog people waiting along the water’s edge. Her hands trembled as she felt the gaze of what seemed like hundreds of people on her. She worried that the sight of her would disappoint them. That they would ask for someone else, a man who’d fought in battles and not some girl who’d spent the war as a prisoner.

Howland had interrupted her worries, leaping up to the prow of their boat and balancing perilously upon its edge while cupping his hands about his mouth.

“All hail Sansa Stark! Queen in the North!” He shouted far louder than she would have expected of a man the lord’s stature.

The cheering that answered was surprisingly loud. People began clapping and shouting her name. Not angrily or in derision like in the capital, but with hope.

When the boat hit land and she was helped down, the crowd parted for her, still applauding. Women were throwing things at her and it turned out to be wildflowers. Then she saw Ser Willem toss a man’s hat in the air with a yell and she had laughed, especially after the now hatless man acted displeased and tried to quarrel with the Royce knight. 

A new fear had gripped her after the cheers died down, that these people only cheered for her because they expected her to save them from their enemies and their troubles. Then she saw men bearing northern sigils upon their clothes. The Mormont bear, the Glover mailed fist, an Umber giant. Some even bore the Stark direwolf, and one of those men was large and fearsome looking. She felt strange that she did not know the man while he almost wept to cry out her name.

Seeing the survivors of Robb’s army did away with much of Sansa’s fear. She wasn’t just a queen in name. They wanted her to lead them.

_Could Cersei ever say the same of the people in Kings Landing?_

She did not take their love for granted. After all these people had endured, after so much sadness and death she wished happiness for them. Sansa vowed to use her crown to do just that.

Fires burned to the edge of the clearing and Lord Reed’s people were seeing to the cooking of food, sending many delicious and fine smells wafting through the air. The feast was everything Sansa could have wanted. She watched her men of the North make jests with the crannogmen who hosted them. Elsewhere men of the Vale took turns asking girls of the Neck to dance.

And the music!

It seemed like the people of the Neck had been done a disservice by the Seven Kingdoms in that no one knew them for their lively playing.

She knew few of their songs though, most being native to the bogs and swamps of the crannog lands. Some of the minstrels plucked at harps nimbly but most used string instruments that she’d never seen before. Adding to their sounds were the hasty beating of drums that would no doubt be seen as improper in other courts.

Not at hers though.

These sounds were joyful and full of life. That was how her people looked right now and it was how Sansa felt. Truly both were worth celebrating. She hoped if Winterfell was ever hers again that there’d be music there.

Tables had been brought out and Sansa sat in a large yet humble seat upon a raised platform that had been constructed only that afternoon. Considering how often Greywater Watch apparently moved, she shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly the crannogmen could raise structures.

To her right Howland Reed sat in an honored position which befit his role as host. Next to him were his lady wife Jyanna and Maege who hailed her fighting men happily. Calling her Maege was a hard thing to do but the Mormont woman had insisted Sansa start referring to her bannermen like the loyal friends that they were.

The seat to her left was empty but Yohn sat beyond that, deep in conversation with Galbart Glover and Hallis Mullen. She had insisted that Hal be given a position of esteem as he had so dutifully guarded her father’s remains.

“To the Queen of the North! May her rule be as magnificent as she looks!” Willem shouted from the other end of a table further down the platform. “And may she forgive the Vale for sending such an ugly rabble to bring her here!”

Tankards and cups were raised along with shouts and cheers and Sansa smiled at the Vale knight. He had been such a delight during their journey north and she’d grown fond of him. Yohn shook his head at his sworn man’s words.

“I should’ve had him hung years ago.” He followed those words with a deep, rumbling chuckle that betrayed his true feelings. “Ser Jon will speak to the wisdom of that.”

“You think me so easy to be rid of?” Willem called back. “I’d simply stretch my lord!”

This time Yohn and Sansa joined in the laughter as Willem began pestering a serving girl if she’d prefer him taller.

_Jon would have laughed too._

She searched for her northern knight who was supposed to be sitting next to her. Jon had been present throughout the ceremony and his demeanor during had reminded her so much of father. Not cold like some said, but stern like a lord. She hadn’t seen a hint of the frightening anger he’d shown in the swamps a couple nights ago.

Everything had become so crazed once she’d been named queen. A torrent of Neck lords and northerners had come to kneel before her. Jon had been by her side the whole time but seemed distant somehow. Sansa prayed that he held no ill will towards her.

They had spent so much time together traveling from the Vale and she disliked how little they saw of each other lately. Jon had arrived in a different boat than Sansa and had only taken his seat next to her for a short while. After the toasts had been made and the food served, Jon had quickly excused himself.

When she saw him leaving she’d hailed him quietly, to ask if anything was wrong.

“Pray forgive me your grace, there is something I must attend to, but I promise I will return.” As Jon strode away, she’d feared that her prayers would go unanswered.

_All I have is at his expense._

_He could have been a Stark._

_A king._

But instead Jon had named her queen. He had been the first to do so without her asking. While her bannermen had done the same, Jon’s act had mattered more to her somehow. Thinking of his loyalty and his earnest care for her threatened to make her cry, so she put the thought aside.

Instead Sansa watched as her friends and subjects smiled and laughed. She knew this would be a day to cherish for a long time.

 _We’ll have to cherish it_ , she thought,  _for the hard days are coming._

Sansa was not naïve. She knew most of her days as queen would not be so happy. She still had a war to fight and a home to restore. Her father had died serving a crown and her brother had been killed for naming himself king. Her people had lost men and homes fighting for a crown. It was up to her to set all of that to rights.

All of these burdens came with the crown she bore.

_I don’t even have a real crown._

Ashamed at such a petty thought, she swept it away. Her people were offering her what wealth they had along with their very lives for her house. She thanked them by sulking and acting like a little girl who still dreamt of knights and songs. A pretty crown on her head wasn’t important.

_The knights of songs aren’t real._

_These people made you a queen,_ she reminded herself _, that’s better than some silly crown._

Still she worried on that some, wringing her hands at the symbol she lacked.

_A crown makes you someone to be feared…_

Symbols could carry as much importance as armies. When Petyr had been trapped in the Eyrie, he’d never acted like he was trapped. He sat in the symbol of power for the entire Vale like it belonged to him. No matter how besieged he was, the Lords Declarant still wanted his abdication rather than to starve him out. The power of the place had made him a force to be feared.

Sadly Robb’s crown had been lost to their enemies. His queen was still being besieged by those same enemies at Riverrun. During all the preparations for Sansa’s coronation, no one had had time to forge a new crown for her rule.

She was still thinking on it when Howland’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Your grace, might I beg your leave for a dance?”

His arm was outstretched and though his strange green eyes still looked sad, his smile was warm. His offer had come at a good moment too, almost as if he knew that she was troubled by her thoughts. 

“Gladly, my lord.” Sansa took his arm and rose. “One dance from me is small payment for all you have done.”

“Naming my dearest friend’s daughter as queen will forever be a moment I cherish fondly. Sharing a dance with my queen will be a memory that warms me for the nights ahead.”

Applause began as they made their way to the small clearing that was designated for dancing. Those already doing so stepped aside at their coming. The minstrels took up a pleasant tune, not one familiar to her but easy enough to follow.

She had loved to dance as a girl. Howland led her through some steps and she remembered why she loved it quickly, the pair falling into a comfortable rhythm.

“If only your father could see you, Sansa. I hope he wouldn’t be too jealous to see me on your arm.”

She laughed.

“My father was a terrible dancer!”

Her father’s poor ability at dancing had shamed her once. Now she honored his memory for the true man he had been. Still, remembering his poor footwork and stiff movements at feasts made her laugh.

“My mother however, she would have found you a fine partner.”

It was nice to think of her parents warmly. Most of her memories were tinged with grief and while that feeling still lingered, Howland had a way about him. He led her well and made her feel graceful. Sansa was spun around and laughed and thought once more of her mother and how beautiful she was when she danced. Mother’s smile was always so radiant, her hair catching the firelight.

Soon enough the song ended and Lord Yohn asked for the next dance. Sansa had seen him dance several times with her mother at Winterfell and she reminded him of such.

“If any man deserved your lady mother more than me, it was your father.” The bronze lord smiled at her as they did their steps. “I had to settle for dances, but such dances they were! That I have been blessed to dance with another such beauty is something I am thankful for.”

“As I thank you for your kind words and all you’ve done for me.” Sansa said sincerely. The man had become their great hope from the Vale and so much of her future plans depended on him staying so devoted.

“You’re taking a fine man from my service.” Yohn said as he led her hand in hand through a step. “Jon will be hard to replace. I hope one day that you’ll send me a son to foster at Runestone. It would only be fair.”

Sansa could have kissed Yohn then for the hope he offered in those words. If the lord could speak to such dreams, she felt less silly for having them herself. Of getting married and bearing children, of perhaps bringing a future grandchild of Yohn’s to play with her future sons and daughters in Winterfell.

“Consider it a pact my brave lord.” Sansa said as the dance concluded, kissing the man upon his cheek.

After him Galbart asked for a dance. Then Willem, who at one point pretended to falter and Sansa had to steady him to the laughter of many. After the knight came several Neck lords and soon it seemed like she had danced for hours.

Then as a Lord Bogg held her hand high and led her in a quick circle, she caught a glimpse of her missing knight.

It was Ghost who caught her attention first.

The direwolf stood out amongst the other spectators taking in the festivities, the white beast looking serene amidst all the activity around him. While Ghost’s eyes were following no particular dancer, the knight beside him only had eyes for her.

Jon’s expression was far-off and thoughtful and she worried for a moment that he was troubled. Those worries fell away when their eyes met and Jon smiled warmly at her.

Some crannog girls were huddled near the knight and his wolf. They were much too young to dance at such a feast but they reminded Sansa of Jeyne and herself in their youth. The two of them would do as these girls did now, watching and gossiping at who danced with who and how well.

These girls appeared quite taken with Jon, their eyes moving from him to her several times. She could understand why. Jon was a tall and handsome knight now. They probably hoped he would ask one of them to dance for this splendid occasion.

As the song ended, she thanked the lord and started to make her way to where Jon was standing. Before she could get too far though Jon’s voice rang out, loudly and demanding of attention.

“My lords! Good sers!” He raised his hand above his head so people could see who hailed them. “People of the Neck! Men of the North and the Vale!”

He made his way towards the center of the dancing area, throwing his voice to meet those at the furthest parts of the field.

“I fear we have done our queen a terrible disservice!” Jon shouted in a tone much more grandiose than she’d ever heard him speak, and Sansa wondered what he was up to. “Thankfully some daughters of the Neck helped me in trying to make it right.”

He waved then at the group of young girls and the boldest ran forward to him with something in her hands.

“Our Queen stands before us without a crown!” Jon yelled as he turned to face Sansa.

The girl had her back to Sansa as she handed Jon whatever she carried before running away just as quickly, blushing and giggling.

“I hope that she would accept this one for now!”

Jon held a ringlet of bright blue flowers and raised it high so all could see. They were of the same kind that she’d remarked upon during their travels through the Neck. Each flower had its stem tied around the next to produce a green band, three flowers high at the front and slimmer at the back, like a bright, beautiful blue tiara. Jon walked forward and knelt, presenting the crown before her.

_He made me a crown._

Her eyes brimmed but she held the tears back.

_You cannot weep… a queen must show poise._

“I would accept it gladly if you would do me the honor.” Her words surprised him so she whispered as low as she could. “You offered me the crown so it is for you to give it to me.”

A grin pulled at the corners of his mouth and he nodded. Rising to stand tall before her, he lifted the crown of flowers and placed it lightly upon her head.

She felt truly a queen then.

“A fine crown!” Maege shouted and others echoed her cry.

It was something so well done that Sansa thought any attempt to fabricate such would have turned into a dreadful mummery. That the gesture was so genuine made it a moment worthy of a tale.

 _Such stories are good to have_ , she thought,  _people love those worthy of tales._

“I thank you ser! A Queen could ask for no better crown.” She looked up into his grey eyes and saw no anger in them. They beamed with happiness and Sansa knew then that somehow her prayers had been answered.

_He bears me no ill will._

Then a wicked idea came to her and Sansa knew she had him trapped.

“But since you are so keen on pointing out mistakes ser, you too have been remiss in your duties!” She called loudly for all to hear. The crowd hushed as Jon stood at a loss for words. “I’d ask what kind of a knight leaves a feast before doing his queen the courtesy of asking her for a dance?”

The laughter came quickly and loudly. Men began haranguing Jon for his manners and blindness at forgetting such a woman. Willem was yelling the loudest of all, some jest about Jon needing to bathe first. She hadn’t seen Jon look so embarrassed in such a long time, and she felt like enjoying the moment a little longer.

“If I remember correctly, King Robb once said that you’d make a better gardener than a dancer!”

More laughter and calls pelted the knight then. After enduring it all with flaming cheeks, Jon nodded and raised his hands in mock defeat.

“If the Queen would forgive me my failings, I’d gladly ask her to dance.” He held out his arm and she feigned indecisiveness for a moment before gladly reaching for it.

The minstrels returned to their playing and more joined in the dancing. Galbart with Lady Jyanna. Lord Royce with Lady Greengood. Willem with Maege, who laughed to lift up the short man and spin him about.

She only saw the others in passing though. Her eyes wouldn’t pull away from the knight before her. As they danced, Sansa saw that Jon seemed just as entranced. His eyes did not leave her face and she knew they would be alright.

The knight she feared held ill will against her had forged her a crown.

_My cousin._

_Who gave up a crown for me._

_To make me one himself._

“If I remember correctly, Robb said I’d make a better septa than a dancer.” Jon said quietly but he continued to smile.

 _It’s a good smile_ , she decided,  _he does it too little._

“Part of ruling is the tales that people will tell of me Jon. This whole day is a beautiful beginning to a reign but what you did… it is worthy of song.”

Jon’s face fell some at that.

“I didn’t do it for appearances Sansa.” Jon’s tone was more serious than she’d expected. “I did it to make you happy.”

“I-I didn’t mean… I was just…” She felt foolish all of a sudden. Plotting and scheming at such a time. “I couldn’t help thinking about what others would say. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you’re right. You’re a queen now. Such things are important for you to think on. I’m glad you do.” The serious face melted away and he offered another one of his rare smiles as he led her through a different step. “I don’t know if anyone else has mentioned it, but you look beautiful today.”

“As it happens you are the first, and I would say you make a very pretty knight ser.” He shook his head at her but she couldn’t resist adding.

“And despite what Willem says you smell quite pleasant.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion and loss follow the coronation as Jon learns of what he lost before standing to lose even more.
> 
> Yet sometimes things most think lost forever are just merely waiting to be found.

JON

The days following Sansa’s coronation had been busy.

Organizing the separate forces of the Neck, Robb’s surviving army and the company from the Vale gave them a force of just under two thousand men. Although Jon believed the men loyal and hungry for vengeance they sorely lacked armor and horses needed to achieve it.

_Not much to retake a kingdom._

Meetings with Lord Reed’s scouts and the other lords had been exhausting as well. Sansa had raised him up to be almost a commander on such matters despite his protests.

“There are better men than me for the task, it is an insult to others.” Jon had said but Sansa had not even bothered to glance away from the parchments before her.

“Not so. I made you a counselor as well as a commander. Robb would have done the same. I seek all my bannermen’s counsel Jon, but I seek yours first. Keep arguing and I will give you some keep somewhere and name you a lord.”

He had protested little more after that, she was his queen and determined beyond that.

Sansa and the others poured over what news of the south they could gather and most seemed grim. Riverrun had been surrendered to the Lannisters and Freys while the Kingslayer led another host to other holdouts. The Twins lay to the south with their hostages and powerful defenses. It surprised him how little word they had of Beric Dondarrion yet tales abound of a Lady Stoneheart hanging men throughout the Riverlands.

The North was even worse off.

Roose Bolton marched to Winterfell with an army of Freys backing him and, supposedly, Arya as well. Sansa had her own ideas about that but had yet to share them with others.

There were also rumors of upheaval in King’s Landing. The two queens at each other’s throats and of other intrigues. It was hard for Jon to keep straight what news was good and bad.

And harder still to have it all come from a man he could barely stand to be around.

As part of the new duties Sansa had given him Jon had to have a fair amount of contact with the Lord of Greywater Watch. The crannogman helped Jon take stock of their forces, collect word from his spies, and was proving to be the lord Sansa relied on most.

Beyond necessity she appeared to have developed an actual fondness for the man. A feeling Jon definitely did not share.

His dealings with the lord were always cordial but the man made him feel uneasy.

_He knows me better than I know myself._

_Surely that’s enough to put any on edge._

He certainly felt on edge as he watched Howland Reed approach him now. He was outside the castle speaking with Willem about which men he felt were best suited as outriders when he spotted the crannogman’s coming.

“I’m sorry to intrude sers.” He said, putting a hand upon his chest before glancing to Willem. “If I could be allowed a moment with the good northern knight.”

“Take all the time you need my lord, I’m quite sick of him.” Willem smiled, walking away towards some passing crannogwomen, almost eagerly.

_If Willem knew what Reed had done to me he’d never trust me alone with him._

_I barely trust myself._

“I’d walk with you ser.” Howland interrupted those vile thoughts, gesturing towards a path leading away from the castle. “If you’d do me the courtesy.”

“I am a guest, I’d show no discourtesy. The Queen wouldn’t approve.” Jon managed to sound polite yet did little to hide his displease.

The path the lord led him to was a mix between planked bridges over murky water and rutted, packed ground than anything. It took a meandering route towards the south side of the castle and in truth Jon thought these lands were more appealing at night. Swamps offered a poor view in the light of day.

And the view was all he had to occupy himself with. For neither the lord nor he spoke as they continued on their walk.

Jon was firmly resolved not to start any conversation himself.

They almost circled Greywater Watch before Howland finally broke the silence.

“Did you know my children were at Winterfell?”

He hadn’t, and it shocked him to hear it.

He’d heard some talk of the Reed’s children at the castle but it was always done in hushed tones. From what Howland just said he decided the talk had been quiet for reason.

“I did not my lord. Have you had word of them?”

“They were there at my command. They were there when Theon Turncloak took the castle. They were there when it burned.” The lord’s voice was pained. “We have heard nothing of Meera and Jojen since.”

Jon felt him then. No matter his feelings towards Howland Reed he would never have wished something like that upon him.

_Too many have suffered in this war._

_Too many children._

He thought of Bran and Rickon’s head adorning Winterfell’s walls and felt ill.

“Perhaps they survived.” He tried to sound hopeful. “In hiding somewhere?”

“Perhaps. Hiding has its dangers too.” Howland finally turned to Jon then. “Sometimes harm comes to those you’d keep in hiding for their own safety.”

If the lord expected Jon to let that pass unnoticed he would be disappointed.

“What Lord Stark and you did was different. Do not try and justify it.”

“I did not ask you here to defend my actions. Nothing I can say would. But I sense you have done things you never thought to do because it had to be done. In that I see my friend. The man who raised…”

“I know who my uncle was.” Jon cut him off, angry at the lord’s strange way of playing on his feeling. “Why did you ask me out here then? To admire your castle grounds?”

Howland did not shrink away from his anger, nor did he take offense at the taunt.

“I thought to do something Ned was never able to do.” He said, gazing up towards the sky. “I would tell you of your mother.”

Since Jon had learned the truth he had been trying to connect the aunt he’d never known with the mother he had always wondered about. It was strange to think of how many times he’d asked of his mother to hear nothing but rarely was he ever denied a story of his Aunt Lyanna.

_All that time you thought he kept her hidden._

_And all along she was right there for you to see._

“You seem fond of telling tales.” Jon shrugged. “Go on, I care not of which you choose to tell.”

The lord nodded and turned to continue walking, this time back towards his castle.

“This might be hard for you to grasp as you take after Ned so, but the Starks have always been a wild breed. Your uncle Brandon especially, quick to laugh and to fight. Benjen, easy with a jest and so young, he’ll always be so young to me. Earnest to a fault that boy was.” Howland chuckled. “But my dear friend Eddard was the wolf apart. More solemn than joyful, serious than playful, Ned was everything his brothers weren’t. It bothered Brandon so yet it served to bind Ned and Lyanna closer than the others.”

Jon swore the lord could have been speaking of Robb, Arya and himself. While Robb had laughed at Arya’s antics too sometimes he despaired to have a sister so unladylike. Jon had never despaired of Arya, nor she of him.

“Lyanna was just as wild as Brandon you see.” Howland went on. “Always riding off or challenging men in a way ladies were not meant to. Their father wanted a lady but he got a she wolf. Her wild streak made her as much an outsider in the family as Eddard’s quiet honor.”

At that Lord Reed regarded Jon carefully.

“Even in the Neck I heard talk of Ned’s youngest daughter. I heard she was wild and free spirited, causing embarrassment to her parents at feasts and what not. The tales were so similar it was hard not to weep to hear them. I wondered if Ned would see what I saw. If he would fear…”

“Enough.” Jon stopped him at that. “Enough with this.”

Picturing his mother as akin to Arya was not what he wanted. Arya could act a child at times but he couldn’t imagine his sister being so foolish as to start a war and cause so much pain.

She was a good person.

Unlike his mother.

 “Why did she go with him? With Rhaegar?” He asked. “Robert was a lord, they say he liked to laugh and ride. That he was strong and handsome. If she had done so many lives would have been spared.”

_I wouldn’t have been born._

The lord seemed to think a moment, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Robert Baratheon was a fine warrior and excellent commander but he was not a good man. Ned may have loved him as a brother but even he saw the man’s flaws. So much so he even spoke against the match to his father.”

“Truly?”

Jon couldn’t picture that. His father had loved the king. He had left his home and family to serve the man.

He had died for him.

“As I said Ned and Lyanna were close. Ned knew her better than any of us. So he saw clearly what a match like that would mean for your mother.” Howland sighed then. “Lord Rickard did not heed his second son. Nor did he heed Lyanna I think. She was not a woman to be ignored and at Harrenhal Rhaegar had eyes only for her. Lyanna found a man with a deep sadness and an understanding of how it was to feel out of place in this world. A man who played his harp so beautifully she wept to hear it. Rhaegar found a woman as fierce as she was beautiful. No reason could stand in their way when he presented her that crown of blue roses…if ever a wolf could tame a dragon…”

 _No_ , he thought _, no he tells this tale wrong._

_Sadness and poor matches could never excuse what came after._

_It can’t excuse my life._

“Haven’t you told enough lies in your life? Must you continue to lie to me?” Jon asked desperately. “They doomed thousands with their love. This is not some sort of tale to tell small children to give them hope of love. It is a tale of folly and sorrow, nothing more.”

Jon thought he spoke of the war but he could have just as well been speaking of himself. Howland surprised him by cautiously grabbing his shoulders. For some reason Jon did not shake off his hold as he stared into the man’s eerie green eyes.

“You’re right. I have told enough lies in my lifetime. I’d tell no more to you Jon, son of my friend.” He patted Jon’s shoulders some. “I would have you know that your mother was a fine woman, brave and true. I name few people in this world friend and I named her one with all my heart. And I see her in you as much as I see Ned. I’d not have you ashamed of her for she'd be proud of you.”

Jon had naught to say to that.

He just wanted away from his man and for once the gods answered his prayers.

For just ahead of them came such a commotion that Jon broke Howland’s hold to run towards it. The sounds of shouting and horses screaming were coming from an area closer to the entrance of castle. If it were some threat to Sansa he’d be there to meet it.

Yet as he neared the fortress he saw no attack was underway. Instead a group of riders were without, shouting for aid. From what Jon could see there were five crannogmen surrounding two strangers riding together upon an exhausted mount.

One was an older man, the other a young woman. Both were filthy and pale. The man struggling desperately to keep the limp girl upon the horse.

“We need a healer! Quickly!” One of Howland’s men shouted as he dismounted and joined the older man in slowly easing the girl down.

“Help her!” The older man shouted, stumbling from his horse, moving as if he’d been wounded. Jon saw his clothes stained with blood and dirt. “Find Lord Reed! Howland Reed! Tell him I beg safe passage!”

“You would have it stranger!” Howland called as he strode up from behind Jon. “But I must know the names of my guests!”

The older man fell to his knees, whether from exhaustion or relief Jon couldn’t tell.

“I am Ser Brynden Tully.” He answered. “Escorting Queen Jeyne Stark. Wife of our murdered King Robb. Please help her…she must live…”

Jon froze in his tracks and gaped at the sickly girl being carried towards the castle. The newcomer continued his pleas as he watched her disappear within.

“Please…you must help her…”

“She carries the heir.” 

_Oh gods._

 

* * *

 

 SANSA

 

 “My baby…please my baby” The girl’s sickly pleas rang out again.

“Hush now, drink please, you must drink.” Lady Jyanna tried to get Jeyne to sip again of the healing brew but the girl’s swollen throat would have none of it.

She hacked and sputtered before a spasm of pain began to take its toll on her poor body.

“Oh seven save me!” Robb’s wife screamed in reply, clutching at her swollen stomach. “Save the baby!”

“Can I help?” Sansa asked meekly from the side of the chamber.

Jyanna and the crannog healers were doing their best to clean Jeyne while trying to cool Jeyne’s fever. All the while she stood there, totally useless as Robb’s wife suffered.

“Talk with her my queen.” Jyanna suggested as she poured another cup of the brew. “Calm her if you can.”

The brown-haired girl was too pale and sweat stained the sheets around her. She didn’t want to interfere in the healers work but she managed to make her way to the bedside.

“Jeyne? Jeyne I’m…” She paused as the girl gasped loudly in pain before pressing on. “Jeyne I’m Robb’s sister Sansa. You’re among friends here. We’re going to take care of you…”

“Sansa?” Jeyne turned her feverish eyes to her, gritting her teeth against some new pain. “Robb’s sister?”

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “I’m so happy you found us. You and the baby…”

“The baby!” Jeyne looked down at the sheets covering her lower half before wailing. “No! No please!”

Sansa followed her gaze and saw the sheets there had darkened some. Jyanna lifted the blanket, tucking her hand beneath causing Jeyne to cry out again. When she pulled back her hand it was red with blood.

Which forced Sansa to choke down her midday meal.

To her shame she turned away from the screaming girl to find else to look to. Anything to calm her mind after such a sight. Unfortunately her eyes fell upon the pile of clothes Jeyne had ridden in with, piled high in the corner. On top she saw a gown that’s lower half was stained with blood as well.

It sent a stab of icy terror through her heart. Jeyne’s pained scream that followed did her little better

_Such bleeding is dire for a woman with child._

_Even I know that._

“Your grace, I must do something you would not see.” Jyanna leaned in, gesturing towards the door. “Perhaps waiting outside would be best.”

“I should stay with…” She started as Jeyne shrieked again before falling back against her pillow, her eyes closing and the girl become very silent.

“No…no is she…she can’t have died! She only just…”

“She lives, the pain is just that great.” Jyanna answered, moving back to Jeyne’s side. “As is the need for what I would do. You can help her no more here. Only healers and prayers can help her now.”

 _I am in the way,_ she realized, _I’m not helping at all._

“If she wakes please tell me.” Sansa said rushing to the door. “I’ll just be without.”

If Jyanna answered she didn’t hear it, so quickly did she flee into the corridor and slam the door behind. Her hands pressed against it, as if to keep the horrors she’d just seen safely within.

She shut her eyes and cursed himself for her childishness.

_You’re a coward._

_Jeyne’s in there fighting for Robb’s child and you can’t even stand some blood._

_She’s the true queen here._

“Is it so bad?” A hoarse, smoky voice asked.

Sansa opened her eyes to see Ser Brynden standing without, leaning against a wall and clutching his side. The tall man with the weathered face and grey hair had been of her brother’s most trusted commanders. He’d also been her mother’s beloved uncle yet had others not already vouched to his identity she’d never have known him.

“You are to be in bed ser…”

“Please, niece, queen, whatever you are to me.” The old knight pleaded. “Tell me how bad it is.”

Sansa wrung her hands in nervousness before deciding to do as he asked.

“She bleeds.” She admitted, watching his face fall. “But Lady Jyanna and the healers are helping. I swear.”

“My wife will do all she can ser.” Howland said as he came along Ser Brynden’s side. “As you did by getting her here.”

“Not enough…” Her great uncle choked out, his face clearly pained. “Not nearly enough.”

Sansa was surprised he was even on his feet. Howland had told her the old knight had taken an arrow through his side and removed it himself, burned the wound closed afterwards.

Yet it had been but one of a score of wounds the knight had taken during the long journey from Riverrun. A fever had taken hold of him and he’d bare many scars yet with rest and care he was expected to return to health.

She hoped so at least, for her great uncle looked near death.

_And Jeyne looks even worse._

It was a sad thing to think on.

Sansa could see how obvious it was Robb’s wife had been very pretty at one time. Yet the girl within the sick chamber had suffered greatly. Her skin had a grown taut around her bones and her eyes seemed dimmer than they should be.

Their escape from Riverrun had caused all their current pains. Yet Sansa blamed the Kingslayer and Freys for their current condition more than the journey itself. It was a credit to her uncle’s abilities they had even survived to arrive in the Neck.

“I’d hoped they wouldn’t expect us to travel through Frey lands.” Ser Brynden had said earlier as she watched healers cleaned his arrow wound. “I knew those lands well so we travelled mostly at night. We made good time, avoiding outlaws and Freys both. We ate when we could but the weather cooled so quickly…I should have known she’d taken ill.”

When Jeyne’s health had worsened her uncle stole a boat from a fisherman to carry Jeyne and himself across a river in their path. He believed that was when the Freys were warned someone was trying to reach the Neck. Three mounted men had come upon their trail and it came to a fight.

“Two fell to my bow before the third even knew where the arrows were flying and by then it was over.” He’d almost smiled at the memory. “And we gained a horse from the ordeal.”

Their luck did not hold out. He’d taken the arrow when another group of Frey riders fell upon them. Their horse had been about to drop and the Freys closing when Howland’s men interceded. The crannogmen had been sending raiding parties south of the Neck into Frey lands for some time now, the pair fortunate enough to be found by one.

Ser Brynden did not look as if he felt fortunate. He looked ready to collapse.

“You return to your rest ser uncle.” She urged. “I insist. I’ll have men carry you if I must.”

His reddened eyes widened at that, and despite everything, a sad smile broke across his face.

“I see it now. The hair is right, the eyes as gentle…how you order me about…yes I see your mother in you girl.” He said, reaching out with his hands so that she placed her own within his rough grasp. “It warms and breaks my heart that I get to see you and she does not.”

Sansa nodded, it saddened her to think the same.

“My mother told me stories of you since I was a little girl, good ser.” She said truthfully. “I am happy beyond words you survived this journey and brought my goodsister to me.”

“Tully!” Galbart Glover shouted, interrupting the moment.

The Northman made his way briskly down the hall as her uncle reached out and took the Northman’s hand in his.

“Galbart Glover, I hoped you’d survived that massacre at the Twins.”

“I was fortunate.” Galbart nodded. “I think Queen Sansa even more so to have you returned to us.”

The Blackfish took notice of the title and looked to Sansa.

“I was made Queen in the North by Robb’s bannermen…my bannermen now. My coronation was only days ago.”

If the knight was surprised he did not show it. His eyebrow raised slightly but after a moment he nodded grimly.

“I congratulate you niece, but I fear I have complicated things here with our arrival.”

“Whatever issues there are will wait. Jeyne’s recovery is all that matters.”

In this Sansa spoke truthfully, in her heart she knew Jeyne and her health came first. Yet putting off handing away her crown could wait a long while as far as she was concerned.

 _But I would do it,_ she decided _, for Robb I will do it if I must._

Jon and Maege arrived not a moment later. It had been Jon who sought out Sansa immediately to tell her of Brynden and Jeyne’s arrival and she had asked him to find her bannermen to let them know as well.

The reunion between Maege and Brynden was just as warm at it had been with Galbart. Brynden offered his condolences for Maege’s daughter Dacey, also lost at the Twins and Maege offered her own for his loss as well.

 _He lost a niece, I lost my mother,_ she’d thought, _we have that grief in common at least._

“Ser, I’d introduce a fearsome knight like yourself, Ser Jon the Wolf.” Maege slapped Jon on the back and pushed him towards the knight.

Jon appeared almost sheepish before her uncle. He had heard tales of this knight growing up at Winterfell as well. Tales Robb would've shared as mother did no include their half-brother in her storytelling.

 _Your cousin_ , she reminded herself _, a cousin not a half-brother._

_He’s not a bastard anymore, you can’t think of him as one, he deserves better._

“Ser Jon the Wolf? I have not heard of you.” Brynden looked at Jon uncertainly.

“I was born Jon Snow ser.” Jon had held his hand out to the older man. “I’m honored to meet you and hope…”

“Snow.” Brynden grunted leaving Jon’s hand empty. “Found another crown to follow I see?”

Her shock was shared by most of the others, including Jon whose face bore it clearly. His expression was soon replaced by one of shame as he lowered his hand.

“Brynden that is not fair!” Maege had countered but the man ignored her, rising up to glare fiercely at Jon.

“Cat told me herself that you were by Renly’s side when Robb marched to avenge your father. Then after his death we hear you fought for Stannis. Would the krakens or lions not have you that you suddenly appear at your family’s side?”

Those words shook away Sansa’s surprise and replaced it with anger.

“Uncle! Without Jon I would be dead or still a prisoner in the Vale, a puppet of Littlefinger. You will show him the respect he deserves.” She stepped between the two and tried to meet her uncle’s eyes but they still remained locked on Jon. “I demand you apologize at once.”

“No…Sansa…your grace.” Jon said, backing away. “I would pray you excuse me.”

Before she could stop him Jon had already turned and walked quickly away down the corridor.

She watched his departure with worry, Brynden with a look of triumph.

“Your mother never trusted that bastard.” Brynden said darkly. “You shouldn’t either.”

“Stop it!” Sansa did not try to keep a civil tone. What had just happened was ghastly and she could not keep her anger from showing. “Robb trusted Jon when he was king! I trust him now!”

“King Robb placed his trust in Roose Bolton and Walder Frey as well.”

“Those…men…did fight by my brother’s side and yet betrayed him.” She argued. “But Jon served the man my father bid him to. Fought at the Blackwater to try and kill Joffrey and rescue me. Survived to try and make his way to my brother and nearly died for it. He may not have fought with the rest of the Starks but he still fought for us. And I’d ask you not to ruin our joy today uncle.”

Brynden responded to that with a dismissive grunt and so that was where the conversation had ended. He tried to ask of standing vigil for Jeyne but she ordered him to rest. Howland and Galbart escorting him away themselves.

Checking on the state of Jeyne afterwards had not raised her spirits. The girl alternated between consciousness and fevered dreams. Lady Reed expected that to continue for some time but said she would stay with her throughout the night.

Sansa promised to take her place when she tired.

She tried to find Jon to offer words of support but none had seen him, nor was he in his chambers by nightfall. Sansa prayed her uncle’s words had not destroyed how close Jon and she had become. She’d tried very hard to make sure Jon felt loved since that night in the swamp, to let him know she needed him.

Those worries and the ones for Jeyne awaited her when she tried to sleep. It felt like every time she shut her eyes the memory of Jeyne’s sad, mournful wails crept up in her mind. For half the night it felt she lay in bed staring at the ceiling before finally deciding to just go and relieve Jyanna now.

_She’s actually useful._

_Let her be well rested and Jeyne will be the better for it._

Yet as she walked down the corridor towards Jeyne’s chambers it appeared like others were having difficulty sleeping as well.

The Lady Jyanna was there, as was her Ser Brynden. He still appeared far too weak and sickly to be standing yet there he was, nodding at whatever the Lady Jyanna was telling him.

Further down the hall she saw another figure, one she’d last seen outside these very chambers.

Jon was armored in grey steel and stood watching Jeyne’s doorway with a good distance between her uncle and himself. He had a sword in his hands, pointed downwards at the floor and Sansa realized why’d she been unable to find him.

_He stood vigil for her._

_He did as Robb would’ve wanted._

She should not have been surprised to see him doing such. Yet her attention shifted to her great uncle as he appeared to be ailing worse than before. He was steadying himself against the wall with his arm while Jyanna rested a hand upon his shoulder.

“My lady, has something happened?” Sansa’s voice caused Jyanna to start. “I’m sorry but is all well?”

Her uncle slammed his fist against the wall and fear gripped her then.

“Is Jeyne…”

“Jeyne lives your grace. The fever has broken but she is very weak. I fear for her still.” Lady Jyanna paused then, closing her eyes and folding her arms in front of her.

A sorrow-filled Brynden turned to face Sansa then.

“She lost the baby.”

It took a moment for his words to make sense to her.

_The baby is lost. Robb’s baby is lost._

_Gone like all the others._

“No.”

“I pushed her too hard…” Her uncle’s face seemed to break before her. “A woman with child could never have been expected to…”

“Ser, you do little good in blaming yourself.” Lady Jyanna reached out for the man’s shoulder and spoke softly to him. “Women have had fevers or travelled whilst with child and not suffered such a loss. You’ve told me her mother gave her moon tea to prevent the birth of a child. The fact she conceived at all was a miracle, those herbs can have dire consequences.”

The knight acted as though he heard none of this. He shook his head and ran fingers through his greying hair.

“I should be the one to tell her.”

“She doesn’t know?” Sansa asked, thinking that a cruel thing.

Jyanna nodded.

“It happened in her sleep, she’s beginning to wake…”

“I will tell her.” Brynden repeated, straightening and smoothing his tunic. “It must be me.”

“You were her savior uncle, you may do so if you have the strength but I would join you.” She grasped his arm. “I want her to know my sorrow for her loss. That her family grieves with her.”

It was not just sentiment, those were words she needed to say. The fear of losing her crown had nagged at her thoughts but truly the idea of welcoming Robb’s child into the world had filled her with hope. So few of her family remained and that babe would have been a sweetest gift since Jon and she were reunited.

“It is kind of you.” Brynden accepted her arm upon his. “I think Jeyne needs someone like you right now…she needs family.”

With that Jyanna opened the door to lead them within and Sansa spared a look down at Jon.

He’d heard of course. His head lowered as he stood alone in the shadows.

 _We all need family,_ she thought _, all of us._

 

* * *

 

JON

 

“You’re Jon aren’t you?” The frail girl smiled up at him. “I hope you’re Jon.”

As sickly as she was he found the smile warm and inviting. A sweet thing to look upon.

_No wonder Robb did as he did._

“Yes Jeyne, I’m so happy to meet you.” He said, struggling to smile for her.

It was a hard thing to do as his eyes moved to hers.

Jon wished he could have seen her eyes before. He imagined when she was healthy they had been as warm as her smile. For they were a pretty brown, tainted horribly by the yellowing which had overtaken what had once been white.

“Robb talked of you often, said every smile from you was hard earned…” Jeyne’s hand reached for him and he met her halfway. “But your smile is handsome. Like Robb’s. He loved you so…”

Her grip was so weak, so clammy. Jon cupped her hand in his anyways and fought against the sadness building in him. This sweet girl had been Robb’s wife. She was meant to spend her days happily beside her king. Meant to bear him a child which all could have cared for.

She was to be family to him.

Yet just as Robb was dead, just as their child lost, Jeyne would soon be lost to them.

Jon had been hopeful for the poor girl only the day before. Just because she’d lost the baby did not mean Jeyne would mean less to him. Robb had married her and Jon would protect her, as he would have wanted.

Yet Lady Jyanna had crushed his hope. It had been her to come without the chambers and invite him inside. Her to tell him Sansa and the Blackfish were already at Jeyne’s side.

Saying their farewells.

“Save her.” He’d protested. “You must…we can’t lose her now. Not after she came all this way…”

Jyanna had listened to his pleas with a sad, knowing expression.

“We in the crannogs have different ailments than most of the realm. The chill she had before she reached our lands weakened her. The illness that befell her after is well known to us. They burn hot until death but we have ways of easing the fever away but if too much damage is done…it is but a calm before the end. The gods allow that at least. Do not waste it ser.”

He’d heeded those words for so much had been wasted already.

Not the least bit Jeyne’s suffering.

She had travelled so far. Been so brave. To die now like this.

When he finally entered the Blackfish was kneeling beside her bed speaking softly to her. The Blackfish not reacted to Jon’s presence, his eyes focusing on the girl before him.

Jon had seen her during her fever and she seemed a different girl. Sweat no longer soaked her face and her body was still and composed. Yet signs of her poor health were there, her skin had gone from pale to yellow. Such was one of the signs the lady had told them of pointing to the end.

“Robb chose well in his queen your grace.” Jon said, hoping to prolong that end with his words. “I’m sorry to have missed your wedding.”

“It was beautiful.” Jeyne closed her eyes as if in remembrance. “Robb so handsome…he said his family would welcome me…”

“We do Jeyne.” Sansa said, kneeling just to the side of him. “I’ve a goodsister I never thought to meet. I owe you so much for coming here…for finding us…”

“He told me you were a beauty…a real lady…” Jeyne trembled some then. “I think you’ll make a wonderful queen…better than me…”

“No, don’t say…”

Jeyne inhaled sharply then, her hand clutching Jon’s with a sudden burst of strength. They all were at a loss for what to do but the spell passed, Jeyne slowly pulling her hand from his, pointing to the side of the room.

“Ser Brynden…please…the bag…”

The knight nodded and then rose to pick up a muddied back from the side of the room. Jon remembered it had tied to their horse as they’d rode into the castle. The Blackfish carried it to her and she untied it with care and reached inside.

“I prayed…” Tears appeared in Jeyne’s eyes. “I prayed for a son…a son to name after your father. Robb would have liked that.

“Yes, it would have been an honor.” Sansa was crying now too and Jon put his hand upon her shoulder. She reached up and held it against her.

“But…if it had been a daughter…I’d thought after your mother…and to give her this.” Jeyne’s tears continued to fall as her words came out shakily. “I kept it safe for her….for you now…”

From the bag she pulled a bronze crown. Its band so thin it was barely as thick as a finger and adorned with small black iron spikes barely as long as fingernail along its length.

 _Her crown,_ he realized _, the crown Robb had made for her._

“Take it Sansa…take it and be the queen I couldn’t be…”

Jeyne held it out to Sansa who made no effort to take it. Instead she shook her head as tears ran down her cheeks.

“No Jeyne…I never wanted to take your crown. It is yours and I don’t want to take it from you…”

“I’m giving it you Sansa…don’t let them forget Robb…he was a good man…such a good man…be a good queen….”

Jeyne’s hand was shaking now and Sansa gingerly took the crown from her.

“I swear it Jeyne. I swear it.” Sansa said as she clutched the crown to her chest and looked helplessly at the girl.

“We will never forget Robb or his beautiful queen.” Jon said as a tear fell from his eyes. “Jeyne Stark. Queen in the North.”

_How many more?_

_How many more will die?_

Jeyne’s soft words were too quiet to hear. Jon knelt to be closer to her and apologized for not hearing.

“I wanted to see Winterfell…”

“You will, I promise…” Jon said as the Blackfish leaned forward to brush a curl of chestnut hair from her face.

Sansa was sobbing softly, still clutching the crown. He just knelt there, willing Jeyne to live, to join them as they retook their home. He could bring her and Sansa both home to Winterfell. Sansa and her could be friends as well as goodsisters and he would stand guardian over both of them. They would show her the godswood where Robb and him played as children.

If Jeyne lived they would do all these things.

Then the Blackfish’s hand went to her face again but not to brush away any hair. His fingers gently touched upon her eyelids and drew them down over her unseeing eyes.

“It is at an end.” The man rasped as he pulled his hand away. “Farewell my queen.”

And although Jon knew the knight was right.

Knew another Stark was lost to them.

He willed her to open her eyes.

Willed her to do what the others couldn't and come back to them.

_Just open your eyes._

_Please._

 

* * *

 

ARYA

She opened her eyes.

Wincing in pain as soon as she did so.

_Bugger me my head hurts._

Another thing Arya could blame the Hound for. As she rose from where she lay Arya decided she would do what he’d asked of her afterall.

 _I'll kill him,_ she thought _, I'll gut him if I have to._

But the Hound wasn’t where she’d left him.

Nor was she.

They’d been outside when he’d collapsed and could travel no further, where he’d begged her to give him the gift of mercy and she’d refused. She wanted him to suffer for what he did to Mycah, to die slowly and to know how truly weak and worthless he’d become.

Her mistake was thinking weaker than he truly was.

She’d been about to leave him behind when the Hound had reached out to grab at her. Arya had leapt aside but he’d tripped up her legs with his grab. As she’d fallen she’d seen the rock flying up at her and remembered no more after.

Nothing in that memory explained why she lay in a bed in what looked like a cottage. The room itself was small but cleaner and drier than she’d had in a long time, a fire burning in the fireplace off to the side. As was she, a quick glance to hands showed her nails clean of the filth so often collected there and her clothes had been changed. She now wore a simple, rough spun dress of wool which covered was so modest it felt like only her head and hands visible to the world.

She jumped from the bed, bare feet thumping on the dirt packed floor and she cursed at how loud she’d been. There was little furnishing in the room beside the straw pallet she lay upon, two chairs, and a chamber pot. No sign of her clothes or her sword anywhere and when she went to the only window she found it was shuttered from the outside.

Her forehead was throbbing and when she went to touch it a surge of pain shot through her. A large bump had risen from where her head hit the rock and she thought it was cut too, but someone had smeared some sort of ointment over it. Her fingers shone in the firelight from touching it.

 _I’ll kill him_ , she swore, _I’ll bloody well kill him_.

_After I get out of here._

She chanced the door, lifting its latch and pushing gently. Her breath caught when it opened but her hopes were dashed when it stopped suddenly, bumping against something hard when the gap could barely fit her fingers.

Then the door slammed back at the frame and she jumped backwards. Noises came from outside and the door rattled as something scratched against it. Then she heard the sounds of rapid footsteps moving away, growing fainter and fainter until they were gone gone.

“Bugger this!”

Arya rushed at the door again and kicked at it, but this time it didn’t budge at all. She’d killed men only days before, so she knew could take care of herself. A flaming log could be a weapon but a quick glance at the fire showed the wood there mostly burnt away.

_The chair._

She rushed to it next and while it was barely an armful on timber fitted together it could be a weapon. Arya wasn’t the strongest but the chair was light and with some effort she thought she could swing it powerfully enough.

Her ears picked up the sounds of footsteps again, growing louder and louder. Her heart raced when she realized one person couldn’t make so much noise.

 _Surprise them,_ she thought _, if I can surprise them I might have a chance._

The scratching began again and the door was rattling as she ran to hide behind it. It swung open slowly but she waited until she heard sound of shoes scrapping upon the earth.

That signaled her attack.

She kicked at the door as hard as she could, forcing it back and striking something hard. Someone grunted and a loud thud followed. The door was already swinging back towards Arya when she pulled the chair around it to see a man in a brown and dun robe laying on the floor and another bending down to help him.

“Yah!” Arya yelled, swinging the chair in a wide arc and striking the standing man square in the chest.

The chair shattered and her victim let out a wheezing sound as he tumbled out the door. She bolted after him, leaping over the crumpled form of the man without as a third man stood stunned, only gaping at her as she ran by him.

_Where am I?_

It was night but there was a good amount of lighting about. Around her she saw a collection of cottages that looked like beehives and a path leading away from them. It seemed like a good enough escape route as any so she took it.

As she air smelt of salt and it was not so dark yet she couldn’t see the path before her.

It was steep and kept curving about, trying to cut through those curves led her into weeds and briars which cut into her feet. A quick glance behind her showed figures staggering after her but much too slow, and quieter still.

 _They haven’t made a sound,_ she realized _, and no alarm yet._

_I can still escape._

The breeze against her face made her take better noticed of her surroundings, namely that she was still near the water. Most of the lands below her descent were took dark to make out but the flowing water beyond them was clear enough.

As were the flames rising from across it.

The path straightened out ahead of her for a time so she took the chance at trying to figure out what was burning across the water. Maybe it would give her an idea of where she was. At first she thought the river must have been narrower here, the fires burned so bright. Then the breeze brought the smell to her and the truth hit hard.

She’d thought maybe the flames were but simple lamps or torches which meant the river narrow enough to swim.

Instead it dawned on her the flames were far larger. They were wild and so many that even across the great water her nose filled with smoke and the smell of something fouler.

 _It’s burning flesh,_ the smell came back to, _people are burning over there._

That thought came to her just as something in front of her moved to block her path. Arya was moving too quickly to stop and slammed into the figure before her. Someone gasped and she tumbled to the ground.

All around her shadows and sounds let her know there were more people about.

Many more.

Whatever was happening across the water had attracted watchers, watchers who crowded the path Arya had been running down and fell amongst. Now their hands were on her, trying to pull her up.

“Get off me!” She began scratching and kicking. “Let off!”

“Be at ease child…at ease.” Someone said and she aimed a punch at the sound.

They’d gotten her to her feet and she saw it was more of the brown robed men.

At least a score of them. None moved to attack her and most held up their hands as if to calm her.

It didn’t work.

“Move!”

She kicked hard into the shin of the man blocking the path. He hissed and so did she, kicking without shoes made her foot sing with pain. And he hadn’t even moved.

“Stop…stop this…” A wheezing voice came from further up the bath. The three men she’d escaped from were catching up, the oldest of them was the one calling after her, sweat upon his shaved head.

“We will…not harm you. Men… of the…Faith.”

“Of the what?”

There were too many to fight now even though none made to grab her or hit her still. The ones she’d scratched rubbed at their wounds and the man she’d kicked favored his leg, but none sought vengeance.

 _Cravens_.

“Men of the Faith. Brothers of the septry here on Quiet Isle.” The young man who’d spoken earlier said. “The Elder Brother speaks the truth, we won’t harm you.”

“I am sorry if we scared you.” The old man was before her, sparing a quick glance to where the fires were burning. “I’m afraid it is not an uncommon thing to be afraid tonight.”

“Who are you? Wait, no where am I? How did I get here?” She asked before following the old man’s gaze.

In the silence of the night and how quiet these men around were she could hear things in the wind. The sounds were faint but she thought she heard screaming.

“And what’s happening over there?”

“I am called the Elder Brother, head of our brotherhood here. As Brother Narbert said, you are on Quiet Isle, where the faithful come to contemplate the seven in silent reflection. You were brought here by myself and some others, we found you ailing by the river.” At that he paused as a particular high-pitched scream carried across the river. “And that is the Saltpans…and it is burning. There are good people in that town, women and children and someone is doing evil there tonight.”

_The Saltpans?_

_No,_ she thought, _I was going to take a ship from there._

“Why don’t you help them?”

The Elder Brother closed his eyes, and murmured something silently with his lips. She was about to ask again when he opened his eyes again and looked down at her, with an expression that reminded her of Septa Mordane when the woman would inspect her needlework.

“We are not warriors. When it ends we will offer what kindness and prayer we can but to fight? It is not meant for those such as us. Neither is witnessing such horrors meant for a young child.” With that he turned away from the carnage and gestured back up the path. “Brother Narbert and the others will return you to your cottage and tend to the new wounds you have given yourself.”

Narbert moved to usher her on but she moved away from him and stepped to the Elder Brother instead. She wasn’t afraid of him, what he just said made him a craven and she was no craven.

“I don’t want to go back there! Where’s my sword? And my clothes?”

“Those clothes were ruined and no proper garb for a girl.” Narbert reached for arm again and she evaded just as easily the second time.

“Neither is a sword.” The Elder Brother sighed. “I cannot allow you to wander the island nor leave it with what happens ashore. You could fall victim to those villains and there are other beasts about…wolves…hounds...”

 _The Hound,_ she thought _,_ _he found me he would’ve found the Hound._

_Why doesn't he ask me about that bastard?_

She didn't get a chance to learn the answer to that. The men who’d chased after Arya joined Narbert in closing in around her. She almost growled in frustration but it was no use, the three men pushed her back up the path, her feet stinging with every step. What stung more was the idea these cowards had made her their prisoner. They’d taken her sword, her clothes and tried to act like they were helping her.

Back at the cottage one of the men waited without while Narbert had another run off to fetch cloth and a washing basin.

“Don’t think of bathing me again.” She noticed the smashed remnants of her chair in the corner and slowed moved towards them.

“I wouldn’t…I mean to say it was not I who assisted you after your arrival.” Narbert acted offended by the thought. “The two men who accompanied me, brothers Thomas and Judar, they saw to your changing and bathing. We would allow no others to perform such an act.”

_He likes to talk._

“Why are they so special?” She didn’t really care, she just wanted to keep him distracted. Among the broken bits of her chair was a wrung, snapped so that it had a sharp edge. Narbert wrung his hands some before glancing to her now ember only fire.

“Judar! Fetch more wood for our guest’s fire.” Narbert called out but left the door open. As he went over to ensure the other man had indeed left Arya reached and grabbed the wrung. She hid it behind her back as she faced Narbert who now regarded her again.

“They are both good men but neither has his…neither have what the seven indeed set us apart from women…”

“They’re eunuchs?” She was eyeing her straw pallet closely and thought it easy enough to hide the rung there if given the chance.

“Yes…such a word to come from a common girl. Where did say you were from?”

 _Idiot_ , she thought, _say someplace far away._

“Stoney Sept.” Was the first place that came to mind, it seemed long ago she’d been there now. “My family ran a tavern there, I heard many words.”

“And your name?”

“Mordane.” It was the first thing to spring to her mind and the man nodded thoughtfully.

Yet she didn’t think he looked convinced.

That worried her.

The brother she’d learn was Judar arrived soon after with the wash basin and clean cloths, as well as some bread and cheese for her. She’d spurned their help and demanded to be left in peace. Neither seemed willing to press the matter, instead leaving the basin at the foot of her pallet before setting to work cleaning the mess that had been her chair. After Thomas returned with wood to restart her fire they all left the cottage, but not completely.

“The Elder Brother will expect you to rest without worries so Brother Judar will remain outside upon a chair.” Narbert explained before frowning. “Do not try and leave again. Clean your wounds and in the morning the Elder Brother will see to your needs. But do not leave the cottages.”

“Fine.”

After they’d left she began planning her escape. Well first she did as Narbert said, she sat upon the straw and began cleaning the cuts and scrapes left from her run down the path. She’d need foot coverings to try and run again. The cottage lacked for those but did have a good supply of furs and blankets. Tearing apart some of the blankets with her teeth might do for making some shoes, the furs would do better but without a knife it wasn’t likely.

Instead she could use them for a cloak when she needed to sleep after her escape.

Or made into a satchel for her to carry the bread and cheese for her travels. It was then her stomach growled and Arya took notice of how hungry she was already. Even worse were how badly she’d hurt her feet, in the excitement the pain hadn’t meant much but now they flamed.

 _I can’t run like that,_ she thought _, and I’ll eat that food before I get too far._

And night would have fallen now, she had no idea how to get about the island in the dark. Nor did she have Needle or any coin to use after escaping. More and more it dawned on her escaping tonight was not an option.

Craven was the word that came to mind as she hid the wrung amongst the straw. The blankets and furs she pulled around herself warmed her and she was tired. The thought of the fires across the river and the screams kept her awake.

No sign of that carnage made its way inside her cottage but it was another massacre that bothered here.

The one at the Twins where she lost her mother.

And her brothers.

They’d all been so close. Mother and Robb had left Riverrun together for the Twins.

And Jon had followed in his own way.

“Please! We need to go after him!” She’d begged Lord Beric when they’d told her. “Take me to him! He’ll take care of me and you won’t have to!”

“My lady, Jon Snow has a great lead upon us and travels alone, meaning he can move even faster.” The Lightning Lord had said after the Hound’s trial. “Had I known you were to come here I would gladly have seen you reunited…”

“I don’t care! If we leave now we can find all of them at Riverrun.”

“And so we shall, so we shall.” Lord Beric had told her, the Brotherhood would take her to her family and collect a reward for returning her. She didn’t care about all that, only that they were so close.

When the Hound had taken her from them it hadn’t really changed much. They still travelled to the Twins and she’d had hope to find her mother and brothers there.

All they’d found was a massacre underway. The pounding drums and screams of the men dying in the tents still echoed in her dreams.

Robb had been killed.

And she’d dreamt of mother’s body amongst so many others in the river.

Yet she’d clung to some small hope for Jon.

“Girl…if they didn’t spare your brother the king, your mother the lady, why would they spare your father’s bastard?” The Hound had told her when she’d accepted her mother’s death. “You saw the slaughter in the camps and it was worse in the castle. He’s gone, accept it.”

She hated the Hound.

She hated thinking he was right and she hoped he was dead.

 _Like the others are._

_Like Jon is._

Arya got so little of what she wanted having much at least would do for now. As would the warm cottage and the soft pallet she curled up on.

 _I’ll escape tomorrow_ , she decided, _I’ll get off this bloody island tomorrow_.

_And then I’ll kill them all._

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plans are laid. Decisions are made. 
> 
> And darkness threatens all.

JON

 

The man was staring at him again.

It wasn’t threatening but definitely a challenge to Jon’s presence in the room. The Blackfish had been asked to join the Queen’s war council. It made sense,  Willem had also been included as well and excluding the Blackfish would have been a foolish thing to do. He was a storied knight, one of the finest of Robb's battle leaders and had ten times the experience of Jon.

 _Which is why he should be beside the Queen_ , he thought, _not me._

Jon had been a little uncomfortable when he’d realized  the empty seat next to Sansa was meant for him. Howland Reed sat to her left beside Ser Brynden and Willem while Yohn, Galbart and Maege joined him on the right. He couldn't meet Yohn's gaze out of the shame that he'd been offered a better seat than the man who'd knighted them.

The lord hadn't appeared to mind, in fact the man had patted Jon on the shoulder as he took his seat. The northern lords hadn't even spared him a glance despite how awkward he felt. He gathered that made some sense, they had tried to make him king only a short while ago. Seeing him seated next to the Queen was likely not so offensive after such.

The Blackfish was not as understanding.

 _I can't really blame him,_ he thought _, the man thinks me a traitor on top of being a bastard._

Indeed the knight's constant glares in his direction were a constant reminder of that. 

“My lords and fierce lady,” Sansa smiled at Lady Maege as she began. “My good knights, I thank you for joining me. I would hear all from you before I decide how we begin righting the wrongs done to us.”

Jon knew both Galbart and Ser Brynden had proposed plans of action to Sansa, which he was glad for. The others were all lords or knights with men or experience at their backs. Jon had seen battle, even had led others in a few but he was not to be compared with these others. He glad Sansa had their counsel.

“As it stands, the Riverlands are held under the thumb of the Lannisters and Freys.” Howland explained their situation. “Roose Bolton may soon reach Winterfell to join his bastard’s forces. There Ramsay Snow will wed a mummer’s wolf and say that the north is bound to them now.”

“Mummer’s wolf?” The Blackfish almost spat out his wine. “It is not your sister Arya that Bolton holds?”

Brynden hadn’t shown the best courtesies in interrupting but many of the others were just as confused.

“During my captivity at Kings Landing I never once saw or heard of my sister.” Sansa answered calmly. “I do not think this was a tactic on the part of the Lannisters to keep us scared and alone. Joffrey would have made me watch him…well I just don’t believe they ever had Arya. They only made it so we thought they did.”

“An imposter then? It makes sense, had they brought the child to Riverrun and threatened to hang her I would not have been able to name her.” Brynden said thoughtfully. “Would many of the North recognize a feigned Arya Stark?”

“I don’t believe so.” Jon answered, earning the knight’s ire. “Most took notice of Sansa rather than Arya…”

Sansa looked hurt at that and Galbart somewhat offended but he continued on.

“Truly Galbart, you visited Winterfell often, could you name Arya by sight?”

The Glover man chewed on that question for a moment, his chin high and appearing a bit put out.

“I would not.” He conceded.

“Nor I.” Maege added.

“After losing one hostage I doubt Tywin Lannister would admit to losing another.” Yohn put in. “I would not put it past him to resort to mummery.”

“Nor Roose Bolton to marry to his bastard to a mummer.” Maege concurred but looked unsure. “But Can we ignore the chance it truly is your sister they hold?”

“I have reason to believe the Queen’s suspicions are correct, that the Boltons hold a feigned heir.” Howland folded his hands before him. “I have it on good authority from an old friend.”

Jon expected him to say more but nothing else came, the lord just sitting there daring any to further challenge Sansa and his claims.

None did.

“Well, I gather that is good for us.” Brynden shrugged. “At least your sister doesn’t have to suffer to marrying a bastard.”

The knight stared right at Jon as he spoke the last word. 

“It means Arya is still missing though.” Jon ignored the jab despite Sansa ruffling beside him. He would keep the peace. “Yet it is some comfort Roose Bolton does not hold her hostage.”

“Alas he holds many more.” Maege said. “Through the Freys Roose holds the Greatjon, Bernard Lake, Marq Piper, and several other northern and riverlords sworn to House Stark. All taken at that wedding and held under the Twins. In dungeons and in chains from what we hear.”

“Thank you for saying so Maege, we cannot forget those men suffering so.” Sansa spoke softly. “We cannot retake the North with so many of my brother’s most loyal bannermen held hostage. I would not try to do so without them at my side.”

“It can be done without them your grace. King Robb wanted us to retake Moat Cailin from the ironmen. A force coming from the south and a force landed to the north encircling the fort.” Galbart pointed to a map of the North laid out in front of him. He drew two invisible lines with his fingers outlining how the forces would come upon gateway to the north. “With Bolton holding it I don’t see as the plan requires much altering.”

“Our forces are greatly reduced Galbart and a counterattack from the north by Bolton would oust us once again.” Howland countered so quickly that Galbart bristled.

“When the lords following Roose hear that Sansa Stark has taken Moat Cailin with an army at her back how long can he last?”

“As long as his Frey allies hold their hostages, I fear quite awhile.”

Howland’s words caused Jon to nod in agreement, an act the Blackfish joined in before scowling in seeing his company. 

“Lord Reed is correct. Let us take stock of our current plight.” The Blackfish pointed to another map of the Neck and the Riverlands, laying his finger at the Greywater Watch. “We are in a strong position here with more than enough men to march. Yet on either side we face strong enemies who can can threaten our rear whichever way we march…”

They watched as the Blackfish swung his finger south to the Twins.

 “Since our enemy to the North depends on the help of House Frey we should give them a reason to abandon that support.” The knight thumped his finger on the map. “We know the Freys marched half their forces north with the Boltons. The other half largely went to besiege Riverrun and Seagard. Those forces will have returned and will mostly be disbanded. I already saw it happening as the siege wore on at Riverrun.”

“They think the fight is over.” Sansa said, earning a nod from her uncle.

“Yes, which helps us your grace. A strong but shrinking force stands at the Twins where your bannermen are held prisoner. With the Freys as the force behind Lannister control in the Riverlands I propose we take their seat from them, as they took Riverrun from the Tully’s.”

“Gods Tully those castles cannot be besieged, you know this!” Galbart shook his head in disbelief. “Our army would be smashed outside those walls!”

“Aye, the Freys built their castles well and command a strong garrison with archers that would cut us to shreds.”

Jon thought that a poor argument yet Sansa seemed intrigued.

“Then how do we take it uncle?” She asked.

“Guile. Trickery. I would have weasel the weasels.” The Blackfish answered firmly before looking to Howland.

“Ser Brynden and I talked earlier to compare what he knew of the Freys and what my scouts have reported.” Howland went on. “When the Boltons and Freys travelled north we could not stop them but we did make them regret using our lands. They lost many a horse and abandoned scores of wagons on their march. Those wagons are ours now.”

“We also have a contingent of men strangers to this conflict.” The Blackfish smiled and turned to Lord Yohn. “I am to understand that the Vale has not openly opposed the throne yet?”

“Not yet, but do not doubt, the Vale has been unhappy to stay out of this fight.” Yohn said with a grimace. “I have been the most unhappy.”

“Genuinely sour in truth.” Willem added.

“Good. That helps us.”

“The Freys built their power from taxing their crossing. Now they find themselves shunned by most of the realm, most travellers now shun using their bridge.” He smiled. “Some gold and good will from a powerful house such as Royce of Runestone would seem attractive to them. I’ve never known Walder Frey to turn down an opportunity to improve his station.”

“He’s been trying to get me to marry one of his daughters for years!” Yohn confirmed before jerking a thumb at Willem. “Wouldn’t take this one.”

"I'm from the Vale, I prefer sheep to weasels." Willem shrugged.

“Ser Brynden proposes the Royces enter the Twins under the guise of making the crossing.” Howland turned to Sansa then. “After they have crossed from the one castle to the next, they would commence an attack.”

“Gods with only a hundred men?” Maege asked but the Blackfish shook his head.

“We hope to double that number with men hidden in the wagons. Skilled archers would be needed especially. I heard the crannogmen have a good number of those pledged to us.”

“What of the other castle. Surely they would close their gates and send help across the bridge?”

“I imagine they would…if they too weren’t under attack.”

Howland explained that a small mounted force of Freys was stationed just south of the swamps.  Men meant to react quickly to any raids the Reeds sent south. He felt it within their power to encircle and take those men.

And their uniforms.

From there they explained that a force of riders would don the Frey armor and be seen to canter towards the castle gate as the Vale men entered. The rest of the northern forces would be behind, using the darkness to their advantage. The imposters would storm the gates when the war horn sounded and, hopefully, be able to keep the drawbridge down and gate open long enough for mounted reinforcements to join them. They would hold the entrance until the foot entered the castle.

Sansa was enthralled by all of this. She sat listening with a hopeful look on her face.

Seeing that made Jon hate doing what he had to.

“It is a fine plan.” He offered. “Yet it will fail.”

“The bastard has become a master strategist!” The Blackfish proclaimed in false awe. “Listen boy I won’t be…”

“Let him continue ser!” Sansa commanded but she looked reproachfully at Jon.

“I am no master strategist but I have seen simpler plans foiled by smaller things.  What if the Freys inspect the caravan as it crosses? What if they question the unannounced return of their men? What if one, if not both, of our parties is crushed before the foot can arrive?”

“Jon speaks truly. I had such doubts and believe this plan needs more to work.” Howland said to the Blackfish’s dismay. “We need some way of ensuring they trust all that we put before them. A turncloak would be ideal.”

“Good luck with that.” Willem reached for the wine. “Freys barely trust other Freys!”

“I want that castle.” Sansa said suddenly. “I want my bannermen. I want justice for my family.”

Her voice reminded him of father’s.

_Her father’s._

“We all do.” Maege sighed. “But unless we have a spare Frey willing to help us betray his kin I can’t see how this will work.”

“Maybe I should venture out a kill myself a weasel. If I wear it’s hide maybe they’ll see the resemblance and welcome me as one of their own.” The Blackfish said glumly. “A trout among the beasts.”

While Galbart and Willem chuckled some at the knight’s joke Jon felt chills run down his spine.

And it wasn’t just the knight’s words that caused such.

The words of another came flooding back into his thoughts.

_‘When a dark fish would wish to be a beast and be welcomed among its kin.’_

_Gods,_ he cursed to himself _, it’s not possible._

He’d thought Melisandre mad, the ramblings in her chambers nonsense to be forgotten. Yet he hadn’t forgotten.

He couldn’t forget for the dilemma before fit her predictions so perfectly.

As the others continued to try to find a way to alter the plan Jon tried to find a way around Melisandre’s prophecy.

Jon had never lost the gifts she had given him throughout all his journeys. The bracelets sat in his chambers even now, miraculously untouched. It was an odd thing to think of, that despite all his hardships they’d been by his side ever since the Blackwater.

And then the flood of all he’d recently learned about himself crashed over him.

_‘When king’s blood would be offered to the flames’_

He stared down at his hands.

_I have my father's blood._

_Targaryens blood_ , _the blood of kings._

_The blood her dark magic craves._

He wanted nothing to do with that blood or any of Melisandre’s sorcery. Yet what he wanted was nothing compared to the need he felt to avenge Robb’s murder.

To his need to protect Sansa.

  _And she wants that castle._

“Jon?” Sansa’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Jon? Is something amiss?”

He realized he’d been staring at the table, his hands clenched into fists. The others had taken notice and Sansa eyed him with worry.

“I…your grace…I would tell you something of great importance.” He didn’t look at the others, only her. “I’d ask with deepest apologies to do so in privacy.”

Sansa looked at uneasily so he pressed.

“Please.”

She nodded then with little hesitation, then asked the others to allow them some time alone. As her war council stood to leave, the Blackfish glowering at Jon the entire time, he thought again.

“Again, my deepest apologies and it is no distrust the rest you…but if Lord Reed and Ser Brynden could remain.” Jon watched the confusion flash on their faces. “Since my words pertain to their plan.”

“Ser, what is…”

“Galbart, the boy is doing what he thinks best.” Maege nodded. “I think two hale lords and knight could escort a Lady for a cup of wine before we return I think.”

Galbart joined the others in the end, leaving a very confused three all staring at Jon.

Brynden glaring at him once again.

“Alright Snow, what the seven hells are you playing at?”

  

* * *

 

 

SANSA

 

“No. I say no and ask you never speak of it again.”

“My queen we have few options but…”

“No!”

She did not mean to yell but she was angry. Furious even.

 _I cannot let this happen_ , she thought, _it is beyond madness._

She could not believe Jon had proposed it, let alone that the other two men supported him.

Jon persisted at it still.

“Sansa.” Jon spoke softly and she imagined he was trying to meet her eyes but she refused him that, looking straight ahead. “Sansa, you know this is the only way.”

“I do not.” She shook her head. “I do however know how much you chose not to share than you about your journeys.”

Hearing about Jon’s time on Dragonstone and his dealings with the red priestess had been shocking enough. Apparently this red woman frightened him and he appeared pained to speak of her. His tale was of spells, visions and blood magic which had turned Sansa’s blood cold. She thought it worthy of the kind Old Nan would tell which scared her so as a child.

Having Jon swear to its truthfulness terrified her even more. For he would not lie to her. The man she knew had a face that did not take to lying.

Howland had accepted Jon’s words without much questioning which was disappointing.

From her great uncle she had expected derision and mocking. That Jon’s tale would give the knight another reason to mistrust him.

And she was shocked again.

“Your lady mother spoke to me of this red woman and how Renly Baratheon came to die. She named it sorcery.” The old knight was grim as he spoke. “If anyone but Cat had talked of such things I’d have called them mad. I knew her well and she was not one for false tales. In truth she was scared.”

 _Fine_ , she thought, _I can accept Melisandre has powers I do not understand._

But what Jon thought these two bracelets he carried were prophesized to do, that would be foolish to accept.

_Madness to accept._

“Your grace, I know little of this woman’s powers or this red god she professes to serve.” Howland opened his palm and traced a line across it with his finger. “But I know much of the history of my people and of the First Men themselves. Told to me by learned men who were told by learned men in a line that goes back to the founding of your very house...”

“I don’t think she needs a history lesson.” Her uncle grumbled but Howland ignored him.

“We follow the old gods and the old ways as our ancestors did. We trust in them as the First Men and the Children before them had for thousands of years and I can tell you, truthfully, they had great respect for blood magic and its power.” Howland closed his fist then. “And great fear of it as well.”

Something about how the lord spoke left her feeling uneasy. His earnestness troubled her for sure yet it was how she almost found herself believing his words that made her tremble.

“Perhaps the lord is right, perhaps not.” Brynden eyed Howland in a strange manner. “The same can be said for your knight here and his red woman. I do know we must march south at any rate. We cannot act in the North without the Greatjon and the others freed. To do so we’d have to take on that Frey force at the edge of the swamps so I see no harm in at least attempting what Snow suggests.”  

“Do you think we could capture their leader alive?” Jon asked, ignoring her uncle’s choice of words.

“It would not be impossible. Hopefully he’d be someone trusted enough to vouch safe the weaker parts of our plan.” Howland had answered.

“Still, the commander riding alone back to his castle…it would seem odd. Odd does not help us.”

“Unless he brought them something that garnered a return so dramatic.”

_Heroes often ride back home alone in songs._

“A victory perhaps?” Sansa said then.

She gasped, almost covering her mouth in shock she’d unwittingly helped them. Help her uncle seized upon.

“Ha! Perhaps he brings a tale of crushing a force of bog devils!”

“Still, he could send a rider for such news.” Howland pointed out. “They would not think it such an accomplishment.”

“What if he brought with him a prisoner?” Jon asked. “A prisoner of some importance?”

She began to regret bringing Jon to this table then. Putting one of their own in harms way was not ideal and now he suggested making it two.

“I can’t spare any of my bannermen.” She said firmly.

“Of course. They are needed to command their forces.” He nodded and she felt relieved he saw reason.

The relief did not last.

“I however command no forces. It should be me.” Jon announced. “I will go.”

“That’s…that’s not a bad idea.” Her uncle said thoughtfully as she choked on rage. “He would have King Robb’s half brother, captured leading a raid against them. Surely something to boast about!”

“I forbid it!” She hissed. “I forbid all of it.”

“Sansa it could be the only way…”

“Using sorcery upon my uncle? Allowing you to be captured? That’s the only way?” She snapped at Jon. “I can’t accept that.”

“It is the best of many poor options your grace.” Howland said then, strangely calm in the face of her fury. “And the one that presents us with the least possible losses.”

“And what if they kill them?”

“Then I die where Cat and my king died. My life given so our army had a chance to bloody the Freys.” Brynden answered.

“And I will have finally fought for Robb.” Jon added. “And I’d be with my family.”

“No.” She did not think a queen should have to repeat herself. “There is another way…there has to be. I won’t allow it.”

Theirs eyes met and Jon had the gall to seem irritated. She was trying to save his life and he was acting as if she was a silly girl. He turned to face the other two men instead of her.

“My lord, ser…I beg a private word with our queen.”

“If her grace permits. We could go and find her fellow advisors.” Howland’s tone betraying his wish to do just that.

_Speak with me privately._

_Does he think me easy to sway?_

She was not a silly little girl any longer. Yet in truth Sansa wanted them gone. Perhaps she could make Jon see reason without the other two there to think he a coward for backing down.

So she let them go, and as soon as the door had shut she rose and looked down on her traitor knight.

“Madness Jon. I name this madness and dark sorcery!”

“Possibly, but it could work.”

“Could work? You are worth more to me than a could work!”

She wanted him to feel ashamed of being so foolish. To accept he’d erred and see reason. Instead Sansa saw something in his eyes she didn’t like. The same look he’d had when he tried to accept blame for Littlefinger’s death on her behalf.

“I was not able to help Robb.” He said quietly. “Nor Bran or Rickon. Father or Arya. I can do this Sansa. I want to do this.”

“So you would leave me alone? Break your vow to me?”

_He’s all I have now._

“Sansa, I swore to see you as Queen and returned home. If this is what I must do to make sure that comes to pass...”

“Then it won’t come to pass!” Sansa did not want the crown if it meant sending him to die. “It’s not worth what it could cost! None of it!”

Jon stared at her, appearing almost disappointed in her.

“A queen knows when to ask hard things of her subjects.” He said. “No matter how we take the Twins men will die. Men fighting for you. I could just as easily fall in that fight as any other.”

_No I was going to keep you by me._

_Safe and away from the fighting._

Quickly Sansa recognized those thoughts for the kind they were.

A foolish girl’s dreams.

Jon would never have accepted that. Nor would she have fought at hard to keep any others from wishing to do as he did now. It was a horrible thing to think but she was willing to lose almost anyone except Jon at this point.

“But if you die there it will be because I let it happen…I let you die…” She was crying now. “Just like I let father…”

He reached out and took her face in his hands, wiping tears away gently with his thumbs.

“If it happens, Sansa, if it happens, it will be a great many people’s fault.” Jon said soothingly. “But never yours. Not my Queen’s. Not for letting me get justice for all we’ve lost.”

The girl in her was screaming against this but the Queen she wanted to be saw his truths.

They had killed her mother. They had killed her brother.

And they'd reaped rewards for doing so, feasting in their castles, comfortable and warm while their friends marched to her home to make it theirs. 

It sickened her to think of. It sickened her more and more Jon's plan felt a path to their enemy's end.

_A path that could seal his end as well._

“This plan is so foolish.” She said breathing deeply. “If I believe in it…in sorcery...if I allow it…depend on it...aren't I a fool? A stupid child who wants to believe in tales and songs?”

The last part confused Jon, his grey eyes looking deep into hers.

“The knights always return in the songs…”

He smiled.

Despite how horrible this all was. Despite the danger he asked her to send him to. Despite everything else.

Jon smiled.

“Then I shall try to be a knight of songs.”

 

* * *

 

 

ARYA   
  


The first time Arya tried to escape Quiet Isle it had been using trickery.

The aftermath of the Rape of the Saltpans had come to the island her first morning there. They hadn’t let her leave her cottage, apparently the sights she’d see not meant for girls either.

She heard enough of it to know it was bad. Arya was kept in cottages meant for women and girls alone, the men dwelt elsewhere on the island. So it was the crying and screams of the women she heard as they were moved into cottages near her own.

“Let me help, let me be of use.” Mordane had begged of Judar and Thomas in turn. “Even just to do wash, I just want to help.”

The Elder Brother and Brother Narbert hadn’t returned to her, they must have been too busy. Her watchers weren’t allowed to talk, like most of the others on the island, but they could act.

Thomas had brought her the washbasin and dirty, bloody bandages to clean on the second day. Load after load she scrubbed as best she could before placing them outside to be taken for boiling. It was the third day that Thomas had felt comfortable enough to leave her unguarded as he took her newly finished pile away.

 _The idiot,_ she’d thought _, next time leave me a crossbow as well._

And off she went.

Fleeing the first chance she got turned out to be a mistake.

It had been daylight and trying avoid the path from the night before had been a fool’s errand. Even with the shoes they’d gifted her she didn’t make much progress through the rough country and it was much too steep to climb down.

In the end she’d chanced the path again, still making it as far as the cloisters where the brothers slept before a group had spotted her.

The Elder Brother made time for her after that.

“I beg you not to risk yourself again, you can hear the suffering of the poor women and children from across the river.” He’d lectured Arya as she lay crouched upon her straw bedding. “The fiends that did it are not far, the defenses the seven grant us kept them away but they are nearer than I’d like.”

“I’m sorry...I heard the screams and you didn’t come back. Neither did Narbert…I just want to leave, to find my family…”

“Your family? I thought they were lost to you?” Elder Brother had asked and she’d almost thought of something to say to it before she caught on.

She had never said anything about her family being lost.

Mordane could still have her family.

“I have a family, in Stoney Sept…”

“Ah yes, Stoney Sept.” Elder Brother had seemed to contemplate that before shrugging. “It is far from here and too dangerous for you to travel alone. Be content as our guest until we can arrange your return there and you will be well cared for. I will not have you punished this time but if you disobey again, I cannot promise the same.”

“I understand.”

Mordane had spoken those words but Arya had already been plotting her next attempt. Just because she had been caught once didn’t mean she intended to stay here or be caught the next time.

“Do you wish to pray with me? For your return to your family?” The old brother’s request had been denied, apparently Mordane felt too ashamed for her actions to do so.

She’d behaved for a week after that, mostly because her watchers were back, never leaving the outside of her door. It was another week after that before she was allowed to do more than wash bandages and go to the sept to pray.

In truth she sat before the altar and said the names of the people she wished to die over and over.

The next week she was allowed to start doing chores and moved about the island more. She weeded the vegetable garden, did the wash and helped care for the victims from the Saltpans.

During her chores she’d managed to hide away a stick long and heavy enough to help her pretend it was Needle. In her cottage, every night and often enough when she’d say something one of the brother’s disagreed to and be confined to it for prayer, she’d practice.

Her second escape attempt had needed her to remember how to fight.

For this one she used forced for.

As much as she thought the quiet brothers craven she had grown to like Judar and Thomas. Or at least come to see them as men and not bad ones at that. So when the night came Arya took pity on Judar, only beating him over the head with the rung she’d hidden away rather than stabbing him in the throat.

It was dark but the moon had been out, she’d planned wait for that. She stuck to the path that time, moving quicker upon it than she would have otherwise. The only problem was how little of the lower parts of the island she’d glimpsed. The Elder Brother hadn’t permitted her too go that far, and she’d never seen the ferry landing.

When a bell had started tolling in the sept Arya knew it was for her. They’d found her in the apple orchard. The brothers knew the island better and it wasn’t long before a score of torches were chasing her through the trees. They’d caught her as she glimpsed the ferry landing, between the trees ahead with the river sparkling in the moonlight.

She counted at least two boats tied to it she knew could handle.

The Elder Brother had come to again and he hadn’t lied.

She was punished.

Maester Luwin had caned her many times, but he’d never had the strength of this old man. Tears had almost come to her eyes towards the end and her arse had stung something awful when he’d finished.

“If there was a septon here he’d hear your confession for what you did to Brother Judar. But if there is anything you’d say to me I’d hear it, perhaps why you think you need to flee here so badly?”

“Girls don’t live here.” She’d said remembering what she’d learned from what few conversations she had with the smallfolk visiting Quiet Isle. “And you’ve let other girls leave.”

“You are not other girls.” He’d said, watching her as if waiting for her to explain why that was true. When she said nothing the old man had sighed and made to leave before acting even more strangely. “And your path home is not safe yet.”

“The path seems safe enough.”

“I do not think we speak of the same one child.” The man spoke before turning away from her.

He’d almost been out the door before she asked a question which had been bothering her for some time.

“What happened to the Hound?”

It was a stupid thing to do but her arse had still been raw and she wasn’t thinking straight.

“That man died soon after we brought you both here. Some believe he was to blame for the killing at the Saltpans. Alas, it seems another is using that accursed name now, pretending to a name that isn’t his own.” Elder Brother inspected her face then. “It is an easy thing to take a name that isn’t your own.”

It was not an easy thing to wait another full moon before she’d try again tonight.

The brothers had grown cooler to her since her attack upon Judar. The proctors, when allowed to speak, would preach to her about how wicked she was. They’d tell her to accept the path the seven had set forth for her and how the one she tread would lead to darkness.

 _Fine by me_ , she thought, _darkness will help me get out of here._

She’d continued with the chores set before her, if only to have a reason to leave her cottage and learn more of the island than she knew. The Elder Brother still refused her entry to the lower parts but she’d found areas on the heights to gaze down towards the ferry landing.

 _Tonight is the night I’ll get out of here,_ she vowed, _I have to._

_I’ll go mad another day with these people._

For some fool reason they’d given Arya another chair and it was key to her plan. They kept her door barred from the outside for some time now so opening and beating one of her watchers over the head with the chair wasn’t an option.

So she set it on fire instead, letting the flimsy thing catch flame and burn bright and tall. The fire in her hearth was too small and weak to collect what she needed of it.

When the chair had burned long enough Arya kicked away at the burning bits of wood and scooped up the coals and embers with her chamber pot.

“Thomas!” She cried out, trying to sound as panicked as she could. “Thomas please!”

The pot was hot in her hands before the brother opened her door and gaped at her wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry.” Was the only warning she gave.

Arya threw the embers full into his face, the sizzle of his skin and his screams were horrible to hear. It didn’t slow her down though.

She was by the screaming man and on her way down the path before she saw anybody else moving about.

Any other place she’d be worried someone would shout down to ring the bell, but she’d learned from her time here. All the brothers allowed to speak would be in the area below her and to raise the alarm the men above would have to break their vows.

Even without the moonlight she made good time down the path. She was well passed the Common Hall before the bell began to ring, Arya even laughed to hear it. Instead of going through the orchard again she ran through some of the terraced fields, the wet soil soaking her feet.

The ferry landing was closer still when she saw the torches in the orchard, she laughed.

 _I knew they’d think me that stupid_ , she thought, _bunch of fools._

The landing held one large ferry but it was the two smaller paddleboats she ran to. Arya figured she was strong to get one to shore before it took her too far into the bay. Throwing the light fur sack of supplies she gathered into one of the boats she hopped in as well.

She set to untying the first knot and surprised herself how quickly it came undone. The second one was wet and much more taught, so she lowered her head and put her teeth to it, tasting the salt water as she did so.

 _Just a little more,_ she thought, _it’s almost there._

The moment the knot came loose was when she started to fly.

“Hey!” Arya yelled as she was yanked upwards and thrown bodily onto the dock.

Her breath flew out of her and she was still gasping as she watched the tall hooded figure on the dock stumble some.

_His leg’s no good._

_I’ll knock the bugger in the water then._

She leapt up to charge at the man’s weak leg when three brothers appeared behind him.

“Fuck!” Arya screamed as they swarmed her. “Stupid craven bastards just let me be!”

This time she wasn’t brought back to her cottage, instead they carried her bodily to the sept where the Elder Brother and all the proctors gathered. He was facing the rest, his back to her, in midst of some sort of speech.

“My brothers…I know many of you have questioned why I chose to accept a strange girl child on our island for so long. You’ve come to me with concerns, ever fears for what it could mean for our septry. And you were right to do so.” The Elder Brother turned to acknowledge her presence. “For this girl can cause more damage than she has to Brother Thomas tonight…”

“If you’d let me leave I wouldn’t have done that!” Arya raged. She’d had enough of all these men. “You’re sheep! Not men! Men would’ve fought and helped the people at the Saltpans! All you did was hide here…”

“Be quiet girl.” The Elder Brother tried to stop her but she spat at him.

“Good people died in the war and you hide here! Good men died! I don’t want to be one of you! I’m stronger than any of…”

“Arya Stark! Be Silent!”

This time the Elder Brother silenced her. Every eye in the sept was on the old man, including her own.

_He knows._

“Yes I know you are Lady Arya Stark, I apologize for letting you believe I didn’t. And to all my brothers for not telling them sooner.” At that the Elder Brother turned away from her and began pacing up around the assembled proctors. “Two moons ago the last known member of House Stark arrived at our septry. And for two moons I’ve kept this fact known only to myself, for her safety and for the safety of the realm.”

“Bugger the realm! Let me leave here!”

“I said be silent my lady!” The Elder Brother, if capable of anger, seemed to be showing it now. “We have no High Septon for me to report this to and considering the crimes done against the Starks and the seven themselves at the Red Wedding I dared not reveal the lady yet. For fear of what the Iron Throne would do.”

“Brother…they will see such as treason.” Brother Tambor said, probably the only proctor allowed to speak at the time.

“When our new High Septon was chosen I would have sought his counsel on the matter and presented myself before the crown for judgment.” The Elder Brother turned back to her now. “I tell you now because I could not continue here, asking you all to accept this lady’s behavior without explaining myself. Without explaining her.”

With that the Elder Brother came and stood before here, holding a hand just above her head.

“For I fear the trouble of our lands have destroyed more than just crops. More than the peace of our realm.”

He placed his hand upon her head and she snapped her teeth at him.

“I fear it has destroyed this girl’s goodness. Her light.” The man’s words caused her to stop snarling. “I fear her damaged, I fear she is without the true faith, and I fear for what she carries in her.”

“I don’t have anything in me.” She protested but the Elder Brother only shook his head and walked away from her.

“You do child.” He said softly. “You have a darkness within. Something I fear drives her towards evil...”

Arya froze. Something about all this was familiar.

_The Ghost of High Heart._

_She called me something_ , she tried to remember, _something about darkness._

The Elder Brother answered for her.

“A dark heart.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deceptions, secrets and sorcery as some are driven apart and others find each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very unique chapter. When I was writing this story this and the next chapter were the hardest part to put together the way I wanted. It's rare for how many POV's there are and for the tone. More or less it's a set up for an action packed Chapter 11.
> 
> Once again thank you everyone who offers me feedback.

 

WALTON

 

_Where did the fucking northmen come from?_

Walton was still asking himself that as they led him through their bloody camp. Men hooted and hollered at him. Some even brandished knifes.

_I had almost a hundred mounted men._

_Enough to fight off the bogdevils._

_Not half the bloody North!_

When he ordered his men to give chase to a score of swamp scum they'd spotted at the creek's edge Walton thought he might finally have earned a reason to return to the Twins. He hated that he’d been given this duty. Sent out to fight rabble such as these animas, it had been insulting.

It was Edwyn’s idea of course. To take men away from the Twins to see who they could trust. It felt like Black Walder’s claws were in everything it.

Even Walton’s own daughter.

Once they’d crushed these raiders he swore to return to the castle. He'd give a report and enjoy some days comfort, a serving girl he’d taken to as of late, perhaps even convince his father to send someone else back in his stead.

Then, out of nowhere, spearmen had attacked their right, charging through the trees howling bloody murder. Arrows came soon after, flying from archers who had risen up from below brush just in front of their prey.

As soon as Walton realized it was a trap he tried to retreat. There was nowhere to retreat to though. The creek blocked their left and a great number of horsemen had launched an attack from behind. The battle had been quick and bloody, his men slaughtered around him with little mercy shown for any the Northmen fell upon.

Plenty of mercy left for Walton though. While his men died nary an arrow or sword came near him. In fact a group of enemy men had even formed up around him, defending him from harm.

Despite everything else, that put him at ease. Even offered him some hope.

Until he was pulled from his horse to fall hard upon his arse.

As they dragged through a camp in the making he spotted bogdevils, Northmen and even a sigil of House Royce from the Vale. The tour ended abruptly when they reached one tent in particular, one his captors pulling aside the flaps to throw him within.

He landed face first, his nose exploding in blood and pain. He cried out and a boot slammed into his side for his trouble.

“Enough.” A deep voice commanded. “Get him on his feet.”

Despite the pain Walton thought he recognized that voice. He’d grown to hate it during his march with the Wolf King. He was yanked to his feet and, sure enough, he saw the old knight he expected standing before him.

“Blackfish. You fool.” Walton spat at him.

To his disappointment the mix of blood and spittle missed Tully’s face entirely, landing upon his boot instead.

The Blackfish marched forward and responded with an armored fist into Walton’s gut. He would have doubled over had the men on either side of him not held him up.

“I was wrong, now it’s enough.” The Blackfish’s face was stone as the guards forced Walton’s face to meet his gaze.

“I was right your grace.” The knight spoke to some figures behind him. “They were led by no mere captain but a Frey himself. I give you Walton Frey, son number who cares of another damned son of Walder Frey.”

_Your grace?_

He half expected to see Stannis Baratheon himself standing before the Blackfish. Instead he found a stern looking young man next to a comely girl. She had long red hair and in her simple gown of grey something about made her seem very familiar.

Then he spotted the crown of bronze upon her brow.

“Your grace? Who is the child?”

“I am Sansa Stark. Queen in the North.” The girl said and the tone of her voice had none of the appeal of the rest of her.

“The Imp’s wife?” Walton laughed. “Following another wolf pup eh Blackfish? Hope to do better this time hiding behind her skirts rather than castle walls?”

Tully’s hand flexed on his sword hilt but he made no move to strike. Something else was moving though. It came from behind the so-called Stark girl and her companion. A giant wolf had now emerged from the shadows and Walton drew back away from it.

_No, we killed it._

_We cut off its head! Took it's pelt!_

It took him a moment to overcome his terror enough to see this was a different wolf altogether.

This one was white as snow but just as massive as the one they killed during the wedding. Its bright red eyes were the worst thing about it, for they had locked upon Walton and had a hungry look about them.

 _It can’t know what we did_ , he thought _, it’s just a stupid beast._

The wolf bared its teeth in a silent snarl.

“Keep that thing away.” He struggled with his guards but they held firm. “Just keep it away.”

“He is of a size with you ser.” The young man placed his hand upon the beast’s head. “His armor and cloak would fit well.”

_My armor?_

_Are the Starks outlaws now?_

The Blackfish grunted and the youth came walked around Walton. Suddenly the man was grabbing roughly at his bound hands, pulling his fingers apart. One by one the rings Walton wore were ripped forcefully from his fingers and tossed at the Blackfish who caught them with ease.

“These will help too.”

_They have become bandits._

That meant they were desperate and Walton felt a surge of hope. If they were so eager for armor and gold then perhaps they’d be willing to ransom him.

“Are you sure?” The Blackfish eyed the rings warily.

“I’m sure of nothing. She said as much of the man that made him look as others see him.”

That confused him. When he’d let his men loot corpses they mostly argued about the quality of the gold. This lot should be arguing over how much his ransom could be. Walton prepared himself to lie about his value when the questions started.

“How many men are at the Twins now?” The Blackfish moved to a brazier where a brand lay heating upon the glowing coals. “Answer Frey.”

Walton puffed his chest out and tried to sound braver than he was.

“Two thousand, hungry for battle.”

The wolf snarled again, oddly silent and took a menacing step towards him. Walton had seen first hand what those beasts could do to a man and feared it more than any branding.

_Where did they keep finding such foul creatures?_

“He lies.” The ring thief said as he went to stand beside the girl. “It would be better to answer truthfully. How many men?”

“Ask Tully, he saw our army and ran.”

The Blackfish made a sound like a laugh and lifted the brand from the fire. It burned a bright orange at the end and the Blackfish’s eyes narrowed upon that.

“Remove his armor and coverings.” He commanded.

Walton’s hands were no sooner undone then the guards went to work stripping him to his small clothes. The girl did not look away, apparently his nudity did not bother her. He’d always said the northerners were little more than savages but it did not comfort him much to be proven right.

As soon as it was done his hands were bound again, in front of him this time.

“Leave us.” The Stark girl’s words caused the guards and to bow and leave the tent.

The Black twirled the brand before Walton, smirking some at his distress, before tossing beside the brazier.

“Won't really be needing that. But I’ll need your help with my armor Snow.” The Blackfish said as he began to remove his plate. “Niece, I’d have you avert your eyes.”

“Of course uncle.” The Stark girl said, turning her back to them as the young man helped the old knight to strip away his armor.

Walton thought to run then but the wolf snapped in the air, reminding him he was still under guard. So Walton watched feebly as the Blackfish’s armor was piled in the corner of the tent, shaking as much in fear as from the chill of being almost nude.  When Tully began to remove his clothing as well he got a sick feeling as well.

_It is too foul for him to do._

He’d heard sometimes men would be used as maids as a way to get information from them. When Tully was down to just his small clothes Walton shook his head in disbelief.

“Blackfish…you wouldn’t…all those years you never took a wife but I never thought…”

“By the seven you Freys disgust me.” The old man shook his head as he walked to the pile of Walton’s clothing and began dressing in them.

_What is happening here?_

He watched as Tully dressed as him, even donning his armor with the Northman's help. Then the rings they’d taken from him were put on the old knight’s fingers. Walton’s fingers were plumper than the knights so they were changed to larger fingers.

Tully walked back over to his own pile of clothes, searching his pockets until he pulled up a silver bauble of sorts which he tucked into his new garb.

“You’re supposed to wear his possessions.” The Northman protested and the Blackfish scowled.

“I’m bloody wearing them. And I’m not leaving this either. We’ll have to hope your red magic is just that good.” He gestured to a bag at the young man’s side. “You have them?”

Answered with a nod Tully turned his attention to Walton again.

“How many men are at the Twins?”

“I told you.” He said through chattering teeth. “An army.”

The knight glanced to his companion who shook his head.

“I warned you.” The young man said. “Ghost.”

That word was the only warning Walton had before the beast jumped up to claw into his chest and snap its jaws a hair away from his face. He cried out and fell backwards onto his sore arse. The beast did not follow his fall but began to pace directly before him.

“How many men?” The Blackfish asked again.

“I’ll never…”

His words became a scream as the wolf’s jaws were on his leg. The pain was a blinding flash as the beast wrenched his leg back and forth. He screamed and kicked but the jaws held firm and were soon coated in blood.

Through all his cries someone spoke and the teeth were suddenly gone.

“Oh maiden save me. Mother save me.” Walton writhed in agony on the ground. His leg below his knee was a mangled mess. “My leg….”

“Tell us. How many men?”

The wolf moved above Walton’s face now, blood staining its snout and dripping from those fangs. He had seen the other wolf tear men’s throats out.

_Imagine what it can do to faces._

“Three…three hundred.”

“Why so few?”

“More than enough to hold a castle such as ours!”

The wolf snapped at his face again and he released his bladder in the terror. He was cringing away, snivelling with fear but noticed the Stark girl watching. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Speak Walton. Before we let you bleed to death.” Tully warned and Walton realized he did feel faint.

“Hunting outlaws...Emmet wanted a host to patrol the Tully lands to show strength…the Mallisters aren’t trusted…one last harvest…” He let it all flow out. “Too many problems not enough men!”

More questions followed. Less about the defences and more about who was at the castle. Strange ones about who was related to who, how Walton was treated, things of that like. All the while his leg sat bleeding while the wolf watched hungrily.

“I believe him.” The Blackfish said looking to the girl. “I think it is time.”

“Then do as you must sers.” She replied.

The northman pulled two items from his bag. They looked to be bracelets, each with a single bright red ruby on it. He went over to the brazier and rolled up his sleeve to hold his arm above the fire. The Blackfish joined him, taking a knife out and grasping the young man’s arm.

“Go ahead.”

The Blackfish needed no further encouragement before cuting quickly across the other man's arm.

_What is this? Torture?_

_Is he a prisoner too?_

Walton took notice the cut was not too deep, enough for blood to begin leaking into the fire. The bleeding man held the two bracelets under the wound until each had been bled upon. Walton wasn’t sure if it was the blood loss or his fear but the rubies seemed to glow.

“First on him, then you.” The boy said after a few moments of his blood falling into the fire but the Blackfish was unconvinced.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure enough to bleed for it, go on.”

The Stark girl came forward with a cloth, touching it to the cut man’s arm as the old knight walked over and grabbed one of Walton’s wrists.

“What are you doing?”

“In a small way I hope nothing.” The Blackfish said before clamping a bracelet down upon Walton’s wrist.

He was cold and growing weak, but he swore the bracelet felt warmer than it should. The Blackfish hooked the other bracelet around his own wrist and then did nothing. The knight simply crouched there beside Walton’s bloody leg, staring at the bracelet.

A glance to the others showed them watching the old knight, as if waiting for something. Walton was beginning to worry they’d gone mad when he saw it.

At first he thought it was the dim light in the tent.

Perhaps even the loss of blood making him see things.

For the Blackfish was changing before his eyes.

It wasn’t just the old man. The air around them both seemed to be shimmering but no fire cast this light. As he watched the knight’s body began to take a different form. His shoulders rounded, his lean frame widened and bulged some while his grey hair changed style and then color.

_Seven hells his face._

_That’s not his face._

The Blackfish’s face was being transformer as well. His nose narrowed and grew to a familiar shape and he seemed to shrink a little.

It was over before Walton could say it begun but as the Blackfish rose it was no longer the Blackfish staring down at him.

For now Walton was staring down at himself.

“Gods…uncle…” The girl sounded terrified herself and paled.

“I take it I have become uglier?” The other Walton asked in a different voice, turning to face them.

“Indeed ser.” The other man answered. “You are what we need you to be.”

Not Walton nodded then turned his own eyes on the trembling, bleeding Walton on the floor. His face seemed to darken.

To see his own face looking at him with such hatred caused Walton to forget all else. He rolled to his stomach and began to drag himself to the tent flap.

“Then his part is done.” Other Walton said. “We’ve no need for him?”

“Not as long as you wear what you do.”

His leg was a screaming wreck but he urged himself onward. Another few moments and he’d be without. Away from these monsters.

“Your grace, I’d ask you look away.”

“No, I won’t…I would see this. It’s on my command.”

Walton could almost reach the flap. His fingers close to touching it when he heard the word.

“Ghost.”

The wolf.

He’d forgotten the wolf.

He looked back just in time to see flash of the teeth as they came at his throat. 

Other Walton was there, watching.

Then the man born as Walton Frey saw nothing more.

 

* * *

 

 JON

 

“There they are. Won’t be long now.”

The Blackfish pointed ahead at the castles in the distance. Except he wasn’t really Brynden Tully anymore. His face was different. His body was different.

 _Even his voice is different_ , Jon realized, _can he hear that as well?_

To the others it would look as if it was Walton Frey riding beside him. As far as they all knew the Blackfish was scouting other approaches to the castle.

This Frey a mere traitor.

“Galbart was right. An army could never take those things.” He said, squinting ahead at the castle which appeared formidable even this far out. “How long do you think? Within the hour?”

“Likely. Took about that when I rode south with King Robb.” The Blackfish said with a grimace. “When he had to pay homage to Walder Frey before crossing that damned bridge.”

Jon caught the strange look shared between Willem and the other man riding with them.

_Walton Frey never rode south with Robb._

“Your grandfather is quite the monster. Like the rest of your family.” Jon said quickly, willing the Blackfish to understand.

The man jerked around upon his horse, appearing ready to spit an insult back at him before catching himself.

“You’re right…of course…lost our way.” The Blackfish shot a glance at the others who scowled that Walton would dare to look their way.

It had taken some convincing from Sansa and Howland for Maege, Galbart and the others to accept that Walton Frey had been a spy the whole time. He thought it unlikely Yohn ever would have believed it no matter what they said. For once he was glad Sansa had sent him back to the sisters to gather his men, just in case things in the south went poorly.

And they surely could

Even Robb’s original army of almost twenty thousand wouldn’t have been able to take that castle by storm. Sansa’s army only numbered a tenth of that.

_And they’re two days behind us four._

_We’re on our own._

“I wish you well on your journey brave knights.” Sansa had said before Willem and he were to ride out of camp. “You all will be in my prayers. All of our prayers.”

“I’d rather be in the Twins sitting on Lord Walder’s chair when you lot come bursting in.” Willem had joked but even his good humor couldn’t break a smile upon her face.

It shamed him to be glad Sansa hadn’t a chance to say a farewell to him alone, to think it better she had to do so with others about. He hadn’t wanted to see her cry. Not again.

Not like in his dreams.

Those had been strange dreams.

The night after leaving he'd dreamt of Sansa laying upon her furs, weeping and cradling him against her. Jon had wanted to comfort her, to stop her whimpering but he couldn’t speak. Only watch, and allow her to muffle her sobs against him.

When he’d awoken in his tent he’d half expected to be beside her. Instead he’d found himself sharing a tent with the other three men. The damp, cold had made him wish Ghost was there, the wolf often warmer than a hearth, but he'd left his friend behind as well.

The direwolf had been beside Sansa during their farewells and Jon hoped he’d stay there throughout the march. There was no place for Ghost at the Twins and Sansa promised to keep his friend with her at all times. It wasn’t really necessary, lately Ghost had been happy enough to be near Sansa when Jon could not be. She said many nights during the chilly march south the wolf had come into her tent and slept beside her. He believed she could have no better guard while he was gone.

_Ghost can be her shield for now._

_I must be her sword in this._

“Remember my sword bastard.” The Blackfish interrupted then, speaking in a hushed tone so that the others would not hear. “Do not think to betray us in this. If I get one hint of you hoping to raise yourself up by giving over the Queen to the Freys…”

“You’ll kill me.” Jon finished for him. “If I did betray Sansa I imagine they’d do much the same once the deed was done. Why would a family that cares so little for honor care to honor a deal with a bastard?”

When the Blackfish glared instead of answering Jon answered for him.

“They wouldn’t. So I’ll keep my word and do my part.”

“And if they put you to the question?”

“Then I’ll keep my tongue…or bite it off if I can’t.”

He spoke sincerely in that, for he’d already expected the castles ahead could hold such a fate.

If not worse.

The Blackfish grunted then took a glance at Jon’s face.

“You can take a punch, that’s for certain. How do you fare?”

_In truth, poorly._

“I am well.”

Jon sported a broken lip, swollen eye and a cut over his cheek. The eye bothered him the most. With his bound hands he reached up to gently touch his swollen face.

They had been well away from camp when he had asked the Blackfish to do what needed to be done. Sansa would have been pained to see it. If their story was to be believed and Jon captured during a battle he must have injuries. Wounds the old knight had obliged to give him with little restraint.

With bare knuckles, thankfully.

“I fear I am still prettier than you.”

At that the Blackfish actually chuckled a bit. They travelled  with little talk the rest of the short journey. The Blackfish only speaking again when the castle on their side of the river loomed before them.

“They will send riders soon. Everyone remember your parts to play in this mummer’s show.”

“We know our parts well Frey.” Willem said with disgust. His hand went to his sword hilt. “It’s your family with the history of forgetting its place. Do well to remember yours.”

They did not have long to wait for the riders Ser Brynden expected. When they were well within range of the archers standing along the castle walls a party of riders rode from the gate towards them.

He counted six of them, with a hard, ferret faced man in heavy armor leading the way.

“Walder Rivers, damn. He’s a harsh one.” The Blackfish murmured quietly. “Be wary.”

Jon was too busy praying to be wary. Hoping against anything these men saw a Frey beside him and not the Tully knight. The party reined up before them, only Walder Rivers rode on, circling Jon’s group.

“Walton!” The man barked with little warmth and less welcome.  “What are you doing here? Where are your men?”

“Walder, I left my men where they were needed. Watching for more raids, I had safe enough escort with these two good men.” The Blackfish gestured to the Vale men at the mention of good men and then jerked his head towards Jon. “I have a prisoner for our lord and news he must hear. Now bring us into the castle.”

“Do not presume to give me orders.”

“Do not presume to forget which one of us is a trueborn Frey!”

As the Frey bastard glared at the Blackfish over that insult Jon’s face pulsed in pain, someone worsening under the stress. The waiting was the worst agony of all but after a few moments Rivers turned his horse back towards the castle and waved them on. The rest followed after with the Frey men surrounding the group.

 _We’re in_ , he thought, _we actually made it in._

_Why doesn’t that make me feel better?_

The answer was plain enough as they crossed the moat. Jon saw archers on the walls and spearmen at the gates. More awaiting within the castle, all in depressingly formidable positions.

_If anything goes awry we would die before we had a chance to run._

Within the courtyard the others began to dismount as Jon spied another Frey arriving through stone archway, flanked by two guards. He hoped this was another the Blackfish knew by sight. He’d claimed to know most of the Freys well enough but admitted knowing all of them was impossible.

“Welcome back uncle!” This Frey called happily, clearly more disposed to the Blackfish than the other. “Home so soon, good news I hope!”

The man held out his hand and the Blackfish shook it with just a hint of hesitation.

“Yes…Edwyn…Edwyn! Good news indeed! I have brought guests.” With that he made the introductions. “May I present Ser Willem Royce in service to House Royce of Runestone. I met him on the Kingsroad escorting a caravan from White Harbor through the Neck to the Westerlands. They seek a crossing.”

With that the Blackfish leaned in towards Edwyn.

“And they’re willing to pay for it.”

Edwyn smiled and went forth to greet the Royce men. After that he took notice of Jon still atop his horse, beaten and bound.

“And who is this?”

“This? Why this is Jon Snow. Bastard of Eddard Stark, half brother to Robb Stark and leader of a force of bog devils. I crushed them two days ago and brought this half wolf back so he could answer to our lord.”

With that the Blackfish yanked Jon bodily and threw him to the ground. He landed hard in the mud and his breath flew from him as laughter erupted from all around him.

He still hadn’t recovered when he was pulled to his feet by two Frey men-at-arms. Willem gave him a concerned look and Jon hoped his friend could accept this treatment was necessary. The guards held him firmly between them as Edwyn Frey regarded him with disdain.

“A bastard Stark. That family is just about done for isn’t it? We’d better show our lord your prize and introduce your guests.” Edwyn beckoned them to follow and the guards forced him along behind the Blackfish and the others.

They were led into hall where several weasel-faced men looked to be holding a meeting of sorts. They surrounded a massive black chair carved into a likeness of two towers linked by a bridge. There sat an ancient, pale looking man.

With a grey, wolf pelt warming his lap.

It took Jon but a moment to realize the old wretch was Walder Frey. Another to accept where he had gotten that pelt.

 _Greywind,_ he fumed, _by the gods have they no respect?_

_If Ghost was here they’d learn some._

“My lord, your grandson has brought good tidings!” Edwyn announced as he moved to stand beside the old lord, elbowing another Frey from that position.

“Which one?” Lord Walder asked, squinting at the newcomers. “Oh, Walton. Kill some frog eaters? A great warrior you are. Heh.”

“I did my lord!” The Blackfish did his mummery well, bowing and all. “And I…”

“Have returned without your men.” A hobbled man interrupted, his voice thick with distrust as he handed some parchments off to a maester. “To lead a company out only to return without it. How strange.”

“I did as was ordered Lothar. I came upon a force of bog devils, over two hundred I’d say. I crushed them and took their leader captive.” With that the Blackfish gave a wave and Walder Rivers pushed Jon forward. “May I present Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark and brother to the dead Robb Stark.”

“Ned Stark’s bastard. Heh.” Lord Walder pointed a gnarled finger at Jon while shaking the pelt with the other. “Your mother look like this?”

“I’d rather that be true than be a trueborn Frey!” Jon roared before spitting towards the monster.

It had been a stupid thing to do but his fury stripped his reason. He was surrounded by Robb's murderers and wanted to insult them, no matter how feebly. They answer was anything but.

A fist slammed against his cheek and his vision blurred for a moment but the guards held him up.

“Should’ve killed him where you found him Walton. Saved yourself the trip.” Lothar asked. “What’s a bastard to us?”

“He commanded the bogdevils which attacked us. I believe he fights on behalf of House Reed.” The Blackfish answered before shrugging. “And we usually bring Starks here before we kill them.”

Lord Walder answered that with a hacking laughter, one others in the room soon joined in.

“Walton…I don’t remember you being so clever. Killing crannogmen suits you.” Lothar quipped as he hobbled forth to inspect Jon. “His head could be a good gift to send King’s Landing. They weren’t pleased we kept the wolf boy’s…”

That was too much.

And Lothar came too close to let it go unpunished. Jon’s used his guards’ hold for leverage to drive his knee forward and up into Lothar’s groin.

The man doubled, falling to the floor wheezing in pain. Jon didn’t get to enjoy the sight for long, the guards lashing out themselves in vengeance.

Their fists left him bloodied and hanging between them, unable to gain his feet. He fought to stay awake but could not focus on the conversation around him. Barely taking notice when they began dragging away.

For how long they carried him he couldn’t say, his senses returning quite slowly. His feet scrapped along the stone floors as he tried in vain to regain his footing. Soon they were descending, down a winding staircase, the air becoming dank and foul along the way.

When they reached bottom they were in a very dark place with few torches offering any light.

“We’ve got another Northman for you Kevron!” One of his guards yelled and Jon realized were in a dungeon.

Barred cells lined each side of the passage, dark shapes moving within them. Even worse things moving without. 

An ugly, scarred man wearing a bloody apron marched towards them from the other end of the dungeon. He grinned with a green rotting set of teeth as Jon was dragged to meet him.

“Good, haven’t been allowed to touch the Northmen for some time.” He blew rancid breath in Jon’s face. “Too valuable they say.”

“Be careful, Lothar just had his balls shoved up into his throat getting that close. This be Robb Stark’s bastard brother.”

“Jon Snow!” A powerfully loud voice bellowed from off to the side. “No lad no! Not you! Leave the lad be you cowardly cunts!”

A huge bearded man had pressed himself hard against the bars of a cell, trying to force his manacled hands through them. Even with his face as filthy and pale as it was Jon recognized the man well enough.

Lady Stark scolded this lord often as feasts for being too loud.

_The Greatjon._

His hair and beard were wild and matted with a filthy bandage covering the side of his head. Yet the man lived. And threatened.

“I’ll tear your fucking hearts out with these hands! I swear it!”

“You keep that up and you’ll be losing another ear Umber!” The Kevron man spat at the Lord of Last Hearth before beckoning Jon’s guards forward.

They took him into a dark, stone walled room not far from the cells. There was nothing in the room save a brazier, a table with tools upon it and chains hanging from the ceiling.

As his guards undid his bindings Jon tried to struggle and earned more bruises for it. They chained his hands above him, stretching him so his feet barely touched the floor. The guards spoke to his gaoler then and Jon could not hear their words.

“Merl! Get in here!” The gaoler yelled as the guards left. A stringy haired brute came into the room then and eyed Jon cruelly. “Get that shirt off him." 

After it was cut away and he hung bare-chested at their mercy Kevron went to the table and tossed a whip to Merl.

"Now we be having some questions for you.”

“You’ll be having no answers from me.” Jon replied.

Gritting his teeth, he steeled himself for whatever would be coming. He thought of the man who had been his father. Of Robb. Of Sansa.

Brave little Arya.

Merl sneered as he walked to take a place at Jon’s back.

“Oh we will. Everyone knows something.”

Kevron took a poker to the brazier, smiling as he moved the embers about. Jon, despite his fear, some humor in that statement.

“Truly, I know nothing.”

 

* * *

 

BRYNDEN

 

“This is our chance Walton! How can’t you see that?”

Edwyn Frey grasped Brynden by his shoulders and shook him.

His skin crawled at the man’s touch, struggling to stop himself from beating the Frey to death even now. He could have easily done so.

Save for Walder Rivers they were alone in the chamber, Edwyn and he. The bastard would’ve been a challenge but Brynden had killed better men with worse odds.

Yet he stayed his hand, for these two had had brought him here for a reason and his interest was peaked.

“I don’t Edwyn.” He spoke truthfully. “I don’t follow.”

Brynden had no idea what the man was talking about, nor why it was so urgent. After they’d left the Frey hall he’d wanted to follow after Jon Snow. These whoresons had led him here instead.

“Think Walton!” Edwyn urged. “Black Walder is far away south. Most of the men loyal to Lothar and him gone as well or in the western castle. You must see this is our chance to get them before they get us.”

Walder Rivers grunted in agreement.

“Don’t be a fool Walton, you know full well this was always the plan.”

“He’s not a fool, we’re all together in this after all. We all know this is the only way.” Edwyn clapped his hands together. “Our chance to act and take leadership of this house!”

Edwyn’s words slowly dawned on Brynden.

“You wish to take the castles?” He asked. “Take them from the Freys…I mean ourselves?”

“Just like we planned.” Edwyn nodded.

_They plot against their own kin?_

He was as surprised as he was disgusted.

But such tidings could only help Brynden and his goal. He’d done well so far but more help would always be needed. Somehow he’d managed to convince Walder Frey to allow Ser Willem’s caravan through the crossing.

It was a feat that shocked him still.

Willem had done as Sansa had bid him, producing a parchment with Yohn Royce’s seal and offering gold in exchange for being permitted to cross at the Twins. The Freys had listened, Lord Walder eyeing the knight greedily before commanding the Royce men to wait without while they conferred amongst themselves.

Which meant bicker like cutpurses.

“We have many enemies and few friends now, why should we let these Vale men through?” Lame Lothar had asked in the hall, still wheezing as he recovered from Jon’s knee.

Brynden had to admit he’d silently cheered the bastard lad’s attack.

All the while Edwyn argued in favor of his ploy.

“Having few friends is exactly why we should let them through. House Royce is a powerful one in the Vale. With Lysa Tully dead we should hope to make a friend of such a House.”

“The Vale is ruled by Littlefinger…our new overlord at Harrenhal…that a man with no sons should rule over me. Mayhaps the finger that counts be too little. Heh.” The disgusting wretch that was Lord Walder mumbled to himself. “That Lysa bitch, no beauty like that sister of hers. Best part of killing her was finally seeing that body she kept covered up. Heh.”

The self-control it took Brynden not to draw his sword and do for that smiling rat was something he’d steadily developed over years.

“And the Royces hate him!” Edwyn said suddenly. “The two outside told him as much. Imagine having them on our side against Baelish? As if that upjumped shit should act as our overlord. It’s us who belong as the lords of the Riverlands!”

_He stole my lines._

Words very much like Edwyn’s were meant to have come from Brynden, given to him by Sansa and the others. Yet the Freys were proving more helpful than they could have dreamed. Edwyn was lying about what Brynden had told him but that meant little as he was watched Lord Walder nod in agreement.

“Yes…yes…but we have few enough men here. They will see that. Mayhaps they get ideas.” With those words Brynden thanked the gods for Walder Frey’s deviousness.

He had been prepared to do his best to sway to the argument in their favor and hoped Walton was not such an idiot that it would seem suspicious. In truth he knew little enough of the man whose image he wore.

“Then I'll bid them cross at night. They’d see little and I could have my men ride behind them in case of treachery.” Brynden paused then, acting as if he was coming up with all this on the spot. “We could put serving wenches along the walls and they’d look like archers.”

“You and your serving girls…” Lord Walder chuckled before coughing and pounding upon his chest, finally prevailing is spitting out a thick green glob of filth that he spit on the floor.

In the end the Frey greed prevailed as well. They sent for Willem to return and when he did Lord Walder, the greedy sot, demanded two wagons of his goods as a toll for crossing. It was a high price and Willem acted wroth and even argued a little.

All as he had been told to do before accepting the price in the end.

“And you’ll allow my men to inspect the wagons before entering the castle!” Brynden had added. “To ease my lord’s mind.”

Lord Walder had nodded his assent to that. Ensuring it was Brynden's false force tasked with doing so took such an action away from the actual Frey. The meeting finally ended and the two Royce men departed, Brynden hoping to as well.

Instead he ended up in this room with the earlier events turning out be but a prelude to a greater bit of treachery.

“If we can get word to your men to ride into the east castle and seize it as they do so I can have our men in the west take men loyal to Lothar into custody!” Edwyn’s spittle landed upon Brynden’s face he was so excited. “We’d have the castle with almost no bloodshed!”

Walder Rivers, the piece of filth, proved himself to be more sensible

“What of the Vale men marching through? If fighting breaks out they may think they are under attack and strike.”

Brynden cursed him for sound thinking. He was so close to having these Freys do half the work of taking the castle for them. Edwyn no longer looked as certain as he had when as idea struck Brynden.

“When I send word to my men I can also send word to the Royces. If they help us take the west castle we will allow them to keep their wagons. You saw how angry he was to lose them!” As he said the words the hope sprung again into Edwyn’s eyes again and even Walder appeared impressed.

“Send the rider then! At once!” Edwyn rubbed his hands together and he seemed such a desperate man then. “Walder, you command the west, see that no harm comes to our allies and take it as quickly as you can help in the east. Put all of Lothar’s men on one wall or something. Yes…yes that would work. Do that and Walton and I will be in the west to surprise the others.”

 _Thank the seven for this man’s stupidity_ , Brynden thought, _or his greed._

_Whichever helps us more._

Edwyn looked ready to continue on but Brynden had to put a halt to his. A vow he’d made to Sansa was pounding in the back of his mind every moment they remained here.

“I will Edwyn…we can talk more later but I’d see to my prisoner first. If there’s any surprises awaiting us from the bogdevils I’d know.”

“Yes yes, but see it done soon Walton.” Edwyn turned to Walder and began speaking quickly as Brynden left.

Sansa had made him promise to keep that lad alive.

_The girl looks too much like Cat to disappoint her._

_Not after failing her mother like I did._

He’d visited this castle several times in his life and knew it reasonably well. Somehow it seemed darker now, as if the crimes committed here had drained it of what good it once held. The thought of Cat dying here made him reach instinctively into his tunic.

There he found the old silver keepsake he’d refused to abandon for this sorcery.

He hadn’t let go off since he was still a young man. It was all he had of his love.

Brynden clutched it all the harder now as he continued his search for the bastard.

It was a small comfort he’d managed to convince the Freys to question Jon Snow rather than killing him. The boy was taken away to the dungeons and he still had a faint remembrance of where they were from his time here almost half a lifetime ago.

It was hard to reconcile Cat’s harsh words regarding Jon Snow with what he’d seen of the bastard so far.

Maege and Galbart had heaped praise upon him. Yohn Royce had gone so far to knight him and that old warrior was a hard man to impress.

 _At worst he presumes too much with Sansa_ , he thought _, but she encourages it._

_Her loneliness shields her to what Snow’s proper station should be._

_Whatever it is, it’s not a dungeon I know that._

As Brynden descended the staircase he hoped they hadn’t beaten the boy too badly. He’d acted loyal enough to his great niece and had comforted Jeyne as she lay dying. That memory was hard to think on so he pushed it away.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs a pair of guards nodded to him and pushed open the heavy door towards the cells.

Then he heard the shouting. And the screaming.

“Gods damned Freys leave him be!”

Brynden recognized the Greatjon’s voice. Sure enough the captive lord was off in one of the cells, bellowing through his bars. But the Greatjon’s shouts were different than the cries of pain echoing down the dark corridor.

Those belonged to another voice he recognized.

He moved quickly, practically throwing a guard out of his way as the man swore. A room just beyond the cells was the source of the cries and he wrenched the door open.

_Merciful mother…_

“Stop! Stop now!”

Brynden’s shout froze the two men in place as they held the limp, bloody body between them. One backed away from the brazier leaving the other one struggling to support their prisoner.

“We were told to get answers…”

“Not to kill him! This is my prisoner! Leave him!” Brynden tried to control his rage and not sound as offended as he was.

The scarred man shrugged and waved at his friend. The fool tossed the wreck of a lad to the hard floor, Brynden wincing to hear the wet smack of his flesh upon it.

He glimpsed the bloody whip on the table as he came to ensure the young man still lived where he lay. A quick inspection proved him alive but Brynden drew away in disgust at what had been done to him.

“He said nothing to the lash so I went to the flame next to…”

The torturer’s words were cut off as Brynden grabbed him by the collar and yanked the monster’s face towards his own.

“He survives the night.” He growled. “Or you don’t.”

He held him there, staring fiercely into the ugly man’s eyes until the monster nodded. Brynden felt a strong urge to stay in the dungeons to ensure his commands were kept yet he knew better.

_You can stay no longer. It would seem strange._

“I will return in the morning. Remember my words.” Brynden said as he left. “He lives. Or you don’t.”

_He lives or I have to explain why to my queen._

As he passed the cells a hand reached out to grab at his arm. His reflexes were good and he avoided the attempt easily enough, spinning to face his would be attacker with his hand on Walton’s blade.

And he was shocked at the face peering back at him through the iron bars.

“Olyvar?”

Robb Stark’s former squire was much skinnier than he remembered. His clothes were tattered and his Frey face covered in bruises. Little was left of the passionate youth Brynden remembered.

“Walton! Please my brother and sister, are they well?” Olyvar asked fiercely. “I beg that of you! Any word!”

Brynden was at a loss as he tried to remember which of the dozens of Freys were Olyvar’s relations.

 _Perwyn_ , he remembered, _Perwyn Frey is his brother._

_And his sister was…oh seven help me._

“Roslin? Is Roslin here Olyvar?” Brynden asked without masking his desperation.

The girl was his nephew’s wife. Carried his child. His heir.

“Tell me is she here with you?”

It was Olyvar’s turn to be shocked.

“In the dungeons? Of course not! She was in her chambers last I knew but please Walton, is she well?”

Brynden prayed she was.

 

* * *

 

SANSA

 

“I beg your pardon, you were saying something?”

Sansa realized that Maege had been speaking to her and she was lost in her thoughts again. Or her worries.

Their two horses were quite close together while the rest of her army stretched out before and behind her. Howland was commanding the front while Galbart the rear, Maege held the center where Sansa rode as her side.

And it was a rude thing to ignore her companion.

Yet the lady was untroubled, she even smiled at Sansa.

“I made some comment about the weather, something to take my thoughts off my worries. Yours are worse than mine I fear.”

“I have never liked this plan.” Sansa admitted, fighting the urge to call it Jon’s plan. It was little comfort to pretend she hadn’t agreed to it. “Too much depends on putting so much I care about in danger.”

“Your brother was nervous as well the last time we rode this way. Much at stake then as well.” Maege said. “He hid it well but I’ve seen more battles than most young men. Just remember that he too worried and yet went on to win a great victory.”

 _But he still died_ , she thought, _and we sent Jon to his killers._

_I sent Jon to his killers._

“You would not be your brother’s sister if you were not daring. Or your mother’s daughter if you didn’t do what needed to be done.” Maege said, putting a hand to her chest. “May we avenge them both.”

This fierce lady often spoke warmly of her mother. Sansa knew many thought ill of her mother for releasing the Kingslayer but this lady had nothing but praise, holding mother to an esteem higher than most.

It gladdened her heart on this long, sad ride.

Maege was the exact opposite of everything Sansa was. A gruff warrior woman at home in armor and commanding in nature. The young girl she had been once would have said horrible things of Maege and it shamed her. Now she saw the lady as a woman who would never let others take her prisoner without a fight.

Who wouldn’t submit to being someone’s plaything.

Sansa respected her for that.

_Arya would’ve liked her from the start._

“Jon will succeed. I have to believe that.” She said, willing herself to believe it. “He has never failed me.

Maege nodded at that and for some time they rode in silence, through the lands of the Freys. Swamps and bogs had given ways to fields and trees only just that day. If it was in her to be thankful to see green lands again and not brown muck she did not feel so. These were the lands of her enemies and she’d take the bogs of her bannermen any day.

“I was surprised when you arrived at Greywater Watch. I hadn’t expected how much you cared for each other.” Maege said suddenly looking at Sansa as if her statement was more a question. “How much you cared for Jon that is.”

“Of course I care for him!”

That took Sansa aback. She had come to expect slights against Jon from the Blackfish and others who did not know the truth of him.

But not from Maege who did know the truth of Jon's birth.

The lady eyed her carefully and guided her horse to ride closer to Sansa’s.

“I say so because in many ways you are your mother’s daughter.” Maege said quietly. “Strong, clever and lovely to look upon. In truth being so much like her I had half expected you to regard Jon as she did. And the last I ever heard Lady Catelyn speak of him was to call Jon a traitor.”

 _Oh mother,_ she thought _, how could you be so wrong?_

Her mother’s feeling towards Jon made her ashamed. Less so of her mother than herself for feeling she had to live up to them for so long. More and more she reflected on the kind boy she’d grown up with yet had scorned so often. Even mocked to her friends.

Yet he had always been good to her despite how cruel his life had been to him. It bothered her that, even know, she could not love him as she had Robb.

Or Bran and Rickon. Which was horrible of her because she knew he mourned losing his family. 

 _But he’s not my brother_ , she reminded herself, _he’s my cousin._

_So what I dream of is not so vile._

“Since my captivity and Jon’s rescue of me I have come to see who he is.” She said earnestly. “And what he means to me.”

It was the truth.

She’d stopped believing in knights that came to save fair maidens from the evils of others. Then Jon had come, his sword in his hand, and took her away from all that. During their ride from the Neck she’d find herself staring at him sometimes. Wondering how he’d look in proper dress rather than a knight’s garb.

“To us he was meant to be a king.” Maege replied. “Trust me we are no less overjoyed to have you as our queen but after what we learned at Lord Reed’s table…afterwards I’d worried he would’ve meant less to you.”

She paused and gave Sansa a look she thought bordered on disappointment.

“Now I think he might mean more.”

_She knows._

_No she can't._

"Maege!" Sansa sputtered. "You think we are…how can you think such a thing?”

It was not unusual for cousins to marry, fairly common among highborns. Yet for the lady to suspect that of Jon and her was scandalous. Sansa couldn't have a scandal, not now.

“After he left that night the men saw you follow him into the swamps. Saw you return some time later hand in hand. Others talk of how you smile when he is with you and how you danced together.” Maege continued to speak softly to her but shrugged near the end. “It reminded me of your parents truthfully.”

“There is talk? Of Jon and I?” The idea shook her deeply.

If such gossip existed it could bode poorly for the morale of her fighting men. They did not know them cousins and thought Jon and her half siblings still.

“They think us like the Lannisters?”

At that Maege chuckled but there was little mirth behind it.

“Galbart and I have seen to any who thought so. We’ve corrected those who needed correcting. But yes. There are rumors.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” She asked, embarrassed and angry all at once. “I must be told such things!”

“I apologize but it was only a small number spreading those rumors and I am telling you now so you might think of your options.” Maege pointed up her crown. “Of the powers a queen has.”

_My powers?_

She could make laws but had no need to yet. They’d had a feast but with winter coming it would have been foolish to order another. She could command an army to march and she had done so. Sansa struggled to think of what else she could do, what Robb had done.

Then it came to her.

“You mean for me to have those men put to death?” Sansa reached up to touch the crown nervously. “To stop the rumors?”

“By the gods no!” The lady looked appalled. “Some whisper about foolishly but there’s better ways of dealing with such. There is more power to a crown than ordering men’s deaths. There is the ability to legitimize claims to title…to create honest men from the bastard born.”

_Of course that’s what she meant._

_Why did you not think of that?_

It bothered her she hadn’t. Yet it angered her that Maege and the others had kept things from her. That they could be talking of Jon and her with dark intent.

“I think this is not a matter I’d discuss at this moment my lady…nor something I’d have you discuss with any other.” She said turned away from Maege. “I must command you not to.”

“I meant no disrespect…”

“What you meant does not matter, you hid things from me. Things I should know.” Sansa continued. “That must not happen again. Nor must you tolerate any of your men to spread such rumors. As your Queen, I must know you understand that.”

Maege flushed some then and for a brief moment she feared she’d been too curt. Too demanding.

“As you would your grace." Maege inclined her head. "Any further talk will be brought straight to you.”

Silence fell between them after that. The sounds of horses and men on the march truly the only thing Sansa wished to hear at the moment.

Some of Maege’s comments had been welcome. The parts about the kind of queen Sansa could be had been good to hear. It was kind she of ruler she intended to be.

Loyalty and good service to her should always be rewarded.

What bothered her was that doing so meant people whispered about Jon and her.

None served as well or loyally as him. He was exactly the knight she needed beside her. Jon had become tall, strong and gallant. Who else treated her so well and was there when she had need of him. It was Jon who improved her moods when they were at their worst. While he was often quiet and sullen around others with her he became a different person.

With her he made jests.

And smiled.

_For me._

_Not for the others._

As much as people remarked on how her cousin looked like father she’d taken notice more and more of their differences. He was taller and leaner than father had been, his body firm and comely. Perhaps taking after his mother Lyanna. Or his father Rhaegar.

 _Blood of the dragon,_ she remembered _, son of a prince._

_Who better to keep a queen company?_

She reached up and adjusted the crown on her head. The crown of flowers he had made for her had wilted away weeks ago while he memory of him placing it upon Sansa’s head and dancing with her had stayed fresh.

_He is the knight of songs and tales._

And like a crash of lightning she remembered where he was.

And what she stood to lose.

“My lady…Maege…” Sansa spoke softly, grabbing her companion’s attention again. “I was harsh earlier but…I would still speak with you. Perhaps you would tell me of your daughters. It would be pleasant to know more about you and your family.”

Maege appeared surprised at the request.

“Your family has done so much for me.” She continued. “I feel as if I barely know them. Please let me hear of them. I think I heard one was named Lyanna.”

The woman smiled then, her eyes even glistened some.

“My youngest daughter.” She laughed. “I named her well. For she’s a wild little thing…”

Sansa felt better to hear Maege laugh. The stories were a good distraction.

Helping her to push away the troubles of her crown. The feelings she could not yet admit to.

And the horrors tomorrow could bring.

 

 

* * *

BRIENNE

 

“Let sleep calm your troubled spirit and tomorrow will bring a new day. Always a new day and a chance to do good in this world my lady.”

The Elder Brother’s words were kindly meant but after embarrassing herself so Brienne only wished him to leave her cottage.

_You wept like a child._

_You came here to save Sansa Stark and ended up crying instead._

Brienne decided to blame it on the tolls of her travels and the shock of what she’d learned this evening. Realizing how much of her recent search had been for naught was a hard thing to accept.

All the time spent tracking the Hound. Praying and hoping to find Sansa Stark held captive by the fiend. Her dream of rescuing Lady Catelyn’s daughter and seeing her away to safety.

It had all been a fool’s errand.

And Brienne the fool to run it.

While Ser Hyle and Podrick had bedded at another part of the septry on Quiet Isle, she’d been given a small cottage to herself. It was there the Elder Brother and she spoke of her quest.

There he told her of the Hound’s supposed death and dashed her hopes for finding Sansa.

“That the man once held a Stark girl captive I believe, but it was not the eldest daughter you seek, but the younger.” The Elder Brother had paused at her shock to learn Lady Catelyn’s youngest girl lived before continuing on to crush her. “On the fate of Arya Stark I cannot say. When I found Sandor Clegane there was no Stark alongside him and no Stark I brought to this Isle…”

“Perhaps she escaped him?” Brienne hadn’t wanted her journey here to be worthless. “When he became ill maybe she fled to safety? Fled to the Saltpans?”

“And to what fate?” The Elder Brother had shaken his head. “To what darkness?”

He’d bid Brienne to return home, to return to father and leave the pains of the war behind. That’s when she shamed herself and broken down in front of the old knight. That he’d come a brother of this order since and a knight no longer spared her little embarrassment.

So even now, as the old man departed, she dried her eyes feeling more the fool.

She lay upon the straw and wondered how she would tell Hyle and Podrick what she’d learned. How it was possible they’d travelled so far only to find where Arya Stark had fallen instead of where Sansa Stark awaited.

_Of another folly I led them on._

More embarrassment.

More shame.

She hoped their voices hadn’t carried to the other cottages near her own. Another was in use and had two quiet brothers sitting without, she imagined to tend to some poor Saltpans woman who suffered still. The last thing someone like that needed was to hear Brienne weeping over her trivial problems.

 _Tomorrow we will inquire of the bodies they found,_ she decided, _about the bodies of young girls._

Brienne had never laid eyes upon Arya Stark, all she knew of her looks was her mother describing the girl as taking after her father. As she’d never seen Lord Stark either she remembered the bastard squire she’d met in the Reach. Renly himself had remarked on how much Jon Snow resembled Lord Eddard and it was his features she’d describe tomorrow.

_Dark brown hair, deep grey eyes and a long face._

Brienne put those features to memory as she shut her eyes for the evening.

Yet sleep didn’t come, her mind still too troubled by all she’d heard. Jon Snow’s features repeated in her head again and again. How she’d react if some gravedigger could put a body to her description. The last thing she wanted was to leave this place with Arya Stark’s bones rather than a living breathing girl.

 _It’s not about what you want,_ she thought _, it’s about what your duty is._

_And if you find anything of Arya Stark here, you’ll return her home._

Brienne was still tossing when she heard the scream. She rose, her ears straining to confirm what she’d heard. Again it came, muffled some by the door, but now she was certain it someone outside was screaming. Quickly slipping into her boots she gathered Oathkeeper, still in its sheath and headed for the door as the screaming continued.

 _Those are a girl’s screams_ , she decided, _someone is being attacked._

Once outside the smell of smoke struck Brienne immediately. It took her but moment to spot the source of it, for it was not far. The cottage she’d passed earlier had smoke billowing from its top. As she neared it another scream sounded and she decided it was definitely coming from within the cabin.

Brienne was shocked to find one of the brothers still there. Standing and staring as smoke wafted out the cottage door. Making no move to enter despite the sounds of coughing from behind that very same door.

She saw the rope then, the door handle was bound tightly from without, the door thudding as someone wrenched upon it from within.

“What is happening here?” Brienne yelled at the short brother who had a face covered in burn scars. “There’s someone in there! Open the door!”

He shook his head and pointed down the path, whether he wanted her to leave or await someone else she didn’t care.

“Help! Please!” A girl cried out. “Please!”

 It was soon followed by some hacking coughs and Brienne had had enough.

“Move aside.” She commanded.

She made to push by the brother yet he tried to stand firm. So Brienne tossed him to the ground as easily as she would a sack of potatoes, him landing little differently. Oathkeeper was unsheathed and she cleaved down upon the rope. With but one slash the knots fell away, freeing the door to be thrown open by the girl inside.

Yet the door didn’t move.

“Child!” She called and pushed at the door, which opened a touch more, sending smoke billowing into her face.

Brienne coughed and threw her shoulder into the wood, the force knocking the girl’s coughing body away enough for Brienne to squeeze into the cottage. Within she saw the fire burning bright at the center of the room. What looked to be every blanket, fur and bit of straw in the room had been piled upon it.

 _She set this blaze,_ Brienne realized _, is she trying to kill herself?_

Brienne’s eyes were stinging as she bent to collect the girl into her arms and lifted her out and into the night. The brother she’d knocked down was on his feet again, staring at them while she knelt down to see how bad off the child was.

“Breath girl. There’s air for it now. You’re safe.”

Despite some ash and smoke stains Brienne saw no burns upon the girl’s skinny body. She was coughing still but sucking in great breaths of the cool night air otherwise.

“Why would you let her burn? Why was she locked in there?” Brienne raged at the quiet brother. Asking questions she knew he wouldn’t answer.

The girl stirred then. Her eyes widening and head jerking towards the quiet brother as well.

“Prisoner…faith coming for me…” The girl hacked and made to shake loose of Brienne’s hold on her, rising to stand and glare at the brother “They’re going to…give me to the High Septon…" 

 _The High Septon?_  
  
What would the High Septon want with some girl?

Brienne was no fool, she knew some men in this world had appetites for young girls, even some men of the faith. Yet sending so far for this girl in particular didn’t seem likely. She was pretty enough but not in a way that Brienne thought would catch men’s eyes for some time.

Perhaps when she aged more the girl would be a beauty but of a harsher kind Brienne suspected. Her dark brown hair was cut short to just above her shoulders, her skin pale but not sickly and her face long. Almost familiar in a way.

Everything stopped for her then.

_Dark brown hair, deep grey eyes and a long face._

_Deep grey eyes._

_She would have grey eyes._

Others were coming up the path as Brienne walked in almost a daze to pull the girl around to face her. Their eyes met and in the light of the burning cottage behind them Brienne saw what she’d hoped to see.

_Deep grey eyes._

“Arya Stark?” She dropped to a knee, almost in prayer. “Be you Arya Stark? Daughter to Lady Catelyn?”

“Step away from her my lady!” The Elder Brother called as he hurried forth but Brienne did not heed him, nor did she break her eyes away from the girl’s.

They were wide and full of doubt, flicking over at the group of brothers then back to her.

“I knew your mother, I swore an oath to her and another to see her daughters home. If you are Arya Stark I will protect you, if you are not I will still see no harm come to you, no matter who threatens it.”

She softened her hold on the girl’s shoulders and tried to think of anything else she could add to make her case.

“I rode beside your brother, Jon Snow, I think I know you because of how much you…”

“Jon?” An expression of excitement flashed quickly across her face. “You knew Jon?”

Brienne couldn’t help but smile as well. It lasted only a moment for the brothers were coming upon them so quickly she was forced to act. Brienne yanked the child behind her as the group of men approached.

“My lady that girl is not to be trusted.” The Elder Brother wheezed as a mixed collection of robed men and boys collected behind him. “She is also under the protection of the High Septon and the Faith Militant.”

“Prisoner!” The girl shouted from behind her. “He means I’m their prisoner!”

“This man was content to let the girl burn in her cottage.” Brienne pointed to the scarred man who took up a place beside the Elder Brother. “A poor form of protection brother.”

“He did as he was bid to, we do not allow her a chance at trickery without several of us about. Brother Thomas more than most has suffered at the hands of this girl and I suspect the fire tonight caused by more of her wickedness.”

 A collection of nodding heads among the brothers answered the Elder Brother’s pronouncement. The girl wasn’t backing down though.

“I knew people had come! You wouldn’t lock me up all day for no reason!”

“We did what we had to, the warriors of the faith will arrive soon but until then we could not risk…”

“Risk me finding her?” Brienne interrupted, feeling angry and betrayed by this man for doing now what she suspected he had. “You told me a story tonight, about a girl I sought. You told me you knew nothing of her. I did not think you a liar brother…”

“He is a liar!”

“I did not lie.” The Elder Brother sighed at the girl’s outburst. “I came upon a man and a girl, whose name I did not know, so I was truthful in that. She later named herself Mordane to me and it was only the confessions of a dying man that revealed the truth of her. Again, I was truthful. Regarding her fate? Our High Septon intends to move to her to safety somewhere else, under the protection of good men and septas, so her fate is in his hands after she leaves here. Whether the influence of good people can quell the darkness in her heart I can’t say…”

“Stop saying that!” The girl yelled. “I’m not broken or dark! I just don’t want to be here!”

Brienne was growing worried now. More and more men were joining the Elder Brother’s group. While the brothers here were not warriors it would be a foul thing to have to fight. A harder thing to fight so many.

 _You must be sure_ , she thought _, you cannot bear arms at a septry if you are not._

“You must name yourself child.” She asked, keeping Oathkeeper pointed at the ground. “Please. I must hear it.”

Instead of an answer she felt hands at her waist. Before Brienne could stop her, the girl had pulled free her own dagger and spun away from her.

“Arya Stark.” The young lady said, pointing the dagger at the men as well. “My name is Arya Stark. Eddard Stark was my father. Catelyn Stark my mother. Just try and put me back in that cottage…”

_Lady Catelyn I found her._

_Jaime I’ve done well._

Arya’s words and those thoughts did more for her spirits than anything had in some time. Yet as Arya glanced up at her and gave a quick nod Brienne was troubled. Something about the girl’s stance and how she held the blade unnerved her. As if the lady had some idea of how to wield a blade and, even more unnerving, she may not hesitate to.

“Arya Stark you may be but my ladies this is not…”

“Then I am sworn to protect her.” Brienne drew Oathkeeper up before her and many of the men backed away. “I am Lady Brienne of Tarth and I will see her home. No matter what it takes.”

“Ser! My lady!”

Podrick’s cry heralded his arrival at the top of the path. Ser Hyle was following at a slower pace seemingly winded while Pod rushed forward with his own sword in hand.

“Podrick, Ser Hyle, we have found our charge.”

“Brienne what’s happening here? Put your sword away!” Hyle gaped at her and the burning cottage. His eyes then taking in all the drawn blades and the force of brothers arrayed against her. “We finally have a decent place to sleep…”

“This is the Lady Arya Stark and she wants to leave here.” Brienne informed her companions and warned the Elder Brother. “And we’ll be helping her do so.”

“You’re bloody right I do!” Arya cursed at the men while Pod and Hyle appeared dumbstruck at the news. “And I want my sword back! And my coin!”

“As I begged of you earlier my lady, spare yourself this. Spare the young lady this.” The Elder Brother approached them with his palms out, his voice beseeching. “When the Faith Militant arrive I will tell them all of this. How you bore steel on holy ground, how you took from us a lady to drag across a war torn land, and of which way you fled…”

“It’s her isn’t it? We found one of the Starks?” Ser Hyle laughed over the Elder Brother’s implied threat as he pulled his own sword. “Oh we’ll be going alright.”

“Do not try and stop us brother.” Brienne lowered her sword and reached out to lower Arya’s as well, which the girl did reluctantly. “You don’t have to give us your blessing…”

“But he’ll be giving you shelter for the night.” Another spoke, the words coming from a hunched form just arriving at the commotion. “And some food for our journey.”

“Our journey?” Ser Hyle gave the old wandering septon a strange look as the Elder Brother sighed yet again.

“Septon Meribald, it will be dangerous and I fear…”

“Danger and fear have filled these lands for some time now but I wander nonetheless. You and I knew this was a risk, having Lady Brienne and this willful child so close.” Meribald smiled at them all before his eyes fell on Arya. “The High Septon wished you seen after child. If it is not to be here then I will join the lady, the knight and good squire in doing so.”

“I don’t want anymore of you cravens!” Arya hissed at the septon and Brienne was shocked a daughter of her lady could act so rudely.

“Nor does the Elder Brother wish us to leave nor I to be chased about by warriors of my own faith. Yet here we are.” Meribald nodded knowingly before walking towards the girl. “And here you are.”

With that the old septon opened his robe to produce a small, thin sword and Brienne tensed. For a moment she feared he meant Arya harm with it, he’d been a squire long ago and might still be able to wield a sword. She felt foolish when the septon merely offered the sword up on his palms to the girl who snatched it quickly and without thanks.

“The Elder Brother informed me earlier of what he kept so quiet on this island.” Meribald bowed his head. “And I would’ve been bound by our High Septon to keep it from you my lady. You would’ve thought this poor girl dead and to place such a burden on you would be too great to do without some comfort. I was to give you the lady’s sword upon the morrow so you could at least take comfort in finding that.”

Brienne was surprised the septon would have misled her. To think a sword and a false tale would be good coin for her failing in her task.

Arya however was more concerned about a different coin.

“My coin?” Arya asked after sliding the blade through a rope around her waist. “I had a coin too…”

“That coin…I have travelled far young lady and that coin…” Meribald’s face darkened and he pointed out into the blackness of the bay beyond. “That coin was not something I’d have here or with you. It is gone to the depths of the bay where it can lay in the darkness it represents.”

The look Arya gave the septon made Brienne uneasy again.

For it was full of malice and something else.

_What had the Elder Brother said?_

_About darkness in her heart?_

“Nonsense.” Brienne said aloud without meaning to.

Arya gave her a confused look as Brienne spotted her dagger still in the girl's clutches.

“It’s nonsense for you to keep that dagger. Give it to me my lady. You’ll have no need of it.”

The girl looked to argue but Brienne held out her hand.

“Do so and you may keep your sword. I may even teach you how to use it properly."

"My lady!" The Elder Brother protested but it mattered little, for the ploy had worked.

Arya quickly handed back the dagger, smiling as she did so.

Brienne thought the Elder Brother wrong as looked upon that smile.

For in it she saw something very familiar. It was pretty, earnest, even a little daring.

And not the least bit dark.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle and death. Reunions both good and bad.  
> The hard lesson that victory almost always comes at a cost.

 

BRYNDEN

 

It was an ugly thing.

Brynden could fool himself into believing much of this world but with this he’d always been honest. As he sat on Walton Frey’s bed, awaiting his coming death he allowed himself this last luxury.

The pendant he clutched had once been a gleaming silver piece, the likes of which men would haggle for. Or so he’d been told.

It’s glory days had long since passed. Parts were chipped away and rust had attacked others. The life he’d led had not been one where precious things could survive unscathed, still the condition of the pendant shamed him.

He imagined few could see what he once had in the bit of jewelry he had all those years ago.

_Are you thinking of the pendant or yourself?_

The thought brought a chuckle from deep in his chest. His thumbs tried to trace the outline of what the pendant had once been shaped to be.

That of a swan. A majestic silver swan.

There were few things in life he’d ever held so dear besides his own kin. He’d had some bows in his life he’d esteemed enough to name. He’d kept several swords and more horses. Even more friends. Yet this was the only bit of luxury he’d ever allowed himself during all his travels. While Brynden knew he faced certain death by riding into the Twins he’d kept it with him anyways.

Jeyne had commented on it during their journey to the Neck. He’d tried to keep it from her but one night she awoke and found him doing much as he did now.

“It’s special to you.” She’d whispered through her suffering.

“It is.” He’d answered, forcing a smile. “As are you child.”

“No, not like me.” The girl had found the strength to smile despite all her hardships. “Robb would look at me like that. Did someone give you that? Someone you loved?”

He remembered being quiet then, of clutching the pendant firmly and willing Jeyne to sleep. When she didn’t and made to sit up and rob herself of what strength she had he was honest.

“Someone I love.” He’d admitted. “Someone I will always love.”

Jeyne had that truth from him at least. It was more than most others ever did. She was gone now of course. So were his parents. His brother, his nieces were dead as well and likely his nephew would follow them. Brynden had lost his king too but Sansa was still out there, waiting somewhere in the darkness for him to do what needed to be done.

When the knock came on his chamber door he brought the pendant up to his lips and kissed it lightly. He returned it back into his pocket before grabbing the bundle he’d prepared, slinging it over his shoulder and throwing his cloak on.

Such was how Walton Frey presented himself to his caller.

Walder Rivers stood armored and waiting when he opened his door. The bastard had brought four men-at-arms as well and Brynden half expected his deception had been discovered.

“It’s time.”

Those words made Brynden’s heart beat powerfully within his chest. They meant the Vale caravan had been spotted nearing the castle.  

Edwyn’s plot was now put in motion. And his own soon after.

“I am ready.”

“You better be, you look horrible.” Walder said and Brynden didn’t doubt it.

Brynden had barely slept the night before and had spent a day in a castle surrounded by people he’d rather gut than feign courtesy to. Night and day thoughts of what had befallen Cat and her son here had tormented him. Almost as much as the strain of all he needed to do and how many things could go wrong.

He’d been lucky in his mummery. Walton appeared to be a relatively unpopular Frey whom few wanted to interact with. The man’s own wife had yet to seek him out and he’d only had one caller to his chambers the night before. A young serving girl asking if he’d had need of her. Apparently her arrival at such an hour was routine and it had not taken much imagination to think of what Walton would have needed of her. She’d been relieved when Brynden had told her he was weary and to leave him.

 _No relief for me_ , he thought _, not tonight._

_Unless this is finally the night it alls ends._

Their group passed servants and stewards but few armed men. The Frey strength left in the Twins was almost upon the walls and lining the route the Royce caravan would travel through the castles. The armed men awaiting Walder Rivers and his coming were the only ones Brynden saw during the whole journey.

The two men watched their approach uneasily, clutching their spears tightly. They had been charged with protecting some fairly valuable people. Within that chamber Brynden hoped the Royce men were awake and ready. Ready to help in the battle ahead.

It was a hope Walder Rivers clearly shared.

“Are they well? Awake?” The bastard asked.

“They are.” One guard answered hesitantly. “But Lothar commanded that only he or Lord Walder could command their…”

“We’re here to take the Royce men to Lord Walder.” Walder Rivers lied. “So move aside.”

To the guard's credit he was not fool enough to believe it.

Brynden saw it clearly from how the guard shifted his stance and how his eyes took stock of their group. The man stepped backwards as both Rivers and Brynden drew their swords and attacked.

It was quick work. Bloody work. Only but a taste of what the night would bring.

“Walton, it is almost good to see you.” Ser Willem said as Brynden and the others marched into the chamber. Without a word one of Walder's men handed both Royce men their weapons. “I take it I’m free to use these?”

“Only kill those without this.” Walder broke in, pointing to a bit of white cloth tied about his sword belt. The other men with them had also donned similar markers and one offered a bit to Brynden. “I’m going to take my place on walls. When the signal is given we take those first. Walton, you and the Royces…”

“We’re to take the bridge gate. I know.”

“Bloody well do it.” Walder growled. “It’s going to be hard enough taking this castle, if they flee across the bridge Lothar might be able to hold off the attack there. So keep that gate shut.”

A trumpet sounded somewhere outside and Walder grunted to his men.

“They’re crossing, let’s go.”

Brynden stayed back with the Willem and his man as the Freys filed out to begin their treachery. They had their own treachery to discuss.

“So what’s the real plan?” Willem asked as he pulled his two blades and twirled them in his hands. “Which stout is for me?”

“Controlling that gate is key.” Brynden said. “Have your men rally around it but get them up the stairs to the walls as soon as you can. Won’t take the traitors long to realize your men are here to kill them all.”

“And how the hell do we get up those stairs? If it’s anything like the one I saw at the other castle it’s open to fire from the walls and there were men guarding the top.”

“The Blackfish will see to those guards.” He watched the confusion form on Willem’s face. “If you’re quick about it your men should be up those stairs with little blood.”

Another trumpet sounded and Brynden made to leave when the knight grabbed his arm.

“What about Jon? I couldn’t ask about him with the others but you’ll damn well tell me how he fares.”

“He’s in the dungeons. The safest place he could be for what we’re about to do.”  He jerked free of Willem’s hold. He’d spare the man any more details of what had befallen his friend. “Now come on.”

Edwyn’s plan had them meant for different tasks than they set to now. They were already in the western castle so Brynden led the two men to where the rest of the Royces would soon be appearing. As they stepped up to a stone archway and peered out Brynden saw the first of the wagons appeared, just the beginning of a long line ending its journey across the Frey crossing.

He saw spearmen all about the yard, with archers lining the landings and battlements further up. Should the battle start the men up there would be the true threat. One that needed to be dealt with.

“Stay in the shadows until the horn blows.” He hissed to Willem, pulling a hood over his head and preparing to begin his part. “Good luck to you.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find the Blackfish.” He said simply.

As one wagon and a rider passed him Brynden crossed the yard towards the stairs. The lower part was walled all around and after climbing a short way he found a crossbowman standing at an arrow slit watching the wagons roll by. He was a young lad, yet to shave by Brynden’s estimation. Green too, as he jumped to see Brynden coming, his eyes flicking down to the white cloth at his side.

“It’s almost time.” He said as he gestured to the man’s white marker.

The lad’s eyes fell to his own waist long enough for Brynden to pull a dagger unseen.

“Yes. Yes of course m’lord I’m just alone here and…”

The rest of the his words came out as a red gurgle. Brynden’s slash across his throat had left a gruesome spray along the stonewall behind them. The man fell dead as Brynden wrenched Walton’s cloak from his shoulders.

Next came the his tunic and if he didn't need it for the fight ahead Brynden would’ve torn the man’s mail off as well.

“This is more like it.” Brynden said to himself as he pulled another tunic from his bundle.

It bore the Tully trout proudly across its faded blue cloth. There’d been a good number of Tully guardsmen among those slain at the Red Wedding. Some of their killers had taken trophies and Walton had been one. Brynden had found this among the man’s belongings and, as torn and darkened with blood stains as it was, he felt cleaner when he pulled it over his head.

The sorcery hiding his face from the world was helped by wearing Walton’s clothes but if Brynden was about to die a he’d die a Tully.

It was a shame to throw Walton’s cloak over himself again but it would only be for a short while. Time enough for one last charge. He hefted up the crossbow and was thankful to see it already cranked and ready when he heard it.

Far off, a low hollow noise started up.  
  
Someone was blowing a northern horn.

_Sansa’s riders are attacking the other castle._

_The battle will be on._

Other horns soon answered, some from just below him among the wagons. Through the arrow slit he saw the horsemen pulling weapons and flaps being torn away from wagon tops as archers sprang up beneath them. A castle guard shouted in surprise as he was cut down by one of the riders. Soon after the mayhem of battle began.

Brynden charged up the stairs, the wall to his left gave way to empty air and the carnage of the courtyard lay beyond. Arrows were flying down from the walls and parapets as the crannog bowmen shot their own up at the defenders. It should have been a slaughter but the Freys were a mess.

The idiots were fighting each other all about the castle, some archers were even firing on other Freys. Brynden guessed only half the men that could be fighting Sansa’s were actually doing so.

It was madness

An arrow slammed into the wall behind him while ahead three spearmen barred his path, guarding the way up to the battlements. All bore the white rags marking them as part of Edwyn’s plot yet their spears pointed down at him nonetheless.

“It’s Walton!” He cried, holding up his own white cloth. “Let me pass! I must pass!”

Two foolishly dropped their guard and raised their spears. The third’s eyes were locked upon Brynden’s chest, for Walton’s cloak had flown open. He wondered whether the man was more shocked by the Tully trout beneath or the crossbow he raised.

It didn’t truly matter.

The spearman saw little more after Brynden loosed the quarrel. The bolt slammed into his chest with enough force he fell backwards, knocking him into the next man, pinning that one against the wall.

_A good shot._

The third spearmen lost precious time to shock. Brynden didn’t even need to pull his sword. As the man lowered his spear he was there, grabbing it with both hands and pulling hard. It put the man off balance enough for Brynden to drive him sideways and off the stairs themselves.

As that foe fell to his death the last spearman had freed himself from the corpse of his friend and pulled a dirk. A smart move in such close quarters, it made Brynden’s work all the harder. How fast his foe proved to be only made it worse. The man latched onto Brynden’s wrist with a firm grip, staying his hand before he could reach his own sword. All he could do was much the same, grabbing his attacker’s wrist to hold the dirk at bay.

“My brother! You killed my brother you fucking shit!” The man spat in his face. “You traitor fuck!”

Brynden was slammed against the wall and a knee drove up and into his groin. He almost buckled and his arms jerked back in the pain. It brought the blade almost to his throat. The sorceress’ bracelet was torn from his wrist as his attacker’s grip forced it up and off. He watched it bounce off a stone stair.

Once. Twice. Then it was gone, down into the battle raging below.  
  
 _Bugger me._

“Bugger me!” Brynden’s would be killer cried out.

In the gleam of the man’s halfhelm Brynden could make out his face. Well Walton’s face but even to call it that was wrong as well. For he was changing again, the Frey’s features melting away to display the true man beneath.

His enemy’s fear took hold and he jerked backwards. It was all Brynden needed.

“I’m no traitor Frey.”

He moved fast, the man still had his dagger at chest level so he caught the man’s elbow in one motion, his wrist in another.

“I’ve always been a Tully.”

He did just as Riverrun’s master-at-arms had taught him as a small boy.

_‘Last man a knight will ever think to face on the battlefield is himself. You remember that Brynden.’_

His teacher’s words came back to him as he forced the Frey man’s dagger up and backwards into his own eye.

“I always have.” Brynden watched as the man stiffened, his mouth open in a comical surprised expression.

As he fell back, following his friend in landing far below in the courtyard Brynden finally pulled his sword and continued up the landing. His parts throbbed in agony but it was a small price to pay for what he’d just accomplished.

The battlements ahead were full of men dead or dying but even more were left fighting. Edwyn’s men had largely taken this part of the wall yet confusion reigned as they watched their would be allies fighting all manner of Freys. He spun to face the outer wall and gazed over the parapet towards the other castle.

Parts of it were aflame and the sounds of trumpets and northern horns filled the night. He thought he could see fighting along those walls. Perhaps even a shout of Stark or Winterfell carrying across the water.

 _They made it_ , he smiled, _Sansa’s men made it in._

_Now I just need to take this castle with one column of men and some swamp archers._

The sound of boots upon the stone steps behind him made him turn and prepare to face reinforcements. He was pleasantly surprised to see they were of a friendly kind.

“Blackfish?” Willem gaped at him from the entrance to the battlements. Behind the knight were a half score of his own men. “By the warrior how the fuck did you get in here? How the fuck did you get up here?”

“Later.” Brynden jerk his head towards the Freys. “We’ll have a harder go of it when they realize we’ve taken the stair so let’s get to clearing these walls before they do.”

“You. Go back and get some of those archers up here.” Brynden pointed at one unknown face before grabbing at the bow of another. “Is that a long bow?”

“Yes ser it is, made by my…”

“You’ll be sharing that with me for a moment, I won’t keep it long.”

The man surrendered his bow and quiver easily enough as Brynden led the group towards the fight. A guardsman helping a wounded comrade took notice of their approach and Willem rushed forward, his first slash pinning the man’s sword against the wall while the second cleaved into his neck. Shouts answered that killing and more Frey warriors began moving towards the small group. Brynden let the Royce men charge by him, they could handle that fight.

For he’d been searching for a specific target along the walls and now he’d found him. Walder Rivers was just around the bend of the wall they stood on. He was pointing below and shouting at a group of his archers, directing the deaths of men below.

Brynden notched his arrow, and made to stand upon the parapet. It was the act of a foolish green boy. Friend or foe could have shot him down just as easily. Yet Brynden wanted the clearest shot possible.

_And I want him to see me._

“The King in the North!” He roared, spittle flying from his mouth. “The King in the North!”

Even through the battle the Frey bastard heard it. Walder Rivers stared across at him even as Brynden loosed his arrow.

Hoster used to tease him about preferring the bow to swords but Brynden had never been willing to abandon it. Cat had always been delighted to see the shots he could make during one of their hunts. The picture of that sweet child clapping and laughing was lost to one of her bloodied and screaming.

That all fell away as Walder Rivers himself fell screaming into his men. The foul man continued to wail while grasping in vain at the arrow lodged with his chest. The archers about the dying man were pointing at Brynden but he didn’t care.

He wanted to continue watching but was denied that.

Someone pulled him backwards, off the parapet to land hard upon the battlements.

“How dare…” Brynden started to curse as he heard the arrows fly by overhead.

“Sorry ser! Truly! Ser Willem told me to!” The young man he’d taken the bow off of raised his hands in fear. “Said if you died he’d bloody kill me next!”

Brynden grunted and saw Willem and his men quite outmatched fighting a larger group of Freys.

“Here.” He offered the lad’s bow back to him. “Pick off as many of those archers across from us as you can. I go to repay Willem for his discourtesy.”

His sword was drawn and he was charging towards the fight before the boy could say any more.

Hoster’s voice came back to him.

_‘Being able with a bow is all fine and good Bryn, but what if it comes to a real fight?’_

He flung a faltering Royce man back and cut at his attacker. His sword crashing against his foe’s shield.

_‘A fight where you can’t be far away but right amongst the blades?’_

The man was favoring the gash Brynden had left in his leg when his upstroke cleaved half the poor bastard’s head off.

_‘What if it comes to real blood?’_

A killer was still struggling to pull his poleaxe out of the shoulder of the Royce man he’d killed when Brynden leapt behind him, laying a blade to his throat. He spun the man backwards towards the Freys converging on him, jerking his blade savagely.

Blood splattered across his face and tunic as the foe charged forth.

“Then I’ll get bloody.”

And he got bloodier still.

 

* * *

 

 

 GHOST

_The blood was all around him._

_Blood and dying men and men who would die but did not know it yet. He smelt the fear and excitement among the men who did the killing. The fear of the ones who did the dying. Then there was all the noise, all the horrible man noise. Their growls and cries, the harsh clanging of their metal teeth and the whistling of their flying ones._

_He was in the den where his brother had been killed. Or was is it the other across the water? That one held a part of him, it held pain and fire and sometimes he forgot he was a wolf._

_Sometimes he’d be pulled to a dark place where only pain existed._

_He didn’t want to go there. Being beside the girl was where he wanted to be. Protecting her, comforting her when he smelt the fear growing. The pain in the dark was that much worse because he could escape to be with her._

_But when he heard the girl’s pack start fighting within the hollow mountain he’d left her side. She was with good men. Men who pulled their metal teeth when danger came near her._

_He’d followed their charge through the den’s entrance. He’d had to jump over dead men and horses to be where he was now, in the center of a great space of killing. Around him rose the great flat cliffs where the men’s whistling teeth came biting._

_But it was his time to bite._

_The flesh of the man’s leg ahead filled his mouth as he tore it from the bone. He would not eat now, this was not a time for eating. The man tried to cut him with his metal tooth and missed so he took one the man's arms as punishment._

_That man would die but there were more. He could smell the men he would kill. The girl’s men smelled of the swamps and the long walk they’d made. Their enemies smelt like the hollow mountain and the river water._

_A man who stank of fish was cutting a swamp man so he attacked that one next. He came from behind, leaping up and biting at the soft exposed neck. The crack and instant flood of warm blood finished the kill before he’d even landed again._

_The swamp man was bleeding. The smell of it thick on him and but there were more prey about and no time to lick the man’s wounds. He needed to find more to kill when something stopped him._

_The swamp man’s growls._

_“I see you.”_

_The man clutched at his wound, fighting the bleeding that came from there. Strange green eyes stared at him, challenging him._

_“Man and wolf...I see you Jon…don’t be afraid…you’ll see too…”_

_The strange eyes and growls confused him. Made him feel like someone else was under his skin._

Pain filled his mind then. The burning was horrible. The pain everywhere. The dark around him was wet and hard things wrapped around his paws. But they weren’t his paws anymore. They had become man paws and one was agony. It burned so badly he wanted to gnaw it away.

He didn’t want this body. He wanted to be free of it. Free of the pain.

He screamed.

_And when his howl ended the swamp man lay staring at him still. There was still life left in his stare though, still breath in his body._

_“Jon we’ll come for you. Just don’t lose yourself yet…Jon…”_

_The growls meant nothing. This was not the man he sought and it was too dangerous to stay with him. Whistling teeth landed near and men still fought._

_So he left the bleeding thing._

_The girl’s men were on the cliffs now and men fell now and again, their crunching bones echoing loud within his ears. That fight was not for him. He wanted to hunt here, not on the cliffs._

_There was another den entrance ahead and the brother’s killers were fighting about it. A row of men with long, sharp teeth were stabbing at the girl’s men. More killers hid behind the ones stabbing, sending the flying teeth forth from wooden flat mouths. Any man who tried to break their pack fell._

_He could hear and smell men fleeing from the cliffs, behind their den walls to this gate and then away. Running to the other mountain across the river. If they ran so far he could not kill them._

_They could run to the dark place and make the pain come again._

_So he would help the girl’s men._

_There was a wooden den near where the men fought, where the smell of horses was strong. It was burning in parts but the top still stood and it was higher than the stabbing long teeth. More wooden things were near it and it was those he used to climb, to leap upon the top of the horse den._

_His prey was ahead of him but the leap would be far. It could be too far._

_He backed away from it and the wood den groaned beneath._ _The flames from below began to claw upwards. Hot against at his legs, singing his fur._ _The thought of burning started to push him away, back towards the dark again._

_He pushed back. He saw where he must go and ran._

_Ran until the horse den ended and leapt._ _His paws felt only air as he flew over the girl’s men._ _He chose his prey as he flew over the killers._

_The man saw him too and screamed, the sound doing nothing to stop his attack._

_The men with their flying teeth trying to run or bite him. Men like these had killed his brother. They needed to time to put their teeth into the wooden mouths. His teeth were at the ready._

_He was fast, darting back and forth, biting and tearing, filling the air with as much blood as was in his mouth. Until the world around him was a blur of screams and blood._

_The backs of the men with the long teeth were easy to attack. The girl’s men were soon among him, adding more death to the air and earth._

_They left him behind as they pushed into the den mouth. Left him to feel the dampness of the earth beneath his paws. The blood was all around him here._

_Something shook him and he jumped, snarling. Warning it away. But there was nothing warn. No man was there to touch him._

_Man growls filled his ears but the ones fighting were not so close to do so. Then he was shaking again and the pain filled everything._

“Jon Snow.” A man growled from somewhere in the dark. “Say something you bastard.”

“He’s dying Jon, let him do so in peace.”

“No he’s bloody not Marq. Not the last one, not with me here.” The growls came from a filthy, furry man in the dark. He was above him, small light flickering across his face. “That’s it lad, not here. This place has taken enough of our sons, it won’t be taking you.”

More fire filled the room and he howled at the memory of the pain. He wanted to run, to jump away from it but these men were keeping him in it.

“I’ve got the chains off the others but I think more guards are coming.” A new man had come with more flames. He held a bloody tooth. “We’ve only four blades between us.”

“Then that’s how many we’ll have to do for them Olyvar.” The large man growled. He knew this man. He’d been father’s friend. “I could do for some more killing before this night’s done. Help me get him out of here before they send more. ”

With that the men began to paw and lift him upwards. His back and hands screamed even louder than his dry throat could. He was carried out of the darkness but the agony followed.

Whenever he’d left the darkness he’d left the pain behind.

He’d left his name behind.

So he did so again. He reached for his friend.

_And the wolf stood again in the blood soaked battleground. Watching the girl's men running towards the stone trail over the river. Where the darkness was._

_The wolf could save the one he sought from the darkness. So he ran to the stone trail, following the sounds of death._

_For the killing could last for longer._

_Much longer._

* * *

 

 

SANSA 

 

_How much longer?_

_How much longer can this madness last?_

Sansa twisted her horse’s reins in her hand as she stared out upon the Twins, from where Maege and she bore witness to the assault.

Well, witness to little truly. Torches and flames lit up parts of the castle ahead but she could make out little from where she was.

_I can’t even tell if we are winning._

“How long has it been?” She asked, of the score of mounted men about her it was the lady who answered.

“I would say just under two hours.” Maege answered, her face grim. “Longer than I’d hoped.”

Sansa couldn’t believe that. It had felt like an eternity since the whole thing had started.

Her heart had suffered greatly during all of this, jumping several times as the attack against the Twins unfolded. First as the Royce wagons entered the castle, her fearing of their discovery all along. Then when the Freys signaled for her men, disguised as their own, to follow the wagons within. The worst had been when the war horns had begun to blow.

That had meant her riders within had attacked the gate. It sent the rest of her army rushing forward from the darkness. Some had fallen behind the initial charge, finally risking the lighting of torches to escape the darkness they’d spent hours shrouded in.

“Fools.” Maege had said. “Put them out!”

It had been too late and Sansa had cried out to watch some of those poor men struck by arrows from the castle walls. The sounds of their dying had been horrible. Even those who kept charging suffered such fates. The throng of men charging across the drawbridge had been met with arrows and rocks as well. The light from the castle had let her watch as those who fell were shoved into the moat to make way for others following behind.

Some still living as they disappeared under the water.

Howland and Galbart had led her army’s drive through the gate. Those two rushing forth to join Jon and Uncle Brynden in that place which burned and bled before her. Even Ghost ran within to join the thousands of her men fighting and dying in those accursed castles. A howl or two had reached her ears and she imagined Ghost in terrible peril.

Her people falling and dying for her.

All while she watched.

“It’s quieting your grace.” Maege added. “I hear less than I did.”

“Truly?” She asked hopefully. “The battle is ending?”

Maege nodded but Sansa couldn’t quite believe it. In her heard the horns and trumpets still blared. The screams and yells echoing even louder.

Yet she slowly realized Maege was right. Some battle still raged somewhere in the night, far and distant. Upon the walls she spied some movement yet none of it frantic or hurried. All much different than it had been.

“I think our men have the battlements.” Sansa pointed up. “That was the plan wasn’t it?”

“It was.” The lady answered. “The battlements and gate, then the bridge to aid the Royces.”

“Riders your grace!” One her guards shouted, pointing at some dark shapes moving from the castle gate towards them. “Form up!”

Her mounted protecters quickly encircled her while a few brave men rode forward, to deflect any attack.

There was to be none though. For the men riding towards them flew the Stark banner. It’s white backdrop stained red at places.

“Queen Sansa!” A Stark guardsman she knew to be named Rodwell hailed them. “This castle is secure!”

A small cheer went up from her men and Sansa almost yelled in joy herself. For the castle to be secure meant there'd be less death, her men would suffer no more.

“I have been asked to escort you within.” Rodwell continued, turning his horse. “If you would follow us.”

She gladly did. As she rode a smile stretched across her face.

 _We took the Twins_ , she thought, _my army took the Twins._

_Everyone said no one could take the Twins but we did._

Her joy was short-lived for as they rode closer to the castle the brutality of their victory became evident.

She had not prepared herself for how many bodies there would be. For how much blood and death had come from what she’d willed. Dead men lay all about as Sansa rode through the gate of the Frey castle. Bodies pierced with arrows or hacked horribly. She sought Maege’s comfort but the lady was riding at the head of the group, her hand upon her mace. All the other men shared dark expressions as they took in the carnage and Sansa began to feel nervous.

 _They’ll hate you for this,_ she thought _, they made you a queen and you brought them this._

Within the courtyard it was even worse. Scores of bodies were strewn about on the ground, others hanging from the stairs and battlements. Many and more bore the twin towers of House Frey upon their cloaks but that offered little comfort. She feared for how many were her own disguised warriors.

Some of her losses were plain already.

Men bearing the Stark direwolf, Mormont bear, Glover fist, even the Reed’s lizard lion, all were represented among the slain.

She worried at how many there were laying like this beyond the courtyard. Many of her men had survived the Red Wedding only for her to lead them back here for vengeance. 

_Men who’d spent much of the war fighting for the Starks while I did nothing in King’s Landing._

_And tonight I did nothing while they died here._

“Oh gods…Torvald.”

Maege’s pained voice cut through all that.

The lady had stopped her horse above one of her own dead warriors. The body was of an old man, doubled over with his pale hands still clutching a spear through his middle. 

“You got what you wanted you old goat.” Maege shook her head. “Damn you for it.”

“My lady?” Sansa asked, somewhat shocked.

“I grew up with him. He was a guard in my father’s days…older than he had any right to be when he showed up to march south with your brother.” Maege chuckled as she wiped at her eyes. “Said he wouldn’t stay behind for one last war. I told him to go home and look to his family…to enjoy his last days with his children’s young ones. He said he’d rather die a Northman.”

Despite herself Sansa pictured the old man surrounded by small children, carrying them about upon his shoulders like father would carry her as girl. It was a hard thing to reconcile with the bloody corpse which lay below. She knew nothing of this man beyond Maege’s words but she had to fight back tears anyways.

“Oh Maege…Maege I’m sorry…”

_How many others?_

 Her eyes drifted over the dead, old and young amongst them.

_How many other grandfathers have fallen here? How many fathers or brothers? Sons?_

_Cousins?_

“The Queen in the North!” The shout cut her off.

It had come from above her. A man standing upon the wall looked down at them and raised his sword before yelling again.

“The Queen in the North!”

“Victory!” Another yelled from beside her. “Justice!”

“The Queen in the North!”

More men all about the yard and fortifications took up the call. They began banging their spears against the ground as they shouted. Others clanging their weapons against shields as they cheered her arrival to the castle.

 _They fought and won this castle_ , she marveled _, they’re the ones who died for it._

_Yet they cheer me._

She waged her own battle against breaking under it all. Her father wouldn’t have cried. Nor would've Robb. They’d have been strong so she struggled to be like them.

Sansa held her head high so her men could see her pride in them.

“I would see this castle.” Sansa said to one of her guards. “If you would help me?”

Soon strong hands aided her in dismounting and men in the courtyard bowed as she turned to face them. Some were wounded and others splattered with blood and gore. Yet she looked at each and did not show weakness.

It was the least she could do.

“I want our dead seen to as quickly as possible. They are to be treated as the heroes they are.”

“I’ll set men to it you grace.” Maege nodded and began to give such orders when she suddenly paused. Her gaze locked on something further ahead.

Another man had entered the courtyard through the bridge gate, stepping over bodies at brisk pace. His face was as stained with blood as his Tully tunic was. Sansa could not contain her join when she recognized him.

“Uncle!” She cried out as she ran forward, stepping over a body to get to him quicker.

Brynden Tully was once again the image of himself, a smile pulling upon his face as she closed upon him. Sansa threw her arms around the man before he had a chance to stop her.

“I’m in no state to be hugged by a queen but I’ll not argue girl.” Brynden grumbled as he returned her embrace. He smelt terrible and trembled slightly as she held him.

“I was so afraid. So scared for you. Are you well?” She eyed his face, it bore some marks of battle but could see no worse upon the rest of him.

“Aye, I’m well enough.” He said grimly. “I put a good number of Freys in the ground for your mother.”

When she released him he surprised her by grasping her hands and pulling her back into a second embrace. This one almost feeling desperate.

“I’m sorry girl, it’s just a good thing to hold family after being here. Forgive an old man this.” He whispered, his face full of sadness and his eyes elsewhere.

“You have my love uncle, always that.”

He gave her a small smile and a final squeeze before releasing her. Maege had joined them now and he held out his hand to her.

“Both our prayers were answered ser. It’s a good thing to see our friends after a night such as this.” Maege smiled but her words did not raise the knight’s spirits any.

“What news have you heard?” He asked them.

“Little.” Sansa said truthfully.

They had won, that much she knew.

But of details of the battle they had heard nothing. Nor of their losses.

_Nothing of Jon._

Brynden nodded.

“We have captured several Freys, including Lord Walder. Ser Willem took a party to free the hostages held in the dungeons and reports all are being seen to. Apparently they didn’t need much saving, the Greatjon and the others had staged their own escape attempt when they heard the ruckus.” Brynden shook his head. “The fool was barely unshackled before he joined the battle.”

Maege laughed and Sansa remembered the fierce, almost frightening lord who had visited Winterfell in her youth. Her uncle seemed to puff up like the Greatjon then before loudly making another proclamation.

“We hold both castles and the bridge securely you grace! The Twins and the Crossing are yours!”

Brynden’s words sent up another cheer of joy in the courtyard.

_It’s for mother. For you Robb._

She embraced Maege who was laughing happily, the woman had shared in so many of her worries that she must share in Sansa’s joy. It was when Sansa turned back to her uncle she saw his face was still grim.

Her next question was one she feared to have answered.

“And of our losses?”

And then his expression darkened further.

“It was not a bloodless battle. I fear almost half the Royce men dead or wounded. Lord Reed is in a bad way…”

“How bad?” She asked, fearing what the Howland’s loss could mean. She valued him so.

“He’ll live, unlike many others. We lost scores taking the castles…the worst was the bridge.” Brynden’s eyes were on Maege then. “That tower cost us dearly.”

The tower sitting upon the middle of the bridge had been a terrible thing to consider taking during the assault. Whoever attempted it would have to charge across an open bridge which gave archers a clear field to loose upon them. Galbart Glover had asked the honor of attacking it, promising to shout out Robb’s name as he led the charge.

“Of Galbart?” Maege asked.

Her uncle shook his head and Sansa’s hand went to her mouth.

“Galbart Glover was a good man. A brave man. He did his duty and he did not suffer your grace.”

“Oh Galbart…” Maege closed her eyes.

The pair had fought alongside Robb from the beginning. It was thanks to them both she even had an army to command.

“We will do him the honor of returning him home.” Sansa tried to sound strong but this loss was great. “I swear it.”

The man had been great counsel and loyal to the end. She swore the Freys would pay. They would surely pay for the loss of more good northmen. Losses she still did not know the full extent of.

Worse was that Brynden still had not mentioned Jon. And why he hadn’t filled her with dread.

“Of Ser Jon?” Lady Maege asked the question before she could. The woman was priceless to her.

And Brynden’s answer a gift from the gods.

“He lives.”

_He lives!_

The joy the words gave her was instant. She glanced behind her uncle half expecting to see Jon walking towards her. When he wasn’t there she looked to the bridge gate.

Then the stairs. Then the walls.

It took her a moment or two to realize how her uncle’s voice had sounded. The toneone she only heard from him when something was wrong. Her desperate searching of his face was too much for him.

He hung his head.

“We expect he will live. The Freys…they wanted answers of the man. He could have fed them anything but gave them nothing.” The knight paused before finally meeting her eyes. “I misjudged him Sansa. I thought the worse of him and I regret that. I hope I have the chance to tell him so.”

“Take me to him.” She commanded. “Now.”

“As you wish.” He said as he offered her his arm.

As they walked across the bridge and through the halls of the Twins she saw much but grasped little of it. The journey was a blur or men bowing, cheering, crying out pain or merely laying unmoving in her path. She passed them all, stepped over the ones upon the ground, all as if in a daze. 

She could not keep her thoughts from Jon.

Unspeakable horrors kept jumping into her mind.

 _They expect him to live,_ she thought _, why is it not certain he will?_

She had let him come to this. Whatever happened to him was her fault. They came to a doorway where she saw something which shook her from her fog. For Ghost lay beside the door, his white coat stained red and looking quite miserably. He raised his head just long enough to see it was her, then laid it down mournfully.

Brynden made to open the door but stopped just short of doing so.

“I would warn you this is not something I’d have you see…”

“I would see him. I must. Please.”

He nodded and they entered the room. The first things she saw was a table with a basin sitting atop of it which was full of bloody cloths. Then her eyes found the bed and the form of the man upon it.

And she screamed.

Her cry sounded like someone she did not know. Her hands went to her mouth and she rushed forward to the bed. Jon lay on his stomach, covered only from the waist down by a blood stained sheet. His back was a bloody mess with long, ugly slashes crisscrossing it. It was all so horrible it took her a moment to realize it was worse than she thought

It felt as if cold fingers had reached into her chest when she saw his hand. It was bandaged so that she could not even discern there was a hand still there. His eyes were closed, his skin pale and clammy, and sweat covered him.

But he was breathing still, a rasping, weak sound yet it came again and again.

 _Like Jeyne,_ she thought _, please not him too._

She willed him to open his eyes. To see her there.

“Jon…I’m here Jon…” Sansa whispered as she knelt to his side. “I have you now.”

His eyes did not open and he showed no sign of hearing her.

“Milk of the poppy.” Her uncle was beside her, his expression filled with concern. “I fear we have little enough but for now he rests.”

“He was lashed…”

“Yes. Forgive me, I could not prevent that. Nor what was done to his hand…you would ask me so I will tell you. They held it over the coals.” He paused, the look of horror upon her face must have stopped him. “They let it burn.”

“Is it still there?”

“The maester said it will mend but the scars will be terrible.” Brynden said. “He should have use of it in time.”

“Where is he then? Why is he not here tending Jon?” She asked angrily and looked accusingly at the man.

Jon lay here suffering and was alone when they’d arrived. Her uncle should have had the maester there beside him. Caring for him and speeding his recovery.

“Sansa, many men are wounded. Many worse than him. I don’t believe Ser Jon the kind of man to ask the healer see to his comfort over their lives.”

She wanted to scream at him. To tell him they could all wait. That more would have died if it hadn’t been for Jon volunteering to be sent here. To be tortured. Her anger was so she wanted to blame her uncle, her men, even the maester for Jon being there.

 _Everyone but yourself,_ she realized _, none of them gave the command._

_They didn't send him here._

Suddenly it was herself she was angry at. For the reasons she'd just thought and for how easily she sought to place blame on those who did not deserve it. Her uncle was right of course, Jon wouldn’t want others to suffer for his behalf. The healers should tend to those who needed it desperately. 

Caring for him could fall to someone less skilled. His bandages would need to be changed and his wounds cleaned. She could do such things, she could care for him herself until the healers were free to do so.

How long will that be?

_You don’t even know how many are wounded, what supplies we have to help._

_You can’t rule this castle without knowing this and more._

_You can’t stay here._

Those were the thoughts of a little girl who had no cares or duties. Her army had taken a castle and her bannermen freed. There were things to be done.

“How long will he sleep?”

“For some time. A few hours, maybe more if he’s fortunate.” Brynden paused but a look from her bid him to continue. “Burns are ghastly wounds, he will suffer.”

She reached out and gently ran her hand down the side of his face, the skin cool despite his sweat. It troubled her but Sansa knew what she must do.

Jon had made her a queen, she would be one for him.

“Where are the wounded being cared for?” She asked.

She would make her presence known there first. To show respect and honor for their sacrifices. To give them hope or comfort before the end.

“The great hall of the other castle.”

“If you would escort me there I would be seen and offer what help I could, I owe them that much at the least. If the head steward of this castle survived the siege I would have him questioned on the state of supplies here. Then I’d have our men confirm those supplies.”

Her meaning was clear, if the man could not be trusted it would be good to know soon.

“I’ll ask Maege to set men to it.”

“Also, if enough are able, I’ll want to see the men we’ve freed as soon as possible. I imagine within the next hour.” She rose from Jon’s side to take stock of the weary older knight. “I know you must be exhausted ser but I would have you awake for the next few hours at least. There is much to do.”

“I wouldn’t sleep if you ordered me to. A cup of wine or three with the Greatjon will be a fair reward for that.” He smiled and spared a glance to at Jon.

Sansa would not do the same for she feared her strength would leave her if she did.

“I will return here to tend to Jon after all else is done, I will be the first thing he sees when he wakes, no matter what.”

The knight offered his arm and they left the room. 

Her fighting the urge to run back the whole time.

 

* * *

 

ARYA

_Haven’t they seen dead bodies before?_

Arya had already been annoyed at the slow pace the others were taking. Now they seemed content to stop at every hanging body they came across. Like dead bodies weren’t common enough in these lands.

It took them long enough to realize who the dead men hanging from the trees were. She’d figured it out after the third one but hoped if she kept her mouth shut they’d move quicker.

She was wrong.

“Mordane, do not stray too far ahead.” Brienne called up to her. She was doing her best to hurry the others along. “Just because these may be the men who did those crimes at the Saltpans doesn’t mean there aren’t more.”

 _I hope there aren’t_ , she thought, _I hope_ _they are all on trees somewhere._

Brienne rode up beside her while the old septon droned on about the history of the inn they were riding to. Going on about this owner and that owner and what happened to them.

“He doesn’t know everything,” She said quietly.

“I don’t believe the septon claims to.” Brienne shrugged as she had her horse match the pace of Arya’s. “Yet he knows more about these lands than most.”

“I could’ve told you there was an inn at the crossroads. I’ve been there.”

“With the Hound? When he killed his brother’s men?”

“He only killed the one.” She said, eager all at once to tell Brienne the tale. “I killed the Tickler and their stupid squire. The Hound was so drunk they almost killed him. If it wasn’t for me…”

“Lower your voice.” Brienne cut her off before looking out into the trees where another hung man swayed in the breeze. “I do not doubt you my lady, but for the same reason I still call you Mordane I hope the septon is right and the inn run by different people now. The fewer people who know who and where you are the better for us.”

“You mean the Brotherhood?” She asked. “They aren’t our enemies, I rode with them for awhile. Remember I told you Beric…”

“I do remember but even the Lightning Lord sought to ransom you for coin and I hear little of him these days. More talk of a hangwoman called Lady Stoneheart. Who is to say who she would ransom you to?”

“I won’t be a prisoner again.” Arya declared and Brienne nodded.

“Nor would I allow such a thing to happen.” The lady warrior leaned in towards her and began to whisper her next words. “And I’d hear what the septon knows of these lands, before we leave him at the inn.”

That surprised Arya. Brienne had been treating the septon as if he hadn’t lied to her back at the island. Like she’d forgiven the septon for lying. Brienne must have seen her surprise so she continued on.

“I believe him a good man but you are right, we can not trust him. For the journey I plan on making I cannot allow him to follow...or slow us down.”

Hearing that Brienne wanted to move quicker was a huge relief. Knowing she understood who was slowing them down helped too.

 _Of course she sees that_ , Arya thought, _she's not just another stupid lady._

“But if we leave him behind and the Faith finds him he’ll tell them we’re heading to the Vale.”

“Which is good for us, since I intend we strike for the Neck instead.” Brienne said. “Those lands are far but I believe them to be the refuge we need. It would be hard for others to track in and the people there were staunchly loyal to your family.”

Arya became excited at the idea of heading to the North. The Vale was nothing to her really.

“My father always said Howland Reed was his greatest friend.”

She wanted tell Brienne more of what she knew about the Neck when the lad shook her head quickly.

“There will be time to talk of this further but say nothing to the others. Only you and I know this. I have not yet decided to tell Ser Hyle and Pod I will inform when it is time.”

“Pod? Why him?” Arya looked back at the quiet squire and when he caught her gaze his eyes fell. The swollen eye and cut lip she’d given him probably the reason why.

“Because you do him wrong, he is a brave and good lad. He sought your sister for a good cause and did not balk at seeing you to safety.” Brienne was no longer whispering and seemed disappointed in her. “And he is not the man who killed your father.”

_Ilyn Payne did and the boy’s a Payne._

_Good enough for me._  
  
They’d been two days riding from Quiet Isle when Hyle had let the name Payne slip. The boy had stuttered he’d squired for the Imp and that made him bad enough. When she’d learned who Pod’s cousin was all she saw was Ilyn Payne pulling forth Ice and closing in upon her father.

Why she’d used fists and not Needle Arya still couldn’t say.

“My lady!” The boy had tried to shield himself from her blows but she was all tears and rage.

“My father…he killed…my father…”

Each punch brought another accusation until she’d been lifted up and thrown away into the dirt. Brienne had been as shocked at the others but had acted quicker than the knight and septon.

Since then the squire had kept his distance and that suited her just fine.

The only person in the group she thought was worth their horse was Brienne. The woman was strong, fearless and led these men because she was the best to do so. No one bothered her about acting a lady and she never bothered Arya to act the same.

Hyle and the septon had given her strange looks when she’d traded the dress the brothers made her wear for a boy’s riding clothes. Hyle had said she was meant for dresses and comfort. He was always coming about her when Brienne was off somewhere. Full of little jokes and comments, always trying to make her laugh and had even brought her some flowers one morning.

Something about him just bothered her.

 _Brienne’s right not to tell him_ , she decided, _it be better if it was just us two anyways._

The thought of that happening made her happy to arrive at the inn.

The Crossroads was different from how Arya remembered. Instead of whores there were small children about, the oldest a girl about her age, the youngest about two and naked. Most hung about the inn’s porch but passed the stable noise came from what sounded to be a forge. She had her hood up over her face just in case any might remember her yet none looked familiar to her.

Brienne glanced to her and Arya gave a quick nod to signal all was well.

After that the lady and the others began to haggle with the one girl over the state and cost of the inn, it was all so boring Arya dismounted.

She knew Brienne wanted her to stay close but she’d spotted what looked to be a half eaten apple near the edge of the stable. Still good enough for a horse and she figured to reward her own for being such a good ride.

“No one thinks of you lot first.” Arya whispered to the beast as she fed it the apple, stroking its snout the whole time. “No one.”

Suddenly someone else had joined the others in speaking about the inn. It was a voice Arya recognized.

One she knew so well.

Arya whipped around to find who she hoped to.

“My lord?” Brienne asked then.

But standing at the entrance of the stable was no lord. She knew it wasn’t a dream when their eyes met. His blue eyes had been full of anger and suspicion but now widened in surprise. Those muscled arms suddenly falling limp to his sides.

“Gendry?” She asked, pulling back her hood.

He just stood there gaping at her. His hair was longer and he’d grown some more stubble about his face but little else was different. The leather apron he wore was filthy and besides that his chest beneath was bare and sweaty.

_Of course he’d find a smithy._

_He loves them so._

“Gendry it’s me.” She repeated as if he wouldn’t know her, it felt like it had been so long. “Say something. Say you know me…

He didn’t say anything, instead he started walking towards her, letting the others speak for him.

Shout really.

“Hold!”

“Back away from her boy!”

Gendry didn’t listen and when he lifted her up and into his arms in a powerful embrace she heard more cry out. Not her though, she hugged the big fool right back.

“I thought you died at the Saltpans…we all thought you died there…”

“Almost of boredom.” She smiled before scrunching up her face at his sweaty embrace. “You smell horrible.”

He smiled back and Arya realized how much she’d missed his stupid smile. Then his eyes flickered away and the smile disappeared.

It was the only warning she had before two powerful arms wrenched them apart and knocked Gendry to his arse. Hyle stood between them, his hand pushing her back as he drew his sword and pointed it at Gendry.

“That is not how a smith treats a lady!” The knight barked as the children were shouting at him.

“Leave Gendry be!”

“Stop!”

Arya was about to join in when Brienne was there, slamming her arm down into Hyle’s wrist, knocking his sword from his hand.

“Leave him be! He has no blade!” Brienne then reached to pull Arya to her side as they both glared at Hyle.

“I was to stand by and let some peasant molest the lady? No wonder women can’t be knights…” Hyle fumed as he was watched Gendry gain his feet.

“He’s not some peasant!” She found her voice and pointed at her friend. “He’s a knight and my friend!"

“A knight?” Hyle laughed and Brienne looked shocked as well.

“It’s true! He’s Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill! Knighted by the Lord Beric himself, I saw it!”

“Lord Beric?” Brienne pushed at her again, this time to put herself between them. “You were part of the brotherhood? You served the Lightning Lord?”

“I did.” Gendry brushed off his apron and waved away the eldest girl as he drew up this full size. “Before Lord Beric’s light left this world.”

“He’s dead?” Arya couldn’t believe it when Gendry nodded. It didn’t make sense, the man she’d known had been killed a number of times and every time he came back. “But I thought…where was Thoros?”

Gendry seemed pained then, looking at her in a way that almost bordered on pity, even sadness. His mouth opened but no words came. Instead he began scratching at his arm nervously.

“It’s not a tale I’d tell…but I’d hear yours.” Gendry turned to look at the assembled group before him and the suspicion he’d shown earlier came back. “Are these people your friends or captors?”

“I am the Lady Brienne of…”

“Brienne’s my friend, those two are fools and he’s a liar.” Arya made sure to point to the knight, squire and the septon in turn. “But they all helped me away from the Faith and travel with me now.”

“Arya that is not fair.”

“Bugger fair, it’s the truth. And Gendry’s my friend too so we’ll have rooms and food here tonight.” She said with her hands on her hips.

Gendry and the girl Willow exchanged the same wary look Brienne and Ser Hyle did.

“You are no longer in Lord Beric’s Brotherhood? We’ll have your vow of safety if we bed here?” Brienne asked and Arya couldn’t believe how awkward everyone was being.

“I would never let anyone hurt Arya. But if you’re staying here you’ll have to offer something.” Gendry gestured to the children all watching the events from the porch with worried interest. “Food or coin, there are mouths to feed.”

“A peaceable offer if I ever heard one.” The septon came forward as his dog ran up the porch and the children shrieked as it began to chase them about. “Dog! Dog! Oh well, it’s good for young ones to be a little scared of beasts. I can offer food in exchange for my bed this evening.”

“And us coin…but not too much of it.” Ser Hyle put in and the haggling began all over again.

In the end they took three rooms beside one another, Brienne and her sharing one with a hearth. Pod had seemed disappointed having to share Hyle’s room instead of Brienne’s and Arya couldn’t blame him. After what Hyle had done to Gendry she liked him even less.

She also blamed Hyle for Gendry keeping his distance from them. He hadn’t even come in to the inn afterwards and Brienne wouldn’t let her go anywhere without her.

It was all so stupid, Gendry was right there and after all this time she couldn’t even go talk to him.

_What are they afraid of? That one of the orphans might snatch me away?_

Only one person had ever been able to snatch Arya from anywhere and it had been the Hound. And he was long gone.

Eating dinner with the others had been a pain, children ran all about, the septon tried to pray and the girl Willow was bossy and reminded her too much of Sansa at her worst. And Gendry hadn’t even come in to share their meal.

Again, it was Brienne who came to her rescue. It was her that suggested someone take a plate out to the forge and Arya had jumped at the chance.

“It would not be proper for the young lady to go alone…” Hyle had started before Brienne rose from the table.

“Then I shall accompany her. Come on now, before he goes hungry.”

It was raining hard outside the inn but they didn’t run, Brienne and her weren’t bothered by a little rain. As they walked across the yard towards the forge, which rang with the sounds of work still, Arya remembered something from earlier.

“Why did you call Gendry a lord?”

Brienne made a face but did not break her stride.

“He reminded me of someone I knew once, I made a mistake is all.” She said before stopping just before the forge. “What do you know of the knight? Do you know where he comes from? Or his parentage?”

“He’s from King’s Landing and he said he never knew his parents. He’s a bastard, like Jon but don’t call him that. He’s a knight now.”

Arya didn’t think Brienne would do that but she had to be sure, things could not get more tense between them. Especially if she was going to convince Brienne to take Gendry with them.

The three of them would make a much better group than the one they rode with now.

“I show respect to all those who deserve it.” Brienne answered. “And Ser Gendry seems to have earned yours.”

Within the forge Gendry was hard at work. He had sweat running down his face and chest, his hair matted about his face as he pounded away at a sword. His eyes seemed to be elsewhere and she thought he hammered harder than necessary, each blow seeming fueled by some anger he held.

Then again she knew little of Gendry’s trade.

“Who’s the sword for?”

Her question caused Gendry to start, his arm pausing mid swing.

“Me.” He said before shoving the blade back in the flames and turning away from them. “A knight needs a sword and this one will be mine.”

“If you say so. We brought you food.” Arya set the plate off to the side of the shop and saw bits of armor and weapons all about, including a spear as tall as Brienne.

Gendry still didn’t turn around but she heard him grumble.

“Ladies shouldn’t be bringing food to the likes of me.”

“It was no trouble ser.” Brienne said, her eyes inspecting Gendry as if trying to figure him out.

 _Not likely_ , she thought, _I still can’t._

 Arya was in no hurry to leave so she made the best of their silence.

“I don’t know why you want a sword…you swing a hammer like a bull kicks.” She thought Gendry would cheer up at the use of his old nickname but he only shook his head, sweat falling from his dark hair as he did so.

“I’m a knight now, not a smith.”

“So? Robert Baratheon used a war hammer and he was a lord and a king. Tell him Brienne.”

The tall woman appeared at a loss for words, blinking several times before numbly nodding. Gendry didn’t see it, his back still to them. He’d always been a stubborn ass but now he was acting as difficult as Brienne was acting strangely.

“I’m sorry about Hyle.” She said. “I told you he was a fool…”

“Don’t.” Gendry turned to face her finally. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Not after...”

He trailed off then and she knew something was wrong. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes and his fists were clenched.

“Your mother…you know at the Twins…you know she…”

“She died.” She said it so quickly she felt badly for it, but it had been moons ago. Arya had all that time alone on Quiet Isle to accept that. “So did Robb and Jon, I was there but I couldn’t help them.”

“We never found your brother…Jon Snow. Beric had us look for you both. When we searched for you we came on bodies but we never found him. We found...”

“Stop. Just stop.” Arya almost begged.

Just because she’d accepted her family had died at the Red Wedding didn’t mean she wanted to talk about it. She also didn’t want to look weak so she quickly thought of something else to talk about.

“How did Beric die?” She asked.

Gendry didn’t answer at first, instead moving to where the sword was being heated, turning it over. Then he added more wood to the furnace and crouching low to look into the flames.

“Gendry?”

“He died like he did all the other times…giving his life for another.”

It made sense to her, Brienne seemed confused but she didn’t know the Brotherhood like they did. As she pictured Beric she imagined him dying to save some woman somewhere from sellswords or Lannisters.

“I’m glad.”

“What?”

“Arya!”

Gendry and Brienne were shocked.

“I’m glad he’s dead and that he is still dead. I liked him, I mean it. I think he was a good man.” She shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. “But he wasn’t happy Gendry. I heard him tell Thoros he wasn’t. Each time he came back less and less himself. Why come back if you can’t be yourself?”

“Arya what are you talking about?” Brienne was lost.

“But…I thought you wanted that.” Gendry said, his eyes finally on hers and if she thought him angry she was wrong. He was sad, as sad as she’d ever seen him. “You asked Thoros if he could bring back a man without a head? You wouldn’t want that still?”

The memory made her feel weak. When she’d asked Beric for that she hadn’t understood what his powers truly did. Afterwards she saw what Beric was going through, how his wounds remained and how he lost so much of what he loved.

Father would have come back but whether it would have really been him or some horribly scarred ghost of what he was she didn’t know. All Arya knew was how much she loved him and how warm he was when he hugged her.

And that was all gone now.

“Beric said it…said it wasn’t him that came back so it wouldn’t be my father who came back. I loved my father but he’s dead and I wouldn’t want something that only looked like him. I’d want him to be happy.” She wiped at her eyes, the tears had come despite her willing them away. “I hope he’s happy.”

“Quiet.” Brienne commanded suddenly, her hand going to her sword.

She was moving towards the door and Arya was about to ask why when the woman held out her hand, her had cocked as if listening. The rain pounding against the building was all she heard at first, that and Gendry walking back to where his sword was burning.

Then she heard Dog barking, loud and frantically and Brienne shared a worried look with her.

“Someone is coming.”

“Friends.” Gendry said and Arya felt her stomach tighten.

“What friends Gendry?”

“You know them.” He shrugged without looking back.

_No, he said he wasn’t with them anymore._

She wanted to scream at him but instead she ran to Brienne’s side as the lady peered out into the rain through the small gap in the door she’d opened. Riders were splashing into the yard and reigning up before the inn. She counted seven of them and at first couldn’t recognize any with their hoods up over their faces.

Until she spotted the last massive rider, his pale ugly head and sore laden cheeks all too familiar.

_I do know them._

“They aren’t our friends.”

“Your sword and armor ser.” Brienne spoke to Gendry who frowned. “You’ll need it to protect Arya.”

“To protect all of us.” Arya added as she reached down and was glad Needle was still at her side.

By then Gendry had come over to take a look for himself and swore to see who had gathered outside the inn.

Arya spotted something else familiar, a helm she’d grown to hate.

“He’s dead.” She said. “He said he was dead.”

She cursed the Elder Brother for lying about this as well.

“Not him, another.”

Brienne’s words were almost drowned out in the thunder, Willow’s words were to the riders certainly were. Whatever Arya thought of the girl it took courage to go out onto the porch armed only with a crossbow against a group like that. The man’s voice was louder and though she heard little enough she recognized it.

_Rorge and Biter._

_The Bloody Mummers are here._

Brienne suddenly turned and pushed Arya back at Gendry.

“Her safety ser, see to it.” Was all the woman spoke before she walked out into the rain and went forth to face the mummers.

_All of seven of them?_

_Alone?_

_She can’t!_

Gendry just stood there, gripping her shoulders and holding her back from helping.

“What are you doing? Get your armor!” She managed to fight him off until he only held her one wrist in his powerful right hand. “She can’t fight them all!”

“No she can’t but I’m not letting you go out there!”

Outside the sounds of fighting had started and she saw Brienne battling off a manic charged by Rorge. The others were just watching and laughing which meant there was still time.

Time for them to help her.

“Gendry I can fight so get your sword! She’ll die!” She used his grip as leverage and slammed her knee up and into his groin.

Gendry wheezed and released his grip enough for her to yank free and turn to the door. She saw Rorge impaled upon Brienne’s sword and almost cried out in joy. Then Biter was rushing at Brienne, smashing into her and sending them both down to the ground.

Arya was running out into the rain with Needle in her hand, heading straight at Biter and Brienne as they brawled in the mud. Someone gave a shout and one of the mummers swung at her with a mace.

Arya ducked beneath his blow, feeling the blow whip by just above her head. His attack had thrown him off balance so as she launched an attack of her. Slashing upwards Needle cut through the man’s thigh and across his groin. He screamed in agony before falling down clutching at himself. Whatever pride she took in that turned to horror as she saw what Biter was doing to Brienne.

The monster raised up over top of her protector, a chunk of her cheek hanging from his mouth as he chewed.

Arya moved to help as others joined the attack against the mummers. Newcomers were riding into the yard and she saw Hyle rushing forth from the inn.

None told the man who ran at Arya this, that or he just really wanted to cut her in two. He was wielding a curved sword and cursed her in some strange tongue.

Arya tried to meet his attack but the when their swords struck together Needle was torn from away her grasp. She watched it tumble through the air, landing in the mud to her side. Arya dove down into the muck too, avoiding her attacker’s next cut and crawling to reach her sword.

She never reached it, the man’s boot catching her in the ribs and causing her to roll sideways in pain.

The rain was in her eyes but she caught a glimpse of Biter still atop Brienne. Blood running down his mouth and the side of her face a bloody ruin.

_No please, not her too, not because of me._

The legs of the man who would kill her appeared just to side of her view. Any moment his sword would come down and she hoped it would before Brienne died. She didn’t want to watch Brienne die.

When the lightning flashed she thought it was the killing stroke. She'd closed her eyes against its coming and waited. Yet nothing but the crash of thunder followed.

She’d been spared, and so had Brienne. For Biter died in their place. 

Gendry had saved Brienne, her friend burying spear so powerfully through the back of Biter’s head it stuck out the monster’s mouth a good foot.

Two bodies fell in front of her then, grunting and wrestling. The man who was supposed to kill her was instead doing his best to hold off Podrick, who wielded a bloody meat knife in his hand. Blood spilled from the mummer and stained the mud but he fought on, his fist pummeling Pod’s face brutally.  

Arya didn’t waste time, she dug into the mud and crawled to Pod’s aid. When she was over top the mummer’s face she jammed her thumbs as hard as she could into the man’s eyes. He howled as her nails clawed deep into the softness there. Then howled no more as Pod drove his knife deep into the man’s chest.

They stared at each other after their enemy lay still. Pod’s eyes were dazed, his lips and nose a bloody mess while Arya was a mess of mud from head to toe, her side burning in pain. All around them the yard men still shouted and dying horses screamed yet no more weapons clashed. The fighting was over, the newcomers milling about the bodies of the mummers, some surrounding Hyle who argued with them loudly.

She didn’t care about that, she only cared about Brienne.

Pod was the same.

They helped each other to their feet, Arya doing her best not to lean against him more than he did for her. Together they went to Brienne.

Gendry was there, kneeling over her while another man in a familiar yellow cloak stood beside him. Brienne moved some in the mud and Gendry looked to be speaking to her quietly.

“Gendry, how is she?” Arya asked. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad enough…look at all she did.” Gendry answered. “She fought so hard…she can pull through I think.”

Arya had hope then, hope for Brienne despite how bad off she looked.

Until the other man spoke.

“It go better for her if she dies now. Why waste good hanging rope?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to give an idea of why the updates are slowing. My computer decided now is the time for the hard drive to fail. Thank the gods I had some back up USB's. Unfortunately I can only edit and post when I get access to a computer.
> 
> Oh discordia.

JON

 

“I confess!” He cried out. “I’ll tell you anything.”

Even as Jon grimaced in pain and surrender his torturer continued. In fact she actually acted annoyed.

“Be quiet!” Sansa said sternly. “And keep still!”

It was a hard thing to ask of him but he did his best as she lay another bandage across his back. That sent a sharp stinging coursing through his body, his left hand curling into a fist as he rode it out. In truth he was thankful for how little he had to endure now.

His back hurt less and less each day, it didn’t mean the pain wasn’t there, just that he was on the mend. The lash marks had stopped their constant throbbing days ago, and for that he was thankful. Yet they had never had hurt as much as his hand.

Sansa had told him when first awoke he had been moaning. That had been the good time, before the milk of the poppy wore off and he’d taken to screaming and writhing in agony. Others had to hold him down so the healers could do their work. Nothing had been done to quiet him though, according to Sansa this part of the castle had endured days of his cries and delirious shouting.  

He could not claim to remember much of that time. It but a haze of pain punctuated by flashes of familiar faces and glimpses of maddening dreams.

Some pleasant. Others not.

He’d seen Eddard Stark, father and uncle to him, showing him how to properly clean a sword. Robb and he playing at swords, before his brother becoming a smiling Robar as he got the upper hand. The sound of a whip and the terror as he watched his skin sizzle and burn. Arya, armored in filth on a muddy battlefield. Bran upon a throne of roots, shrouded in darkness.

And Sansa.

Most often Sansa. Her words cutting through the pain, soft and distant but always there. Those bright blue eyes and flushed cheeks.

Her hair a fire.

All those good feelings were torn away as she laid another bandage across a cut.

“I’ve already been tortured once your grace.” Jon hissed. “Mercy I beg you.”

“Jon please, that isn’t funny.”

This time she sounded irritated. He knew that tone well, a lifetime ago it was how she’d scold Robb and he if she thought them being foolish. It was her ‘lady’ tone.

“It was a little funny.” He smiled at her.

She tried to hide her own smile but it was there anyways. Despite his teasing he was thankful for Sansa. Being stuck in this bed for days had been maddening, at times he thought it was her and others visiting that kept him sane.

Maege and Willem were frequent visitors, filled information of the goings on beyond his chamber. The Greatjon had come as well, bringing wine and shouting so that he often sent others fleeing the room. Jon hadn’t seen him Sansa caught the lord about to slap Jon on the back while laughing at his own jest. Apparently she’d banned him from returning until Jon was better off.

The thought of that meaty hand slapping against his back made Jon somewhat thankful for the banning,

What shocked him was how the Blackfish had called upon him as well. Whatever enmity the man had against Jon seemed to have largely disappeared. He would tell Jon stories of his youth spent fighting in strange lands and of warriors he’d known most only knew by tale.  

Most of all he liked hearing of how Sansa was handling things. The old knight was not easily impressed and wanted Jon to know he was by their new queen. Such news did wonders for him, he felt useless here and needed to know Sansa did well without him at her side.

Yet she was at his more often than not.

A steward had been set to care for Jon throughout the day and the maester visited regularly, Sansa there more often than both. No matter the goings at the Twins she always took her midday meal with him. Throughout the day or evening she would return to see to changing his bandages or just to talk.

Of how he was feeling and whether he was eating or not.

More often of her fears and worries.

“You’d be a fool to think all was well, and a greater one to think you weren’t doing well.” He’d told her after a particularly difficult meeting between her and some prisoner Freys. “You’re being the Queen we made. The Queen we need.”

She’d thanked for that and cheered some. Jon had cheered as well, feeling useful to her. Since then he’d wondered if that was a plan of hers. To make him feel useful when he was anything but.

 _If it was the girl was a genius,_ he thought, _and us all the safer for it._

Nothing about Sansa’s current mood was feigned though.

He could see the truth of that clearly.

“Lord Umber has offered his sword on the morrow.” Sansa said, taking the basin of dirty bandages away before returning to his side. “As have Uncle Brynden, Maege, and a host of others.”

“That makes sense.” He said. “They all lost people here Sansa. Maege a daughter, the Greatjon his son. And Brynden…”

“My mother, yes.” Sansa quickly said as she inspected the bandages on his hand. They’d been changed before arrival but she always checked to ensure it was done properly. “But it feels wrong Jon. Father and Robb took the heads of those they sentenced to die. It shows me as weak that I cannot.”

“If it were Bran in your stead would expect the same of him?”

His point was clear. In the history of the Starks, in those rare cases where women or children were the heads of the house, the duty of seeing justice done fell to a male relative or worthy replacement.

 _Or an able replacement_ , he thought sourly, _and I’m not that._

Sansa shook her head vigorously, a bit of her hair coming undone. His eyes followed the strand down the line of her cheek. Ending at her soft, pink lips.

Which were not smiling.

“I am not a small boy Jon!” She snapped.

“A prettier boy would never have lived.”

“This is serious. Be serious.” She said swatting lightly at his face. “I command it.

The small touch of her fingers against his cheek sent a jolt through his body and mind. It was not unwelcome, the opposite in truth. Her touch had felt gentle and her fingers soft and warm. It made his heart beat faster and the feeling so unexpected he must have appeared startled because Sansa became worried.

“What’s wrong?” She asked. “Is it your hand?”

“No, it’s nothing. You are right, this is serious.”

Jon pushed the strange feeling side, it wasn’t useful to think on and he would be of use to her. His body may be broken for now but he still had some wits. He’d had the benefit of being alongside Robb when father had bestowed a lord’s wisdom of how to rule justly, lessons Sansa had never been privy too.  

She did well nonetheless.

“Yes the others lost people here at the Twins but their King, my brother, was killed here. His army massacred outside the walls.” Sansa laid her hands upon her lap and her face determined. “Walder Frey should answer to me for that crime, not another.”

Jon admired her for how set she was in seeing justice done. Unfortunately it would mean little when it actually came to holding a sword and taking a head.

“You cannot wield a sword Sansa. Nor should you try.” He’d speak the truth for that was what she needed. “Botching a beheading would be seen as a sign of weakness as well.”

“Arya would’ve been able to…”

She paused and rung her hands then. They rarely spoke of Arya, mostly because they both feared her fate. She was missing at best and of the worst they would not speak.

 _But we can hope_ , he reminded himself, _I can hope._

“Arya would have had difficulty swinging a sword too Sansa. Would haves and could haves do not help you. You are a Queen. It does not make you perfect.”

Jon wanted to reach out to grasp her hand but bandaged as his own was it would’ve been like a bear pawing at her. It was also the reason he couldn’t offer her the most immediate solution to her problem.

“I’m far from it. I’m a knight who can’t wield a sword. If I was not so useless…”

“You will mend! You’re still…”

“I would beg the honor of doing this for you and gladly take the burden from your shoulders. Instead I must beg your forgiveness, I am a poor sworn sword.”

Sansa sighed as she reached to brush some hair from his eyes. Again her touch had the same effect and confusion reigned.

“You are my finest sword and have done more for me than any.” She smiled and continued stroking his hair. “Don’t say such things again for I know you will rise from this bed and take your place at my side when you are able.”

“Soon enough I hope.” He pushed up then with his good hand and Sansa gasped.

Pain burned throughout his back but he would not give voice to it. It seemed to take forever with his wounds screaming agony the whole time as he rose. Sansa was staring at him dumbfounded as he swung his legs to come to a sitting position beside her. He wanted to show he was improving and had already done this once before when alone.

“Too much.” Her voice was full of worry. “You expect too much of yourself. Too soon.”

“This from a queen who has has never wielded a sword in her life and expects to be able to take a head?” He struggled to keep a straight face as his body screamed.

Sansa was her own harshest critic and it was something he wanted to cure her of. She plainly did not care for his comment nor his actions. If she saw his point she wanted to ignore it.

“Jon with my bannermen freed how long will they suffer a weak girl as queen?” She said finally. “Loyal as they are they are lords and men before that, if they don’t respect me how can they respect my rule? ”

Sansa’s face grew cold. She met his gaze and those blue Tully eyes seemed to burn.

“And I want to be the one to kill him.”

That saddened him, the girl he remembered was fast disappearing in the queen before him. Sansa may have been a little lady growing up but she was definitely a wolf now.

_A wolf._

_By the gods,_ he thought _, let her be the wolf._

In his thoughts he saw how it could be done and wondered if she had the stomach for it. There were other cleaner ways and he already predicted she would see those as signs of her weakness as well.

_This one is different._

“Maybe a weapon won’t be needed.”

“Northmen dislike nooses as well.” Sansa misunderstood his meaning but he was happy she showed such insight into the old ways.

“No. I do not mean a noose. You think people would talk of you taking his head and you being strong. Yet you’d still be a girl queen and could never face a man in combat to defend your crown. It be a hollow action Sansa and in truth no great story. But if you used a symbol rather than a weapon to see justice done...”

Jon saw it in his head now, how the small folk would spread the tale and it would grow in the telling. He had seen such things during his time in the Riverlands. As tales spread her power would grow and their enemies would fear her all the more.

“A symbol.” Sansa repeated, her eyes blinking as she looked away. “What…oh…like in the tent.”

It amazed him how quick she was. Walton Frey’s manner of death had been a surprise to her. Perhaps she’d expected Brynden or he to kill the man but Jon had felt the overpowering urge to command Ghost to go forth.

Almost as if his friend willed it himself.

“Ghost lost a brother here as well.” Jon reminded her. “He serves the Starks as loyally as I.”

Sansa seemed to have a silent conversation with herself then. Neither spoke and Jon just sat there and enjoyed escaping the prison of the bed for a few moments. It was nothing compared to the one he had planned for tomorrow but there was no way he would speak to Sansa of that.

_Then there’d be another head for the block._

There were still details to work out in that plot but they would have to wait. Sansa’s eyes were upon him again and she was nodding.

Her face grim.

“It could be too savage for some to accept…”

“He betrayed us. Betrayed Robb.” Jon said, the memory of Walder Frey clutching Grey Wind’s pelt in his hand filled him with a cold hatred. “He thought killing one wolf was the end of the pack.”

He reached out and grasped her shoulder as he almost whispered the next words.

“Let him see how wrong he was. Let him meet the direwolf he forgot. The Stark he forgot.”

 

* * *

 

SANSA

 

“It is time to speak of justice.”

Her great uncle’s voice met murmurs of agreement from the men gathered around the table.

Sansa sat at the head of a long table filled with bannermen both known and recently freed. All gathered here in this great hall to give their counsel and hear her will.

 _If only my voice carried so much power_ , she thought, _thank the gods for my uncle._

Brynden stood to her right, and it was he she wanted to speak on this matter. She was queen now but she knew that most here thought of her only as a girl, so for now her words could be spoken by men they respected.

Or feared.

“The executions are set for tomorrow morning in the courtyard of the western castle.” Her uncle announced to a murmur of approval. “Each lord and knight given permission by the Queen will see justice done to the Freys in turn. Walder Frey will die last, so he may watch his line wither before him.”

Fists banged on tables and howls of agreement went up from her assembled bannermen as her uncle finished. Food and drink clattered as they did so, a part of her cringing at their poor manners. It was her own fault for inviting her men  to break their evening fast as they discussed these matters.

_The food will sit heavy and the wine do more than that._

_And tired lords are lords more willing to obey._

“My lords!” Brynden held up his fist to continue. “We have had time to take stock of our situation here at the Twins and the Queen would have Lord Reed and Lady Mormont share what we know.”

Brynden sat as Howland rose, moving stiffly from the wound he’d taken during the fighting with his left arm splinted as well. Yet he acted as though it barely bothered him and he wore the fine green cloak she’d gifted him. It had belonged to whatever Frey whose rooms she’d taken and it looked good upon him.

No matter his stature his voice was not one men could ignore.

“We are well provisioned here. The war in the Riverlands did not touch the Frey lands and these castles were richly supplied despite their support of the long siege of Riverrun and the keeping of large forces in the field. Hence the fare tonight.”

He was referring to the roasted pig and duck her men feasted on. Also warm bread and sweet, yellow corn and squash. She knew winter was upon them and such extravagance unwise but these men deserved such for their loyalty.

“Some of the thanks must go to the Sers Brynden and Willem.” Howland added. “What they have gathered in the last three days leaves any nearby houses loyal to House Frey with little enough for themselves." 

Since the sack her uncle and Willem had taken two forces through the closest Frey lands to the east and west and scoured them for supplies. She would send larger forces to the further lands after the executions but the areas closest to the castles would have been the most likely to hear of their fall.

“We are rich in more than food, the Frey vaults were filled with gold, silver and other goods which they have taxed from travellers.”

“It was always said Freys took an arm and a leg…bout time we took their heads!” Young Ser Marq Piper yelled.

Sansa smiled at that. The fury of the lords of the Riverlands was equal to that of her Northmen and laughter and cheers rose at the jest. Sansa held up her hand and the noise died down, she nodded to Maege who then rose as well. Maege had been chosen to speak this part so her men could become used to hearing such from a lady.

“We have won a great victory here my lords! It will be sung about for years to come but we still have enemies yet to face. Black Walder Frey leads a force hunting outlaws to the south. There is also the Frey force at Riverrun to consider. While no ravens or riders escaped during our attack we must assume word will reach those Freys outside our grasp.”

“Let them come and smash themselves against their own walls!”

“Our walls now!”

She looked to Howland and he gave her a smile and slight nod. This was good. The men were confident, he’d feared captivity would have worn their resolve. Sansa had faith that the Greatjon’s example following his release would inspire them and so far had not been disappointed.

It was her Lord Umber who shouted for quiet so Maege to continue. 

“There are also still Lannisters about. The force commanded by the Kingslayer was last seen headed towards Raventree. We took small casualties for such a task as taking the Twins but we are still sorely outmatched by our enemies.” Maege then thumped her mace against the table, causing it to shake and whispers to die out. “Yet we don’t lose heart! Not this army of wolves! There is power in us yet and advantages our enemies lack! We have gained in horses and provisions for a march while our enemies go without. And unlike the Lannisters and Freys our men are strong and well led.” 

Maege offered a small bow as she said that and Sansa laughed. 

“We have sent ravens to the Riverland houses that bent the knee because of the hostages here. Hopefully we can add their strength to ours." 

“And of the North? What word to them?” The Greatjon bellowed as Sansa had hoped he would remember to do.

The two of them had a long discussion prior to this meeting which had left the Greatjon pleased and Sansa sure of his faith in her.

His booming voice had left a silence in the room so it was a perfect time for her to speak.

“My lord, I would not have word sent to the north yet.” Sansa spoke as loudly as she dared without sounding strained. “Too much is unknown of the state of affairs there. Yes, Roose Bolton may be at Winterfell even now with a Frey host but we know not what level of support he has among the northern lords.”

“It better be little if they like their heads where they are.” The Greatjon grumbled.

Even his grumblings carried across the room and it was time to honor her people of the North.

“The houses of the North fought for my brother and have suffered much for their loyalty. I can forgive them Lord Umber, in their minds there are little options for them. And soon they will have a chance to redeem their loyalty to House Stark.”

“Your grace, what of Stannis Baratheon? I’d heard he had gone north?” A Lychester knight shouted from the end of the table. Others claimed to have heard the same.

She gestured to Howland who had received most of the information on that issue.

“It is true. From what we learned from this castle’s master Stannis answered a call for help from the Nights Watch. The wildlings amassed an army and marched upon the Wall and Stannis either defeated them or brought them to his side. The reports are confusing.”

The men began to talk amongst themselves and it wasn’t the kind of talk she would’ve preferred. Of whether to let Stannis and Roose battle each other and weaken themselves or take the fight to King’s Landing first.

All options she and her advisors disagreed with. She shot a look to the Greatjon who appeared confused. Then he started and brought both fists down upon the table, causing the men beside him to jump back.

“Where are your bloody manners? Our queen wishes to speak!”

Sansa waved away any insult she might have taken.

“We will not be idle. The uncertainty in the North is why we have sent scouts to learn as much as they can, to find out what friends remain in the there before sending word of our actions here.” Sansa spoke loudly and confidently. “Before we take action.”

She expected a grizzled lord of battle marches to call her a silly girl or criticize her for her lack of bravery yet it never came. The Greatjon’s nod of approval may have had something to do with it but it still helped her confidence.

 _They trust me,_ she thought _, it’s time to reward that trust._

“But there are allies I will speak of.” Sansa gestured to Willem, sitting near enough to the Greatjon and in mid sip of a goblet of wine. “Most of you know Ser Willem and his men fought bravely in the battle by our side. Also that he is in service to House Royce of Runestone and that Bronze Yohn Royce himself has offered us their aid.”

Men raised cups and gave thanks to Willem and she allowed it because she wanted them to be surprised by what she said next.

“And he was not the only one.” She smiled widely. “I would have you know my cousin, Lord Robert Arryn, through his regent Lord Nestor, have promised us support as well. Much and more than support. The might of the Vale itself.”

The room became an uproar with lords rising from their chairs and others beating their fists upon the table. Most yelled at Willem, welcoming him and the Vale to the fight. The Greatjon went a step further and actually raised the knight in a bear hug, lifting him up in the air as if he was a doll.

It became a true spectacle when Willem began to sing.

“Oh I’m a maid! I’m pure and fair! I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!”

Even Howland laughed at that but when the laughter and celebration ended the explaining of the complexities of the Vale involvement took much of the hour. No matter the minor details many were satisfied hearing Bronze Yohn was preparing an army to sail north and swords were gathering to march into the Riverlands even now.

Now she would tell them of the decision she feared they would dislike and sought out the Greatjon’s attention with her eyes. He nodded knowingly and drank so he emptied his cup of wine.

“Before we retire my lords there is something I would discuss, namely the fate of the Twins.” A murmur went up at her words but died down as a scowling alliance of Brynden, Maege and the Greatjon looked about the table.

“Tomorrow we will see justice done to each of the Frey men who took part in the Red Wedding.”  She paused, wanting to make sure these words were taken with the importance they deserved. “But I would see Olyvar Frey pardoned.”

Sansa had met Olyvar and Roslin Frey for the first time only days before, mostly at the behest of her uncle and the Greatjon.

When they’d taken the castle other priorities had come first and she had trusted her uncle to see to the care of prisoners. She had been surprised to learn of the care he had given to these children of Walder Frey. Most of the Frey wives and children were confined to a single wing of the eastern castle while Roslin remained in her own chambers.

The Frey men were suffering a harsher imprisonment, languishing in their own dungeons under the care of the Greatjon. All save Olyvar Frey, who had been moved to chambers near to his sister. Both had been under guard and had not been permitted to see each other, only being reunited the day Sansa visited them.

She had entered the chamber to find the siblings holding each other. The young woman weeping as she cupped her brother’s face. Sansa remembered feeling surprised that Freys could act so warmly.

Act so human.

Only Brynden’s clearing of his throat made them move apart and Sansa had a good look at them. Olyvar was older than Jon and appeared to a fairly handsome youth, at least by Frey standards. His face carried less of the weasel features she had come to expect of Walder’s brood.

Roslin was a very pretty woman by any standards with long brown hair to her waist and big brown eyes. Her belly was quite large and her hands went around it protectively. Both seemed exhausted and the bags under Roslin’s eyes made her seem little better than her brother who had spent weeks in the dungeons.

“Your grace.” Olyvar had gone to his knee and Roslin lowered her head.

“Rise please, I would speak with you both.”

“I thank you for your care and treatment of my sister your grace, and for my own as well.” Olyvar said as he rose. “I know my family has given you little reason to treat us so kindly.”

Roslin nodded but it a furtive movement and Sansa believed her terrified.

“I will be honest with you, it is my uncle you should thank for that. It was he who arranged your lodgings, most of your kin now reside in the dungeons awaiting their fate.” Sansa imagined they endured more than that, remembering how darkly the Greatjon had smiled when she’d given him charge of those prisoners. “And I come here to tell you House Frey will meet justice in the coming days.”

Sansa had looked to Olyvar to gauge his reaction, to search for any anger in him. She’d found none, the young man had not even looked surprised. Roslin was a different matter, she’d uttered a horrified cry and grabbed her brother’s arm.

“Please no! Please not Olyvar! He wasn’t there! He tried to help them after! Please don’t kill him!”

The girl begged desperately and Sansa realized her gaze had been misunderstood.       

She was about to calm Roslin when the girl began to swoon and only the quick movements of Brynden and Olyvar kept her from the floor.

“Get her to the bed.” Sansa said as she moved to help lay the pregnant Roslin gently on the bed behind her.

“Please…not him…” Her wide eyes seemed to have grown bigger and Sansa couldn’t help remembering Jeyne’s cries at Greywater Watch. “Please.”

Soon Olyvar had her soothed and began to tell his tale to Sansa. Of remaining loyal to Robb, of having the truth of Roslin’s wedding hid from his brother Perwyn and himself, of trying to free her bannermen and being imprisoned for it.

Of Roslin they confirmed much of what Edmure had told Brynden. That the poor girl had thought herself to be married to a handsome Riverlord. She’d been excited and only learned the truth of the wedding just before it was to happen. By then her brothers were hostage away from the castle, their lives threatened by their own father to keep her silence 

“I love Edmure your grace, after the wedding I would go to him and at first he shunned me but he came to know the truth. I love him dearly, please don’t let the Lannisters hurt him.” Roslin’s tears were some of the saddest Sansa had ever seen. Her tale as unjust as any she’d heard, including her own.

“That two such pure hearted people could exist in such a family…it gives me hope, and I thank you both for that.” Sansa said as she rose to walk to the large window.

She didn’t know if she fully trusted the two Freys yet but she had uses for them.

The view from it included the bridge, western castle and river moving between them. And the vast green Frey lands. Then she had bid Olyvar to come to her and share in the view.

“The abomination that happened here has shown the Freys to be a vile house. Many of my lords would see your family’s castle torn down and your lands taken away.”

Again she sought for any anger in Olyvar but he showed no surprise and looked upon her sadly.

“For the crimes committed here…how could we expect different?” He asked as he looked out to the lands his family might soon lose.

Other riverlords had already sought her out to speak of stripping the Freys of their titles but Sansa had deferred to Brynden, who knew the Riverlands better than any. Her uncle felt the corruption within House Frey had begun with Lord Walder and perhaps there was hope for it still.  They were not an old house yet wealthy in land and story, and had once been widely respected.

“Olyvar, I would be a poor queen to deny the loyalty you showed my family. Lady Tully and yourself were victims of your family like many here. If House Frey was to survive…I’d have it headed by someone I trust.”

He had nodded as she spoke but soon enough took her meaning and seemed shocked. Olyvar had run his hand though his hair in thought before finally shaking his head.

“I am the younger brother…Perwyn would be a better choice. He remained as loyal to King Robb as I and need only be freed…”

He hadn’t finished, Sansa’s eyes must have spoken for her.

Perwyn marched with the Frey forces away from the castle and in truth there was little they could do for him.

Olyvar’s face paled again and he swallowed.

“I would do my duty, in honor of King Robb and in service to you, your grace.”

Seeing that happen would be difficult and her men’s reactions to her decision to spare Olyvar proved her right 

Men from both the north and south rose in anger and shouted in disbelief. Yet they could not hold a candle to the Greatjon’s roars as he swung a pitcher of wine about and as he rose to his feet 

“The Queen is right! The man was King Robb’s squire! He was not at that bloody massacre and ended up in his own castle’s dungeons for trying to help us!” He began to point at some men. “Sharing that hell with us. I can forgive him for being born into a family of rats. It didn’t make the lad one, he was a wolf to the end!”

Despite the ferocity of his defense, men were still talking angrily. Brynden took up the cause next.

“My lords, I can say truthfully I believe Olyvar was kept away from that wedding because he would have tried to prevent it. He took up the cause of his king against his kin and likely would have died for it.” The Blackfish didn’t elaborate on how he knew such a thing and sat down again. “Let the man be, just let him be.”

“I have made my decision!” Sansa tried to sound strong but she wondered how intimidating a girl of ten and five could seem to these men. “Any man who defies it need only remember that I am the sister to the Young Wolf. And to remember the fate of Lord Karstark.”

The previous mention of Rickard Karstark appeared to have done what it was intended to do as none argued against her. That and how the Greatjon was joined in standing by Brynden, Howland, Maege and finally Willem silenced further argument.

Either way she felt free to continue. She dictated that the Frey women and children would be kept prisoner, some here while they thought to move others who had ties to Freys still commanding in the field to other locations.

“Your grace, even if Olyvar has stayed true do you truly suggest we hand the castle back to the Freys? As weakened as we are?” Lord Smallwood asked and she had expected such.

“No, the Twins may return to Frey rule someday but for now it is vital to our efforts. These castles shall be the centre from which the riverlords can work to retake their lands and castles. It’s provisions shall be open to those in need and while you lords judge the loyalty of Olyvar Frey I plan to name a castellan over the castle and its lands. That honor shall fall to…”

Sansa looked to her side and knew she’d been right not to consult her choice beforehand because he was already protesting. Shaking his head as if willing her to be silent.

She wasn’t.

“Ser Brynden Tully.”

“Oh seven save me…” The grey haired knight said as he put his face in his hands. 

 

* * *

 

 

ARYA

 

“You will sit down and shut up or so help me I’ll whip your ass raw!”

Lem’s shouting didn’t scare her. He’d been shouting and threatening for days now and it hadn’t changed a thing.

“You’re not going to hang her and I’m not going with you!” Arya shouted right back at him, her finger jabbing at his chest. “And your face looks like a raw ass!”

“Silence. For her.” Septon Meribald hushed them both.

Brienne moaned and writhed upon the bed below them, causing Arya to hope her shouting hadn’t caused that. It probably hadn’t, Brienne had been delirious since the fever had taken her after the battle with the mummers. She had broken her ribs and a forearm in the fight with Biter yet the septon made it sound like the bites on her face were the worst of her injuries.

“Human mouths are filthy things.” The man had lamented as he cleaned and bandaged Brienne’s cheek. “A fever will come, one a hale person would have trouble fighting and I fear for one suffering as many wounds as her.”

Arya feared as well, as much for Brienne’s getting better as what Lem wanted to do with her.

He was hell bent on bringing Brienne to some lady to be judged as a traitor and then hanged. Lem kept pointing to the parchment Brienne had bearing the seal of the Lannister king or her carrying a sword made for the Kingslayer as proof she was a traitor. It didn’t matter that Arya and Pod both told him that Brienne had sworn to get her back to Winterfell. Nor did he care that she’d saved Arya from the Faith and the people at the inn from the mummers.

“Jaime…Jaime…” Brienne moaned then as the septon dabbed at her sweat soaked forehead. “Good man…”

“You hear that? The bitch is in love with the bloody Kingslayer.” Lem crossed his arms and spat, which the septon frowned at. “And we will be leaving, at first light if I have to strap you and her on the horses to do it.”

“I won’t let you hang her.” She crossed her arms and spat on Lem’s boot, earning a curse from him. “Or Podrick or even Hyle. We don’t need to travel to see a lady for a trial. I’m a lady...”

Lem laughed but she took a step forward and lifted her chin to stare right into his eyes.

“I’m a lady.” She announced. “I’m Lady Stark and I say they all live and you can leave right now.”

Lem laughed again and it wasn’t a nice laugh. It was a cruel one that even the septon seemed upset by it.

“You’re no Lady Stark, not as long as…”

“Lem!”

Gendry’s roar caused her to jump.

He flew from the doorway at the piss cloaked man. His hands wrapped themselves in Lem’s cloak and he heaved him against the wall of the room, laying his strong arm across the man’s neck.

“I told you not to! I said not to!”

“Get the fuck off me boy!” Lem tried to free himself from Gendry’s hold but her friend was too strong. “She’ll see for herself when…”

Lem’s words were choked off as Gendry forced his arm upwards against Lem’s throat and only gagging sounds came out.

“Shutup. Just shut up. You said you wouldn’t.”

“Jaime!” Brienne screamed then and Meribald stood up, fists shaking at his sides.

“Stop this!” He yelled.  “For the same of the peace here and this poor woman! Give her that at least!”

Arya had never seen him look angry before and his words had some effect. Gendry turned to look back at Brienne and then her, a worried expression on his face. Lem’s face was red but he’d stopped trying to speak so Gendry did as the septon asked and lowered his arm. Lem looked like he wanted to kill Gendry but did nothing more than rub his neck and glare at her friend.

“Fine. Have it your way you bloody fool, I’m going to check on the other traitors.” Lem began to stride from the room but stopped in the doorway and pointed back at Arya. “And we leave tomorrow.

“No we don’t.” She tried to argue but he was already gone.

Hyle and Podrick were tied up in the other room and she’d only been allowed to see them the once since the bandits had come. It bothered her because Pod had taken a bad beating and then another when he tried to protect Brienne from Lem and the others.

 _I hit him too_ , she thought _, I did that and he saved my life._

_If Lem’s wrong about Brienne maybe I’m wrong about Pod._

Those thoughts bothered her as she stared at the door. To her surprise Gendry stayed, he hadn’t been around much since the fight and she was mad at him for it. She’d tell him later though, now he was staring down at Brienne as she continued to toss and turn in agony.

_She’ll get better, Brienne’s too strong not to._

_She went out to fight the Bloody Mummers by herself._

Arya needed Brienne to get better to tell her she tried to help. That she would’ve helped if Gendry had let her go sooner.

That reminded her of what she had to ask Gendry.

“You have to let us go. You can’t let him take us. You can’t let them kill her.” She pleaded with him but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “She saved us. You know she did.”

“It’s not for me to decide Arya…I’d spare you it if I could.” He shook his head before going to the door and closing it gently.

“You don’t have to spare me anything, spare Brienne. Spare Podrick and Hyle. Lem can take me if they want but please, help me save them. Get Lem to…”

“Lem’s changed…he’s not like he was. He won’t let them go, trust me I tried.” Gendry spoke quietly and knelt before her, before glancing to the septon as well. “We both tried.”

Septon Meribald nodded his head and made soothing sounds again as Brienne moaned.

“The knight speaks the truth. The man has hardened himself so that he cannot see the goodness in the lady here. His heart too full of vengeance to feel compassion.”

“Then we escape.” She hissed. “We free the others and the four of us surprise Lem and his men…”

Gendry scowled and crossed his arms but she pressed on.

“We surprise them! You get our swords and free Hyle and Pod…”

“And how many people die doing that? I won’t fight the Brotherhood and Lem will kill your friends before he lets them leave.” Gendry held up a hand as she made to argue. “I know it’s not like the Brotherhood you knew but I can’t fight them Arya, I can’t.”

She didn’t want to fight them either. Lem she could imagine beating upon a fair bit but if they all pulled swords Arya couldn’t picture herself killing him. Or any of the others she’d known from her days with the group.

_But you can’t let them kill Brienne._

_She’d kill them for you if she had to._

“Perhaps…” Meribald said to himself, then his fingers tapping upon his chin as if in thought. “Yes…yes I have enough…more than enough…”

“What is it?” She asked, annoyed that he was busy daydreaming when they had bandits to beat.

“Oh I was just thinking what if you didn’t have to fight?” The septon asked with a cocked eyebrow. “What if you could leave here without the hangmen even knowing?”

“How?” Arya and Gendry asked in unison.

“I am a healer and a good one at that. To be so good you must have knowledge of potions and elixirs, poultices and herbs, all sorts of mixtures and how they affect our fragile forms. I learned it from many days wandering beside a septon who himself had learned it from…”

“Go on!” Arya hissed.

It snapped Meribald out of it, causing him to lean towards them, speaking in a whisper almost too quiet to hear.

“I mean to say I know which potions to put in a man’s drink to make him sleep a sleep like no other.” He smiled some then. “Some that mix very well with wine.”

“You’ve got wine too!” She almost yelled but clamped her hand over her mouth as the others hushed her.

Arya’s heart raced, the plan so obvious she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it. Meribald dragged about potions on his mule and she’d heard the outlaws muttering about the wine they suspected the septon had with his stores. They could easily slip something into that wine and drug the men and then be on their way with a good lead on the outlaws.

 _It’ll work_ , she thought, _we can drug them and be halfway to the Neck before they know it._

The plan was perfect before Gendry went and ruined it.

“They’d catch up.” He shook his head, thumping a fist into his head. “With Brienne strapped over the side of a horse they’d catch us for sure.”

“But if we have enough of a lead we could outride them…”

“Outride them? If we needed to escape she’d never make it. Look at her Arya, that hard a ride could kill her.” Gendry pointed to Brienne’s bandaged sides. “Besides we almost caught the Hound when he only had you, imagine how slow we’d be with her wounded and the septon on his mule…”

“Not I ser, I would help in the potion but I would not slow you down.” The septon took note of her shock and smiled. “I said I’d see to your safety and I cannot see handing you to that hangman as fulfilling that goal. So to do so I’d have you leave me behind.”

“What if they want to hang you?”

“They won’t, they’re not so far gone as that.” Gendry said, his brow furrowed as if he was giving the idea actual thought. “Still the lady can’t be forced to ride hard…”

“She will need a place she can rest.” Meribald added. “Days of it at the least.”

“There’s got to be some place, Gendry think!” She urged him but he held up his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Any I know are ones the Brotherhood has shown me, they’d find us. Go ahead and speak up if you know different.”

She knew he was right. Gendry and she weren’t from the Riverlands and all they knew of it came from their travels. Most of those had been far from here. If this was the north Arya could probably think of a place but she felt useless.

Until she remembered something Brienne had said.

“Do you know any place?” She turned to the septon. “You’re from the Riverlands and you’re old as anything…”

“Arya seven hells…” Gendry cursed.

“Shutup.” She snapped. “Come on you told Brienne you’ve been wandering about these lands for years. Is there any place we can go?”

The septon began to stroke his whiskers and looked to be pondering her question. He took his sweet time with it and she struggled to hold back from yelling at the old man because so far he’d been helpful.

Her patience was well rewarded.

“There are three.” He said finally. “A cave towards the Vale, an abandoned sept to the south and a ruin by the riverside to the west. Do you know of any of these ser?”

Gendry shook his head and the septon smiled and rose, his knees cracking as he did so.

“Then I shall make a trip to my mule’s saddle bags. I believe I have enough dreamwine and honey brew to make the hangmen sleep a most peaceful slumber tonight.”  Meribald ushered Gendry forward and leaned on his shoulder as he bent backwards and another crack was heard. “You will inform the knight and young squire while I tell the lady the whereabouts of these safe havens. Also tell the young girl…Willow is it? Yes tell Willow to be sure to offer the men as dry a food as possible. To make their thirst even greater and ensure their slumber meets our needs. Go on now.”

Gendry didn’t argue and was gone from the room to do as he was bid. Brienne was murmuring something over and over again so the septon waved Arya forward to her friend’s bedside. Close as she was it became clear what Brienne was saying so softly yet with such a worried tone.

“Arya…Arya…lady…”

“Your memory is good?” Septon Meribald spoke over Brienne’s delirious ramblings. “I cannot write so you must remember what I tell you.”

“Just tell me one then.”

“It must be the three child. The outlaws will not be the only ones chasing you, the Elder Brother was led to believe a strong force would be sent out by the Faith to take you into their charge. And should they find me I will tell them of the places I offer you now.” The man chuckled as she turned on him, her anger flaring. “It is why I give you three to choose from. If the militant find me my words will send them searching three separate areas, should the seven favor your escape you will do so. Should it be your fate to be taken under the protection of the High Septon, you will not.”

“Then I won’t tell you which one I choose.”

“Clever girl.” The septon smiled. “Pay close attention now…”

He did as he said, giving Arya directions to the three places that she kept to memory only as long as she decided which one to seek. Then it was that one she focused on remembering over the others.

After Gendry returned they put the plan in motion. The septon disappeared closer to dusk and Arya herself skipped the evening meal with the outlaws to care for Brienne. Lem would figure she was just upset and she wanted him to think that.

Later Gendry told her Willow had offered Lem and his men stale bread, salt beef and some nuts which collected amongst the teeth and tongue horribly. Gendry had set the boy Wat to collecting water not from the well but a stagnant pool nearby, to make the wine seem even more attractive to the outlaws.

As she cared for Brienne, listening to Meribald explain what need be to done to keep her healthy, the bandits were busy getting drunk. Below it became rowdy for a time, men yelling and laughing, catcalling up the stairs at the Kingslayer’s whore. Aside from Lem strolling up once to check on them and her hurling an empty cup at him they left her and the others be.

Then everything grew much quieter and only the sounds of Gendry’s heavy steps coming to their room.

“It’s time.” He said simply before leaving to free Hyle and Podrick.

It took all four of them, and as much milk of the poppy as the septon dared use, to get Brienne from her bed outside and upon a horse. The outlaws had been sprawled all about the bottom floor of the inn while the Willow girl raged at Gendry.

“They’ll hang you! You can’t do this you know she’ll hang you for it!”

“Only if they catch me.” Gendry shot Arya a look as he readied his horse and winked. “And they won’t be doing that will they m’lady?”

“If they do they’ll regret it.” She said, patting Needle’s pommel and causing Willow to yell even the louder.

 _Let her_ , she thought, _it won’t wake the Lem any sooner._

Pod had gone and picked the best horses of the stable for their escape, leaving the rest for the outlaws. As the others continued with seeing to Brienne and their horses Arya slipped away. Since they had laid out the plan for their escape something had been troubling her. A problem they had not thought to fix.

Alone, she made her way to the stable. Within she found some of the horses the outlaws had ridden in on and three of the Bloody Mummer’s that hadn’t been ridden lame. Also the one she’d ridden from the Saltpans, the one she’d brushed and fed the apple to. She drew Needle and came up to the side of it, the poor beast’ eyes looking into her own.

Almost as if it knew what she thought to do. Arya didn’t even like what she thought to do.

“Great minds think alike my lady.”

Hyle’s voice made her spin around to find the knight at the stable entrance, a stupid grin upon his face.

“Less likely to catch up to us if they’ve no mounts to do so.” He said. “Do we slit their throats or just hamstring them?”

He drew his own blade and one of the horses whinnied in a way that almost sounded scared. She hated that the knight knew what she thought.

And that hate drove her to a different decision.

Arya reached out and opened the gate instead, leading the palfrey out towards the stable entrance towards a bemused Ser Hyle. Then she grasped Needle with both hands and, with a mighty swing, slapped the flat end upon the horse’s rear causing it to scream and bolt. The knight barely jumped out of its path before the horse was gone, out and into the night.

“It’ll take them a long time to collect their horses too.” She turned to free another horse. “Maybe by then they’ll find some more mummers to hang instead of us.”

Gendry and Pod arrived and, despite being shocked at what Hyle and she were doing, joined in. Soon enough all the horses in the stable were run off from the inn and the four climbed their own. Willow had gathered the children inside and would not see Gendry off so only Septon Meribald and Dog stood on the porch to bid them farewell.

“Keep her wounds clean and water, as often as possible.” The septon reminded them for the hundredth time. “And say prayers for her!”

The others shouted farewells and began riding. She waited until they did so to turn to the man again.

“I called you a craven…but you don’t know they won’t hang you…”

“They may.” The septon nodded. “But that is not your fault if they do so child. Think nothing of it.”

“I will!” Arya argued, reaching down to grab Needle. “They’re asleep…I could just go in there and…”

“Damn yourself? Do you wish to kill them?”

She shook her head, not meeting his gaze.

“I thank you for that.” The septon continued. “Go on, the others will be waiting.”

“I was wrong about you though…I thought…”

“Were you wrong? Maybe. It’s often the case for the young to be wrong but not their privilege alone.” She met the septon’s eye then and he made a fist between them. “It’s being wrong that makes us learn. Knowing we were wrong and having the strength to do better that makes us better people child. Be that better person.”

“Arya! Lady Arya!” Hyle yelled and she saw the others turning back.

She waved them off and turned her horse but spared one last look at the septon.

“I pray you find peace my lady.” He said, bowing a little. “Go on now."

Arya did her best to smile at him, no words coming to mind for a proper farewell. So she just dug her heels into the horse’s side and willed herself not to look back.

 

* * *

 

 

JON

 

“The queen will have my head.”

“There will be enough of that today, your head is safe.” Jon replied through gritted teeth.

It was hard to give a care to Willem’s worries while pain threaded it’s way throughout his body. His friend was doing his best to steady Jon’s journey through the castle and, in fairness, they were finally arriving at their destination. A walk from his chambers to this courtyard should not have taken as long as it did. He was as frustrated with needing help to do so as with the pace he moved at. It was more suitable for the elderly or hobbled than a knight.

“You say that but if she sees how poorly you are I don’t think one more will matter.” Willem grumbled.

“Just stop…just stop talking.”

Jon was doing his best to hide it but every step shifted the position of his clothing and set fire to his back.

Dressing would have been impossible without the help of Willem. Jon had pressed him into service after having the maester send for his friend last evening. Sansa had only just left when Willem arrived and the arrangements had been made.

 _She’ll be wroth,_ he thought _, but I can’t lay abed while this happens._

_Sansa will need me there, no matter what she says._

_I need to be there._

He was able to sit himself upright without screaming and see to his pants but that had been the extent of his independence. To his shame Willem had to help with his shirt, tunic and cloak. Every time his burned hand bumped against cloth he had grunted to keep from yelling. When Willem had to tie his sword belt for him Jon swore to begin flexing and moving his burnt hand more. 

He’d wanted to arrive earlier, to avoid being seen entering but a crowd was already present in the courtyard. Lords, knights and fighting men, both northern and southron, all wanted to see justice done.

_More to see vengeance._

Jon’s hope for a small profile went unfulfilled as men he had not seen for years approached. Some had never spoken a kind word to him when he had been but a bastard of Winterfell but now came to shake his good hand and congratulate him on the taking of the castle. Others praised him for his knighthood.

Condolences came as well. A good many of those in truth.

He did his best to accept all of it without calling more attention to himself. Willem helped by interrupting often to say Jon was expected somewhere until they found a place among others which could go unnoticed for a time. Yet a place from where the executions could be viewed clearly.

That was why Jon needed to be here. He had not been able to take part in the battle of the Twins. Now he could at least see justice done for the king who would always be a brother to him.

He also wanted to support Sansa in seeing it done.

His strength was hers if she so needed it.

Jon hoped he looked stronger than he felt. He was sweating even in the cool air and the lash marks upon his back were burning hot worse than they had in days. He gritted his teeth and bore it, trying to lose the pain by focusing on his surroundings.

The crowd formed a semi-circle around a raised platform. The block was about ten paces before him and he imagined the crowd would press even closer when the time came. Those standing on the platform would see all the spectators below as well as the condemned.

_That’s where she’ll be._

Sansa had sentenced these men to death and would see every one put to it herself. She wanted to appear strong in front of the others and he respected that. Yet she’d shown mercy as well, surprising many by decreeing no Frey women or children would be forced to attend if they did not wish to.

“I would not force a child to watch their father’s death.” Sansa had told him last night and he did not argue.

In truth there was nothing he could’ve said to comfort her on that. She had seen her father murdered in front of her.

Murmurs turned his attention towards a stone archway at the edge of the courtyard. Two guards bearing the direwolf sigil had taken station there as more moved to stand before the platform. Behind them familiar faces emerged from the castle and strode across the courtyard. The Greatjon towered over Howland while Maege followed after, speaking quietly with a Piper knight.

Of the four only Howland would not swing a sword this day, having bequeathed that right to other survivors of the massacre.

One by one they took their place upon the platform. It was only then the Blackfish appeared from within the castle, escorting the Queen on his arm.

Sansa was breathtaking.

It was a strange thing to think but the bronze crown was the most drab thing about her appearance. Her hair was bound in a wide braid across the top while the rest flowed down her back and shoulders in a red cascade. It was a familiar style, one Jon had seen Lady Stark wear countless times at Winterfell, but never worn quite so well.

Sansa’s gown made her even more elegant, modest and simple it showed little skin and less lace and frill. Instead drawing attention to her fierce blue eyes, almost the same shade of the vibrant blue of the gown, which was chased here and there in a deep red.

It too looked familiar.

“They found a chest hidden in one of the Frey bitches’ chambers.” Willem whispered. “Filled with gowns brought for the wedding, the bastards even stole from the dead.”

 _Her mother’s own gown,_ he thought _, she never told me about that._

It made him angry but not at her. Robb’s remains would be returned to Winterfell with them but Lady Stark’s body had been shown the same dishonor as many of the others. Thrown into the river and denied a proper resting place. Finding her mother’s gowns must have been little comfort to Sansa.

Yet the queen before showed no signs of distress. Her eyes all the bluer, her hair all the brighter, she walked forth on her uncle’s arm sparing nary a glance to any.

Behind Sansa and Brynden followed Ghost, the direwolf eventually overtaking them and padding along in front of her.  Jon was happy to see Ghost do so, he preferred his friend guard Sansa rather than watch him lay abed.

Then the wolf paused suddenly, sniffing the air. It’s ears perked up and tail wagged soon after, the only warning he gave before turning away from Sansa and moving towards the crowd.

Not just towards the crowd. Passing by the entire front row of men as if seeking out someone in particular.

_No, no don’t do it._

_Don’t you bloody do it, think of all the times I shared good meat with you._

_Just don’t._

Sure enough the wolf travelled straight to Jon. Ghost sat before him staring up at his face, mouth open as if to smile.

“Traitor.” Jon grumbled as he reached down to pat the wolf’s head. “Eat off your own plate from now on.”

He had not seen the direwolf in days and imagined this betrayal was punishment for it.

“Good luck Wolf, I’m fleeing.” Willem said as he quickly attempted to lose himself amongst the crowd. “Make way, man with grayscale!”

That confused Jon until he saw the look on Sansa’s face and he wished he could do the same. She had abandoned the Blackfish and was striding towards him with none of the composure she had shown moments ago. Her face flush and hands balled into fists.

Even Ghost backed away slightly.

He thought about avoiding her eyes but decided such was foolish. Instead he met them and regretted his decision immediately.

 _I was right,_ he lamented _, she is wroth._

“You came?” Sansa choked out as if she couldn’t believe she was uttering them. “You came?”

_Compliment her gown. Her hair. Something._

“You look…”

“Are you mad?” She cut off his attempt at distraction.

“I am well your grace.”

“You are mad!” Sansa was livid now and the words were almost yelled at him. Her voice rising so that those who hadn’t already taken notice were watching now.

“I said I would be here…”

“And the maester said that you should not leave your bed.”

“I am no child to be confined to my chamber.”

“You are acting like a child and not a man with grievous injuries!”

Despite the pain in his back he straightened to stare down at her. Sansa was his queen but she went too far now. He could not be lectured like a child in front of these men and command their respect as a knight.

“I am acting like a man who lost his brother and king. I am acting like a man who helped take this castle and will not miss the very reason he did so.” He kept his voice even. “I am acting as a knight sworn to House Stark.”

It was more respect than she’d shown him but Sansa was his queen. He would show her the proper courtesies no matter how irritating her protective nature over him could be. He was supposed to be her sworn sword afterall.

“Ser Jon, it is good to see you looking so well.” Ser Brynden had followed after Sansa and stood just behind her. “I hear you are recovering very…”

Sansa whipped her head to look at her great uncle and Jon could’ve sworn the man almost cowered for a moment. After a moment the old knight smiled at her and shrugged. The Blackfish earned a scowl for it and could’ve earned worse if Jon hadn’t spoken up.

“You did not order me to stay in my room, but if you do so I will go.” He succeeded in pulling her attention back on him. “But truly Sansa, would you rather me not be here? Would you deny me this?”

 _She’ll see reason_ , he thought,  _I know she will._

_Well I hope she will._

She still glared at him but suddenly seemed aware that others were watching. And listening. Then her face softened into an expression Jon recognized from their childhood together as a sign her temper was cooling. 

“Of course I want you here.” She admitted. “But I would want you well.”

“I was able enough to dress and get here.” He offered.

“With no help from a certain knight I passed in the corridor this morning carrying that cloak?”

Somewhere from the crowd behind him he heard Willem curse and could not hide his grin. Sansa had heard it as well and smiled but still she eyed him critically.

“If not for you this castle would not be ours today. So if you wish to view the executions you will do so beside me. Then I will personally escort you back to your chambers where you will rest.”

This was not to be a discussion and Sansa turned to continue towards the dais.

“Your grace!” Jon called out, catching her attention again. He held out the arm with a bandaged hand in an arc. “May I escort you?”

Her eyes widened and she looked happy to scold him again. No scolding came though. He swore he saw her blush some before coming back to wrap her hands gently around his arm, allowing him to slowly walk her across the courtyard. Others in the crowd began to whisper then, and not kindly either. For some reason he didn’t care. Her touch on his arm pushed it all away, making the opinions of others seem a stupid thing to dwell on.

The steps leading to the dais should’ve felt more a burden but they didn’t, not with her on his arm. As they took their place between those gathered on the platform she released his arm and took a step forward. The Greatjon stood ready and with a nod from Sansa he turned to yellso even a deaf man would’ve heard him.

“Justice! Today we will see justice done. Here at the place where an abomination against the laws of gods and men took place, we who were wronged will see justice done. Bring out the prisoners!”

Flanked by guards the doomed men appeared from an archway at the opposite side of the courtyard. They came shuffling in a line and it was plain the days of stay in their own dungeons had done ill for these men. Their skin pale and filthy, their hair frazzled and greasy. What clothes they’d worn stripped away, each man naked save for a filthy, ragged tunic with the emblem of House Frey upon it. Jon didn’t want to know what the dark brown stains smeared across the blue towers was. The Greatjon seemed to take pride in their sorry state as he glared down at them.

The crowd parted to let them pass but that was the most decency they were shown. Men spat at them, yelled insults and would probably have done worse had Sansa not decreed no harm was to be done to them.

Their justice would be done at the block.

After the ten condemned men were made to stand in a line to the left of the platform the final prisoner was brought out. His legs too old and gouty to carry himself up from the dungeons two guards had to see to his arrival. Each guard had an arm under one of his, practically dragging the man across the courtyard, his useless feet trailing feebly behind.

Such was how Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing arrived to witness the executions of his kin.

Sansa trembled as she watched his coming, whether from rage or something else Jon didn’t know. She only relaxed when the Frey lord was unceremoniously dropped in front of the spectators. It was morbid thing to allow him but Lord Walder now had the best view possible for the executions.

It was then Sansa began her speech.

“Freys. I, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and heir to Winterfell, find you guilty of treason to your king. Guilty of his murder, the murder of our lady mother, his bannermen and the slaughter of his men. By violating guest right you have wrought your own fates today.” Sansa paused as she looked down upon the assembled men whose lives she held in her hands. Jon knew she would not falter. “In the name of my late brother, the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, King in the North, I sentence you to death.”

“Honor? What honor did your brother have? Broke a vow…” Walder Frey somehow still had the strength in his crippled grey body to spout his bile. “He got what he deserved. Better than what you’ll get if the real Queen gets ahold of you wench. Heh.”

Jon winced, not at the words, but at the pain flexing his sword hand had caused him. Men in the crowd yelled insults and cursed the man loudly. Some even had to be restrained by others around them from hurling themselves at Walder.

The whole time Sansa stood, still as a statue, staring at the man with a grace Jon thought beyond her years. She waited until the Greatjon bellowed for quiet and the anger in the crowd subsided.

“Walder Frey, you will have a chance for last words when I give you leave. Until then you will hold your tongue or it will taken from you and I will hold it myself.” 

The grumbling that went through the crowd made clear that most would prefer the tongue just be taken. Yet Sansa refused to let the man shake her and he did not push his luck. Sansa turned to the young Piper knight and signaled the beginning of the day’s gruesome business.

“Let it commence, Ser Marq.”

Marq Piper would be the first to take a head today and walked from the dais to stand beside the block, his sword in hand.

“Danwell Frey, I will see justice done to you.” He called and a man was brought forward and shoved to his knees.

His last words were ramblings of not having killed any, just having drank. His head was pushed forward onto the block and the knight’s sword flashed downward. It took two more strikes and a good amount of blood upon Marq’s tunic before the Frey’s head rolled towards the crowd.

A Royce man unceremoniously kicked it away from himself and Jon flinched.

 _They brought this on themselves_ , he thought,  _they are the monsters here._

_Crimes such as these cannot be treated kindly, father would see that._

Jon looked to Sansa, he did not know how she had reacted yet her eyes were fixed on the bloody block, staying so even as the man’s body was dragged away. He reached out with his good hand and lightly touched her arm. Her head tilted towards him with a slight nod.

_She is well._

From there it went on. Riverlords, Northern lords, knights, all saw to the ends of various Freys.

Some begged mercy. Others prayed. One even had gall to say he’d see them all in the seven hells. Jon felt the man at least had the honesty to admit where he belonged.

Edwyn Frey, the current heir to the Twins, met his end by Maege’s blade. They’d been told by survivors that Edwyn’s father Ryman was the one who had done for her daughter Dacey.

“Your father took my daughter, I will take his son.” Maege said hoarsely before she separated his head from his body.

The tears on her cheeks did not make the woman any weaker in his eyes. Dacey had been a good woman, Jon may have even carried a torch for her as a boy. He hoped wherever Maege’s daughter was she was at peace with Robb and the others.

The Greatjon was to see to Ser Leslyn Haigh and he seemed eager for it. He’d bitten the knight’s ear off during the Red Wedding. Haigh having returned the favor by cutting off the Greatjon’s while a prisoner in the dungeons.

Surprisingly it was the one man not born a Frey who gave the most trouble.

The guards must have grown accustomed to the condemned men numbly walking to their fate for before they could react the Haigh knight lunged over the dais at Sansa.

Jon moved quickly, throwing his arm across the front of her as his foot lashed out. His boot caught Haigh right in the forehead, throwing it back violently. Ghost had reacted just as fast and the snap of his jaws saw two of the man’s his fingers bitten clean off.

“My queen!” The Greatjon yelled as Howland and Brynden moved to stand before her.

She was shocked yet managed to wave away the chorus of concerned voices. Jon lowered his arm away from her and she grabbed it, seeking his hand and squeezing it tightly for a moment. The attempt had scared her, that was plain, and he squeezed back.

“Your grace, do you need a moment?” Maege asked and Sansa stared into his eyes a little longer before letting his hand go and shaking her head.

“I am well. Pray continue.”

The Greatjon was happy to oblige her. Haigh’s howls of pain were the only last words the lord allowed as he took the knight’s head in a single vicious stroke.

“For my son…” The Greatjon said quietly,  his voice thick with grief. “For my dear boy…”

He stood there afterwards, staring down at the headless corpse as if under a spell. He did not break free of it until the Blackfish came down to put a hand upon his shoulder. Then the Greatjon was back and took notice of the bloody sword in his hand. He handed it off to a man to be cleaned as he took his place back upon the platform.

Sansa reached out and held the man’s huge hand and said something Jon could not hear. The Greatjon’s eyes were wet but he smiled and said his thanks to the queen. Maege put her hand on his shoulder and he reached up to hold it.

_The grief of parents._

_How much worse is it for them than for the children?_

The Blackfish would see to Lame Lothar Frey, the last condemned before Lord Walder. He was known to be one of the planners of their betrayal and the knight had asked for this duty personally.

“I avenged my family’s honour. Nothing done here will change that Blackfish. Our honour was returned to us.” Lothar spat at him before he knelt.

“Your sense of honour is as twisted as your leg Lothar. For my beloved niece.” The veteran of more wars than Jon ever hoped to see took only one cut to for the task to be done.

Then only one remained.

“Bring forth Walder Frey.” Sansa called out and stepped forward to the edge of the platform.

The man was dragged forward but not to the block, instead he was dumped before them. Men had come and dragged the block away so the old twisted man appeared confused as he lay looking up at them with his weasel face. Sansa turned back and waved Jon forward so he came to join her in their final look at the evil man.

“Your last words Frey.” 

Her tone had been cold and to most it would’ve seemed just that. He was sure no one else would be able to tell but Jon heard the tremble of rage.

_She wants to scream at him._

_To rage at him and t_ _ear him apart._

_Just like you._

“I’ve lost ten of mine today. But there are more.” Walder actually smiled, Jon could not imagine such a foul man to smile as the heads of his family lay around him. 

“Sons, grandsons…my line will survive little girl. What of yours? The Starks die with you. Heh.”

A glance to Sansa made him realize she was close to losing her calm so he did it for her.

“The Starks have endured for thousands of years!” Jon shouted. “They were old before your castles were a gleam in your builder’s eye! They will be old when your castles fall to dust. They survived the Others! They survived the dragons! They will survive an accursed old man!”

A cheer went up from the Northmen in the crowd as Sansa laid a hand upon his arm.

“Ser Jon speaks the truth Walder Frey and I would have you know this before you die, your name will forever herald the ruin of your house. Men will say it only to spit it out. Or to speak of how it came to end.”

With that she looked passed the man to the assembled crowd.

“I am no warrior like my late brother. Nor do I have the strength of Lady Maege. But I will let House Stark have justice in the northern way today, let the sigil of my house be my arms to end this man’s life.”

At that Ghost bore his teeth silently and moved from behind Sansa to stand at the edge of the platform, his fur standing up at sight of the lord. Walder must have realized her meaning then for the old man’s eyes grew wide. His sneer turning into an open gape of terror.

Even some among the crowd seemed frightened and backed away.

“For Robb and mother.” Her words were softly spoken and somewhat sad.

It was for him to give the command.

He did not balk.

“Ghost.” 

His friend leapt down and the man may as well have been a doll in the direwolf’s jaws. It was not a pretty way for a man to die.

Nor was it a quick one.

For rather than going for the man’s neck the wolf tore into the screaming lord's belly, spilling his guts out to add to the gore before the block. His one arm was mangled horribly when he feebly tried to protect himself and the old man was still moving when Ghost’s jaws finally went to his throat. Its tearing open in a spray of blood of flesh was the final act of the ugly affair.

Jon thought it a fitting end to an ugly life.

Others disagreed. Some in the crowd retched while others stood horrified. Those who had fought beside Robb and seen Greywind in action had already seen such a kill before and watched grimly. A larger number seemed pleased, some even smiled.

Throughout it Sansa stood tall over the bloody end of Walder Frey. Her head held high looking down her nose at the corpse Ghost scorned from eating.

Jon had never been pleased to witness an execution. When his father would have Robb and him watch one carried out he was never scared but no matter the crime, it never made him feel good.

This had.

He didn’t know if he should be worried about that or not but for now, he could live happily with the feeling.

Yet despite his spirit his body was its limit. Or at least nearing it. The journey here had been taxing and standing for so long had taken much of his strength. The dampness and pain coming from his back made him suspect he had torn open some of his wounds when he moved to protect Sansa. They burned and throbbed worse than ever and he gritted his teeth against it.

But he would not leave her.

Not until this was at an end.

“Jon.” Sansa’s voice had weakened some, it no longer had the strength it had earlier. She was watching as men moved to drag the ruined corpse away and he thought she was shaking alittle. “Jon, would you see me away from here?”

“If you would have me.” He offered his arm once more and she was on it quickly.

Together they walked from the platform, leaving the bloody scene to their backs.

Later Jon couldn’t say who had supported who more on the walk back.

He liked to think they support each other. 

And of the feeling she gave him, he didn’t quite know what to think.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betrayals, real, imagined and feared.

 

SANSA

 

“We have a chance.”

Sansa spoke barely above a whisper.

So quiet no one at this council appeared to have noticed. Had she yelled it some may not have heard, so loud was the discussion around her.

Her bannermen’s reactions to the news coming from returning ravens and scouts were as diverse as they themselves. Some welcomed it, others lamented it, a few even questioned it accurate at all.

“More riders!” Lord Smallwood fought to be heard. “More riders to ensure the truth of Raventree! We cannot act rashly…we cannot…hear me!”

“We cannot act without Seagard’s strength! Await them then on to Riverrun!”

“We should ride to meet the Arryns! Join for a march straight to the capital!”

“Stannis is the key! Support him and divide the south more!”

“Fool!”

“Craven!”

“More wine!" 

She frowned but not at Willem's contribution, more so at what this spectacle reminded her of.

 _They bicker like girls at an embroidery circle_ , she thought _, not lords ready for war._

_Have none even considered what I have? Should I hold my tongue less it be a fool’s venture?_

Doing nothing certainly wasn’t an option. Not with what they’d heard.

The first bit of news which came late last evening had been poor indeed. The Mallisters of Seagard were held prisoner in their own castle by a small Frey garrison, the party of riders they’d sent apparently spotting Freys walking about the walls.

The siege at Raventree had ended, Lord Blackwood forced to bend the knee and offer hostages to the Kingslayer. That prisoner only added to a number of hostages from several houses, limiting how many she could depend on for support.  According to the ravens that had returned only a handful of lords had not given family members over and even those sounded hesitant to raise men for another march.

She didn’t blame them but things in the Riverlands had appeared grim.

Then better news was heard. One that restored her faith in the riverlords.

No sooner had her uncle’s scout returned with news of Seagard than a raven arrived from the Mallister lord himself. Her party had somehow made contact with Lord Jason within the castle, informing him of the Twin’s fall. Apparently the man was all too eager to avenge his honor and stage an uprising to retake his castle.

_‘The only Freys you’ll see on my walls are the ones without bodies. Seagard is with you. Seagard is for the Queen in the North.’_

The Mallister’s rebellion led to a round of toasts and cheers, as welcome a victory as the one here at the Twins.

Reports of enemy strength came next.

The Lannister force under Daven Lannister had left to return to the Westerlands and the Tyrell army at Maidenpool had marched south to King’s Landing. That left the Freys spread out from Darry to Riverrun and the Kingslayer with a force of just a thousand men.

Emmett Frey, the new Lord of Riverrun had written and seemed as fearful as they’d been told. He trusted the small folk of Riverrun none and saw outlaws and the Blackfish everywhere. Black Walder commanded a strong force which had surfaced at Darry. Apparently Lancel Lannister, new lord of that castle, had forsaken his marriage to Amerei Frey and her family had sought Black Walder’s forces help to protect their claim to the castle there.

Ravens had come from both Darry and Riverrun, and it was this Sansa had seized upon. For the Freys at those castles wrote as if they still believed the Twins in Lord Walder’s hands.

 _And they await word from us_ , she thought, _word from the lord of these castles._

The more she thought it over the more a plan came to her. It was a simple one, nothing like the plot they’d used to score the victory here.  For that reason alone she hoped it wasn’t just the thought of a stupid girl. So she sat there unsure of whether her men would accept it or if she should even give voice it. 

“If we had King Robb’s army we would make short work of our enemies.” Ser Marq said glumly. “He would’ve had us come on the Kingslayer by night and…”

 _He speaks as if I am not here,_ she realized _, as if I am not Queen._

She did not think he meant malice by saying so but the knight's words spurned her into a decision.

_He forgets you are queen because you do not act as one._

_Would a queen stay silent in the face of all this? Would Robb?_

“Uncle.” She reached out to shake Brynden from his conversation with Maege. “Uncle I would be heard.”

“And so you shall.” The old knight said as he signalled the guardsmen around the room. The score of them took to pounding the floor with their spear butts until silence reined.

All eyes falling on Sansa.

“I have listened to your wise counsel good men and I would have you hear something which may help us. I think there’s a chance to get some of our enemies to do some our work for us.” Sansa said calmly. “A way to set Lannister against Frey and Frey against Frey. We know they are already at each other’s throats. Had the Freys not schemed against one another to inherit these accursed castles we may never have taken them.”

A glance to her uncle saw him nod at her understanding of his experiences at the Twins.

“Their alliance with the Lannisters was made with Lord Tywin and sealed through several marriages.” He confirmed. “Now Tywin Lannister lays rotting and one of those marriages broken. We all know how they view such acts.”

She followed that by laying out her idea, as simple as it was.

“We shall send two letters, one to Darry for Black Walder and the other to Lord Emmett at Riverrun. Letters penned by this castle’s very master, who has seen the wisdom in cooperating with us. Our letter for Black Walder will accuse the Lannisters of betraying House Frey. Of how the Kingslayer’s army now moves south to destroy his strength there.”

Ser Marq’s jaw almost hit the table it dropped so far and the gasp from Maege had almost given her pause but Sansa pressed on.

“The other sent to Emmett will accuse Black Walder of collusion with the outlaws in an attempt to take Riverrun for himself and the Twins for Lame Lothar. Rather than allowing them to unite against us, we shall set them against each other.”

A stunned silence greeted her plan. One only broken as the enormity of its implications dawned on some. Her uncle the first among them.

“You would have the Lannisters and the Freys attack one another!” Uncle Brynden slapped his hand on the table with a laugh. “If only it were my name day, the gift would be so sweet.”

“Your grace, why would they believe such things even if it came from their own maester’s hand?” Lord Smallwood asked and Brynden answered for her.

“Few enough trust Black Walder and he commands a good half of their forces still on the march. There were already plots coming to a head here at the Twins when we attacked, surely there are others. We are but putting a flame to a pyre they have built themselves.”

“What of the hostages held by the Kingslayer? Should it come to battle the Freys may kill them.” Ser Marq asked and she felt for him, his younger brother was among those hostages.

“Then their fathers should not have bent the knee.” The Greatjon answered fiercely.

 _That will not do,_ she thought _, they cannot fight amongst themselves._  

“My lords! I can forgive those men who bent the knee under threat to their families. My own father confessed to a crime he did not commit to spare me. Let us replace threat with hope, let us give them a chance to do as the Mallisters have done. A chance to take back the honor stolen from them! A chance to free those they love!”

A ripple of approval went through the men and Howland opted to speak next.

“If an army of riverlords can be put in the field they can claim the Freys have demanded more concessions of them than the Lannisters promised.” Howland added. “We can supply them with evidence through ravens from this very castle. Let the Kingslayer think he has more support than he does. Let the Freys believe they have been betrayed.”

“Even if he doesn’t trust them it would still divide his attentions adding to the chaos.” Her uncle smiled and nodded. “It is risky but it’s still an opportunity for a rescue of hostages.”

Again arguing started, less over the value of her idea than of how to put the plan into action. Much more would need to be said but by the end of the evening it was decided Olyvar Frey would be called upon to help with the finer points of Frey politics while letters drawn up for the Frey maester to rewrite.

Despite the excitement around her Sansa looked forward to this council’s end. Feeling very weary.

 _You had rest,_ she thought _, more than you needed._

_And your own chambers are not the ones you would return to._

After the executions she had helped Jon back to his bed and saw what she had expected to. That he had feigned strength and the day’s activities had done him ill.

When his shirt had been removed and Sansa had seen the bloody bandages there her anger had returned but she said nothing. She sent for clean bandages and water to tendthe reopened wounds. As he laid in his bed he made not a sound but slight movements at her efforts made it clear he was in pain. When that was through they still said little.

Yet she’d needed to be comforted. Needed him to be kind to her as only he was. So she went to sit on the other side of his bed where she could hold his good hand in hers.

Then the tears had started to come and she could not stop them. Nor did Jon try to stop them and she was thankful for that. After a day like this she needed to cry.

Instead of speaking he made to push himself up and she feared he meant to stand again. Instead he moved further to the side of the bed and pulled on her arm. She took his meaning and did not hesitate. She lay down next to him, his arm going around her, holding her gently.

Sansa buried her face in his shoulder as the sobs came. Her hand seeking his, the other clutching his hair.

All the grief she carried came out of her then. The rage. The fear. Those dead men they’d left down in the courtyard had ended none of it. She had tried to be so strong. Sansa been weak for so long to please Joffrey and later Petyr that sometimes she felt the Queen she was a different person altogether.

 _One Jon had found_ , she thought, _one he had made._

While Jon allowed Sansa her tears he was not idle. He took to stroking her hair softly and running his thumb over the side of her hand. When the tears came no more he had not stopped. His touch warm against her, his breathing a constant, soothing feeling upon her head.

Sansa could not say when she fell asleep but it had been to Jon doing all those things.

Then the dreams had come.

Of her parents smiling as she showed them a new dress.

Of falling and Robb offering her his hand and kind words. Sweet Bran yelling down from a high wall. Holding baby Rickon as he looked up at her with his big bright eyes. Arya running away with her doll and giving chase.

Then Jon was dancing with her but no one else was there and it was so sweet. He moved his face towards her. And his mouth found hers.

She awoke to find his face in front of hers, Jon sleeping as she had been. Looking more at peace than she’d seen him in some time. The dreams had taken hold of her though.

For she sought his lips. Hers were so close, his too close.

 _I want this dream to come true_ , she thought as she wetted her lips, _I want this_.

The knocking ruined everything. The sound scared Sansa so she had bolted upright and to her feet instantly. A cry of pain followed for she had wrenched Jon’s arm as she rose.

Howland had burst in, hand on his sword to see her standing there with her hand to her mouth as she reached for Jon.

“It is alright Sansa, I am fine.” He said wincing as he moved back into a comfortable position.

It was then she saw Howland’s face. The crannogman’s eyes moved from Jon’s shirtless body to her standing dishevelled at his side. His expression turned from one of concern to disappointment.

He had come to summon her for his council meeting and the walk with Howland had been so awkward for her. She knew her hair was slightly undone and her face flushed. Yet the man said nothing and his face gave away no hint of his thoughts.

She spared him a glance now as the meeting drew to a close and decided act boldly once again.

“Howland, if you would I’d have you walk with me.” She said offering her hand to the lord.

“It would be my pleasure my queen.” He answered sincerely enough, taking her hand and leading her from the hall.

Torches lit the way but she did not like the shadows they cast. This castle would never feel right to her. Sansa had learned as much as she could about the castles in their short time here and felt the walls overlooking the river would suffice as a destination. It was a nice view and, more importantly, secluded. 

For she would have no one know of what matter they discussed.

“How did you know where to find me?” Sansa asked as they walked down the corridor. “Before this meeting, how did you know my whereabouts?”

“I saw for myself how Jon fared today, I knew you would tend to him.”

“He pushed himself too hard.”

“If your house did not already have words I would say pushing beyond your limits more fitting.” Howland’s joke was a sad one and he didn’t smile.

Nor did she.

“I would want you to know that nothing improper happened in those chambers. I’d hope I’d not hear otherwise.” She said as they reached the staircase leading out to the wall.

He stopped then and she feared she had pushed too hard. He was a lord, not someone to be threatened by a girl. But she was a queen, sometimes threats were needed.

“I would have none think anything improper of you.” Howland said before gesturing for her to lead the way up the stairs and she obliged him.

As they stared out onto the moving waters of the Green Fork Sansa knew she preferred being outside the castle rather than inside. The cold air reminded her of Winterfell. The sound of the water moving through the bridge was peaceful and set her mind at ease.

Howland appeared set to do the opposite.

“Sansa, I saw nothing that would make me believe anything improper happened in those chambers. Nor would I think anything was improper if something had occurred. We both know the truth. You make Jon happy. I am thankful for that.” Howland expression changed then. “Others would not be.”

“That is why you will say nothing of what you found.” She said fiercely. “Then none…”

“None have taken notice of how often you attend Jon in his chambers? Of how a bastard knight was accorded a place of honor upon the dais while lords watched below?” Howland shook his head as she made to ask for names. “Too many to say. Too many who see Jon as a rival to influence. As an affront to decency.”

“He’s the most decent of any…” Sansa’s anger began to fade to something more like fear. “There’s ill will towards him? Because of how I treat him?”

Howland nodded.

“Many and more respect him for his courage and what he’s done, yet highborns value station above all else Sansa. If Jon was but another knight in your service I doubt many would think poorly of him at all. Yet these men are now led by a young girl, which is hard enough for some, now they see her treating a bastard as her closest counsel.” Howland stared out across the water then. “I ask you to let my men watch his rooms at night from this point on.”

“To keep us proper?” She asked, praying that is what he hoped to do.

It was not.

“To keep him safe.” Howland sighed. “To continue as you do with him forces me to ask this Sansa. I cannot ignore what my old friend tells me. Of men plotting in a cold, dark place, feasting on a white dragon. With Jon’s name upon their blood soaked lips.”

That terrified her.

For half a moment she pictured Joffrey, Cersei and Petyr doing so. Then just as quickly the image changed to any number of lords she remembered scowling as Jon led her to the dais. She cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner. She’d been at court, she was raised by a septa. Bastards got little and less from this world because that’s how people wanted it. With her offering Jon more, well the girl she was would’ve thought that a scandal.

  _Others would think worse_ , she thought, _all because they think he's a bastard._

_What if he’s not a bastard then?_

“You can’t guard him at all times.” She said, wringing her hands in front of her. “And you already said there’s too many to punish. Perhaps it is time…”

“To name him a Targaryen to this group of lords who once fought his father?” Howland answered before she asked. “How many would hate him even more? Those who already support you may question your wisdom afterwards. The Greatjon himself lost kin at the Trident and holds nothing but hatred for dragons.”

“Then what do I do?” She asked desperately. “I can’t send him away, I can’t! And I can’t let them hurt him! Not after everything…please Howland what do I do?”

He answered of course. Howland somehow always had answers to the hard questions which needed them. Yet rarely were they the answers she hoped for.

Answers that would make her happy.

 

* * *

 

ARYA

 

“It’s the same two, I swear it.” Pod said as he squinted out at the Kingsroad. “They were by in the morning, now they’re back.”

“How can you tell?” Arya asked.

From their hiding place among the trees and shrubs Arya followed his gaze to the pair of riders north of them. They were ambling slowly down the road, both wearing heavy brown cloaks, looking like a hundred other travellers she’d seen during her time on the road. Except Pod swore these two had only just ridden by hours before and were back again.

“One tall, one short, and one of their horses had a half circle on its nose.” Pod pointed as if she could see it. “And they’re looking for something.”

“How can you even tell?” She squinted. “You can’t even see their faces under those hoods.”

Both the riders’ heads were turned towards the trees along Arya and Pod’s side of the road yet instinct told her to stay low. As if she knew to stand would put her right into their gaze.

“Remember the marker Meribald told us about…”

“Of course I remember.” She scowled at him.

The pale stones piled at the edge of the woods had been the marker the septon told her to search for to find their sanctuary. The first thing they’d done when they’d found it was to take it apart and toss the stones into the brush.

“I think that’s what they’re looking for. The marker for the ringfort.”

_Then they’re looking for us._

“Do you think it’s the Brotherhood?” Pod asked and she shook her head.

“I don’t recognize the horses so they’re not from Pisscloak’s group. Besides we haven’t seen any sign of them in a week.” Gendry and Pod had watched the outlaws ride hard up the road giving chase, riding ride on by their camp. It was Pod who’d seen them return a few days later, riding just as hard.

“Maybe they’ve changed horses?”

 _Or Meribald sold us out like he said he would,_ she thought _, they could be from the Faith._

“We need to tell the others.” She decided. “I’ll go. I’m faster and you’re as clumsy as a mule.”

“Mules are sure-footed…”

“Shut up.” She punched his arm before turning and running off into the brush.

Staying as low as she could and taking care to avoid twigs that might snap in her passing Arya ran back towards their hideaway. Pod’s horse kicked at the ground some as she went by, deeper into the woods and towards the river. As far as their lookout spot was from the Kingsroad the old ringfort was almost the same distance from the Green Fork.

When the weather was fair enough they could see the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the water. Fish had become a big part of their diet whenever one of them was lucky enough to catch one. There wasn’t a bow among the group and so far none of their snares had netted them game. The dreams she had of eating freshly killed deer or cow made the daily routine of wild berries and stale oats even more unbearable.

Especially since Arya couldn’t understand why they were still here.

The ringfort had been decent shelter but there was no doubt why it had been abandoned. Its crumbling stone walls were so low Arya could see over them standing and encircled so little space it barely held their camp. A tree had taken root just inside the southern curve and Gendry said its roots would do for that part of the wall one day.

“Let it.” She’d said. “It’s giving Brienne some place dry to rest so it can take the bloody fort if it wants.”

Most of the ground inside the ringfort was hard and moss covered, making it damp and terrible to sleep upon. All save the ground around the base of the young tree so it was there they’d laid Brienne. For a few days she’d burned with fever, tossing and turning, crying out in pain and for people that weren’t there. The lady warrior had called for her father, begged for Arya’s mother, Renly Baratheon, even the Kingslayer.

And for Arya.

Pod and she had cared for Brienne the most. When the fever broke it was they Brienne talked to whenever she found the strength.

“Away…we must be away….” Brienne had said when Arya had told her how long they’d been camped at the fort. “Strap me to a horse and bind my mouth if you must…but to stay here so long is too risky…we must move…”

Arya thought that wise, happy to have Brienne back giving orders. Unfortunately she wasn’t completely back and another was still giving orders in her place.

Orders which made Arya furious.

“We can’t leave quite yet my lady.” Ser Hyle had smiled as he leaned against a tree, watching Gendry fish. “Not nearly enough supplies. Nor is the weather good for it.”

“Brienne says we have too.”

“Brienne’s not thinking straight. A day without her crying out for a Lannister and I’d think differently.” Hyle had laughed at his own jest.

“Every day we stay here is another Lem could find us! Or for Meribald to tell the Faith…”

“The Faith!” Hyle’s laughter had made her fists open and close. “How long did they keep you on that island and no one came? We watched the outlaws go south days ago and if some sparrows show up here with their sticks and prayers…”

“There are only four of us and Brienne can’t fight.”

“And we’ll barely be able to ride with her slung over a horse. No, if the outlaws are looking for us they’ll be looking for four riders and an injured woman among them. If it was just the two of us I’d be more than happy to see you away from here...”

Hyle had given her a look then he had several times before. A warm smile and eyes that gazed queerly into hers. She always just glared back and did so then.

“My offer still stands and if you take it we could be on our way north in just a few short hours…”

She’d turned from him and paced away angrily. More and more she hated the knight.

Since they’d escaped the Brotherhood he had taken to ordering everyone about. Pod was supposed to watch the road by day and clean Hyle’s armor by night. When he’d argued he served Brienne and not Hyle he’d earned a cuff to the side of his head and there’d been no more argument. Still Pod had defied Hyle in his own way, cleaning not only the knight’s armor but Brienne’s as well.

Gendry was always sent about collecting wood, fishing, tending to the horses or whatever other fool tasks Hyle could come up with to keep Arya and her friend apart. All the while Hyle came up with any excuse to be around her. Trying to ask her about the North, whether Winterfell was as large as he’d heard, what her favorite breed of horse was, and more stupid questions of the like.

“If you’re to take back your lands you’ll need a husband to do it. A strong one, one as good with words as he is with a sword.” Hyle had slashed his sword in the air and smiled his stupid smile one morning when the others had left. “And I’d gladly be it.”

His smile had disappeared when the rock flew by his head. She’d had another in hand and was lining up another throw when he’d backed away and left her be. He hadn’t brought it up again but everything else had stayed the same.

And last night she’d woken to find him slumbering next to her. Too close to her. His hand on her hip had been the thing to wake her and she’d quickly jabbed her elbow into his side. That put him off and she’d gone to lay beside Brienne for the rest of the night. She’d fallen asleep watching the knight, making sure he made no moves to follow.

 _Now I need him to move,_ she thought _, they could have bloody found us._

_He’ll have to let us leave now._

As if an answer to unspoken prayers Arya found Hyle already preparing for a ride. Coming upon the ringfort she saw no sign of Gendry but the knight was leading two of their horses out the narrow gap in the wall.

“Hyle!”

“Lady Arya!” He called back happily, smiling his stupid smile. “We are of one mind again. I was just about to come and tell you I’ve given your words some thought and…”

“There are riders on the road. We think they are looking for the ringfort.” She said breathlessly.

It was good the horses were saddled, if they needed to fight men on horses it would be good to be on some themselves. It was even better Hyle was already wearing his mail and looked ready for a fight.

“Riders? How many?”

“Only two! If they don’t find the marker we have to ride. If they do we can all fight them together.” She pointed to the river where Gendry would be fishing. “I'll go get Gendry.”

 Gendry wasn’t much of a rider but between the two of them she figured they’d be more than match for one of the pair.

“No time for that” Hyle shook his head and came on towards her, pulling the horses behind. “Get on the horse.”

“Riding down to get him will take just as long.” She couldn't believe how stupid Hyle was. The ground towards the river was full of roots and muck and might trip their horses, it be faster for her just to run down and get him.

“Don’t argue with me.” Hyle reached for her but she twisted away, surprised he’d try and grab her. “Come on now, we’ll yell for him!”

“Stop it. If they haven’t found the marker and we start shouting they’ll come right here! Just let me go…”

Something caught her eye then. Something that wasn’t right.

The horses Hyle had readied were more than just saddled. Both had blankets, supplies and other items for a long ride tied to them. Oathkeeper’s sheath was strapped to hisown horse but Arya saw no other sign of Brienne’s gear. A quick glance tothe ringfort showed the other three horses not even saddled.

_Why was he preparing for a long ride with only two horses?_

The thought was barely in her head before Hyle made to grab at her again.

“I said stop!” She hissed, pulling Needle free and pointing it at Hyle. “What are you doing? Why did you only saddle two horses?”

Hyle sighed and let the reins drop from his grasp. He put a hand upon his own sword and held out the other, waving her to him.

“I can’t let this foolishness continue. Brienne and those two simpletons are going to doom you my lady and I am too true a knight to let them. Let those searchers find the others and we’ll be well away, halfway to your own lands before any would have a chance to follow.”

 _The bloody traitor_ , she realized, _he is trying to steal our supplies._

_He’s trying to steal me._

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Arya slashed Needle in front of her as she backed away from the traitor.

“Arya?” Brienne’s weak voice called out. “Arya what is wrong?”

A moment later Brienne’s head rose up from behind the ringfort wall, she was pulling herself up along the tree to her feet. Her face was a mix of concern and pain. 

“By the seven…go back to sleep Brienne! And get over here girl!”

Hyle made to grab at Arya again and Needle flashed, causing him to pull his hand back with a hiss. It was only a small cut but still, it bled and Hyle pulled his own sword free.

“Stop! Hyle sheath your blade at once!” Brienne yelled.

“He has your sword!” Arya warned as Hyle moved at her. This time he expected her slash and his own sword moved quicker than she’d expected. The first blow almost knocked Needle from her grasp, his back swing finished the job, sending the blade crashing into the dirt.

“Gendry! Podrick!” Brienne shouted loudly while Hyle blocked Arya from running to her.

“That’ll bring your riders for sure, we need to be going.” Hyle may have been quick with his sword but she was smaller and faster afoot. She kept dodging his attempts to grab her or pin her against the stonewall. “I’m your best damn hope for ever being Lady of Winterfell!”

“Eat shit!” She kicked him hard in the shin before diving under his outstretched arm and rolling upon the ground.

 “Arya get behind me!” Brienne called as she pulled Oathkeeper from Hyle’s saddle.

Arya did as she was told, running to shelter behind Brienne who raised her sword up shakily. Her right arm was still splinted so she wielded the Valyrian sword with her left. That made Arya worry.

_How much a fight can she give him?_

“I don’t have time for this!” Hyle yelled, coming at them.

“Hyle the girl is my charge! Whatever you plan to do I cannot…” Brienne’s words were cut off with a terrible cry.

Hyle had swatted aside the woman’s attempt to fight wrong-handed and thrown his shoulder into her chest. Brienne’s ribs had been badly hurt as well and she fell backwards, hard upon the ground. Another cry erupted from Brienne, a choking gasp like there was no air left in her to scream her pain.

Arya took the chance to retrieve Needle, picking the sword up just in time to see Brienne raise her own.

“Don’t be a fool.” Hyle kicked Oathkeeper from Brienne’s grasp before planting his boot firmly down on her chest. “Stay down.”

“Leave her alone!” Arya charged at Hyle but only travelled a short few steps before jerking to a halt.

The knight had seen her coming but rather than meeting her charge he’d pointed his sword down at Brienne’s neck.

“No more.” Hyle pulled his bloody hand to his mouth and sucked at the cut before spitting the blood away. “No more. You care for the lady here, I’ve seen it so don’t act like you don’t. Because I don’t want to hurt her worse than she’s made me."

“If you hurt her again I’ll kill you!” She held Needle with both hands before her, her trembling with rage and fear. “I’ll kill you!”

“Arya run.” Brienne managed to grunt before Hyle pressed down with his boot and she was lost to agony.

“Stop!”

“Drop the sword and get on the horse.” Hyle lifted his boot just a touch from Brienne and Arya squeezed Needle even harder. “Quickly now, we don’t have much time.”

He was probably right.

There was no way their shouting had been missed. Somewhere back towards the road she could hear the sounds of horses. Maybe even yelling. Whether it was just Pod coming to their aid or the men upon the road she couldn’t tell. She hoped Gendry was on his way back, hoping he hadn’t gone further down stream and missed all this.

Hyle didn’t look like he had any such worries. The traitor even smiled.

“I’ll get you far away from all these troubles. You’ll see me for what I am.” Hyle gestured to the horses. “I’ll treat you well and give you sons so one day you’ll thank me for all this. And so will Brienne if you do as I say. Like a proper lady.”

She looked down at Brienne and saw the pain etched across her face. The lady shook her head against Hyle’s words, mouthing the word ‘run’ silently, again and again. Hyle caught that and lifted his foot to bring it crashing down on Brienne’s head. The blow cracked the lady’s head off the ground and her eyes went wild, as if he’d knocked all the sense from her.

“Leave her! Hyle please stop…”

“She’ll thank you when she wakes that is. Drop the blade and the lady will wake. Don’t and…” He tapped the tip of his sword against Brienne’s neck.

Arya wanted to run at him. To run him through with Needle. To beat him bloody with her own fists. Yet she couldn’t make herself move. Her eyes locked on Brienne.

 _You can’t fight,_ she realized _, he’ll kill her._

“Hyle.” She tried one last time. “Hyle if you don’t stop…I promise I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

In response he flicked his wrist and Brienne gasped, a shallow cut bleeding along her neck. Arya felt very weak then, accepting that Hyle would do as he threatened. So she let Needle fall to her side. She was about to drop the blade when the horses began to spook. She’d barely glanced to them when Gendry came running from out behind them.

“Leave ‘em be you shit!” He shouted, sword in hand.

Gendry ran full on at Hyle, his sword swinging wildly at the knight’s head. Hyle saw it just in time and leapt away from Brienne, catching Gendry’s clumsy cut and swearing loudly as the two began to clash. Arya didn’t hesitate, she rushed to join the fight even as Brienne was shouting something. She stabbed low and Hyle parried it before slashing at Gendry. He wore no armor and Hyle’s sword cut a bloody line across his chest. Gendry staggered some but swung his sword again with both hands, Hyle merely backed away and knocked away another of her attacks.

_He’s too good._

“I was hoping not to kill you bastard.” Hyle spat at Gendry.  “It’s worth a lordship though.”

“I’ve seen latrines worth more than you.” Gendry spat back.

That angered Hyle, he cursed and slashed upwards at Gendry, almost cutting his throat open.

 _He tried to kill him._ _The fucker tried to kill him._

Arya saw red.

She charged at Hyle without thinking, only wanting to stab Needle through his gut. To feel his blood on her hands and see him dead for what he’d done. None of that happened as Hyle lashed out with his free arm, sending her sprawling to the ground. Instead of Hyle’s blood on her hands it was her own, having skinned her hands badly in the fall.

_I’ll change that!_

Arya rose as quickly as she could, just as Gendry was going down. Her friend was on one knee before Hyle, his lip busted and cradling his stomach.

“No! Gendry!”

“Mercy!” Brienne was struggling to her feet as well.

Hyle wasn’t listening. He turned his sword in his hands to point downwards before raising it high to stab into Gendry’s chest.

Everything was moving slower as she gained her feet. She wasn’t fast enough to stop it.

Something else was.

It whistled by her and a moment later Hyle cried out.

An arrow shaft was buried in the back of the knight’s leg and he hopped away from Gendry, cursing in pain. Arya turned to see who was shooting when another arrow flew by her and Hyle grunted loudly.

“Make another move against my friend and, as sorry a man as you are, the next one will make you a lady!” A voice called from among the trees.

A hooded man emerged from behind a tree with, holding a bow with another arrow notched and ready to loose. She recognized him quickly as one of the riders from the road. Yet there was something else familiar about him. His voice was one Arya had heard before.

“Who the hell are you?” Hyle gritted his teeth as he snapped one of the arrows piercing his body.

“Been called the lord o’ the feathers but my name’s for my friends, which you aren’t.”

The man pulled back his hood and with his red hair and youthful freckled face revealed there was no mistaking the archer Arya had met long ago.

_Anguy._

“Now be a dear and throw your sword this way so I don’t…fuck!”

Anguy cursed as one of horses chose that moment to seek a drink from the river. The passing animal blocked the archer’s shot just long enough for Hyle to slip behind Gendry. Hyle threw his arm across Gendry’s throat and pulled him up as a shield in front of him.

If Arya hadn’t been filled with such hatred for the knight she might have been impressed. He moved quickly for a man with an arrow in his shoulder and another in his leg.

Not as quick as her. She also took advantage of the distraction and bent low, moving fast to circle around behind the pair.

“Throw my sword? How about you drop your bow instead?” Hyle winced as he tried to raise his sword to Gendry’s throat. He faltered just long enough for her to think Anguy’s arrow had robbed much of the strength from his sword arm.

“I can put one through each eye before you even blink!” Anguy threatened as he tried to reposition himself.

“Try it and I’ll open his throat. You’d be a poor friend to allow that.”

“Loose Anguy. Just loose.” Gendry shouted and jerked at Hyle’s hold.  
  
He didn’t break it but Hyle took the chance to drop his sword and reach for a dagger in his belt. So Arya took her chance as well.

She ran forward and slashed down at the part of Hyle’s calf not covered by his boot. Needle cut through the muscle like it was butter and Hyle screamed, wrenching backwards from Gendry and stumbling against the wall. He fell back against it, his arms spread to hold himself up and she was right there with him.

“Never turn your back on a wolf!” Anguy laughed as he trotted towards them, helping Gendry to his feet.

She could’ve helped as well yet standing over Hyle with Needle pointed right at his chest seemed more helpful. 

_His wounds aren’t mortal._

_He can still hurt us._

“Arya to me.” Brienne’s voice pleaded from her place upon the ground. The fact she still couldn’t rise from Hyle’s beating turned Arya’s blood to ice.

Hyle’s face was twisted in pain but when their eyes met it softened some. A smile even flickering at his mouth. 

“Put that away, I’m not going to be any more trouble.” 

“Like you were going to do with Gendry?” She rasped, taking a step forward and kicking at the leg she’d slashed. 

He screamed. 

“Mercy!” He gasped through his pain, struggling to keep his leg from touching the ground. His smile was gone but his eyes still sought hers, pleading with them. “Mercy, girl. Mercy please. I did this all to keep you safe. I only wanted…” 

“I know what you want.” Someone else spoke using her mouth. “You want mercy. 

Her cut was quick and sure. Needle opening Hyle’s throat in a spray of red.

Someone behind her gasped. Hyle couldn’t even do that. He spat blood as the life left him, going limp against the wall. Those were the last things he ever did and she watched as the light almost faded from his eyes.

“Arya.” Gendry grabbed her shoulder and turned her away from the body. Blood was stained his shirt as the cut upon his chest continued to bleed. He wasn’t paying much attention to it though, his eyes were on her.

“I had to…”

“Later.” Gendry hissed as he pulled her behind him. Now he was raising his sword towards Anguy, as if to threaten the archer. “Why are you here Anguy?”

“She killed him?” Anguy numbly slung his bow over his back as he continued to stare at Hyle. “Wasn’t he one of you?”

“You saw what he was doing.” Brienne said. "Who is to say what he was."

The woman had regained her feet and stood shakily, her good arm holding Oathkeeper once again.

“Arya. To me.” She commanded, eyes wide and staring at her. “Now.”

Arya left Gendry’s side to join Brienne’s, if only to help steady the woman.

“Anguy why are you here?” Gendry asked again.

“You’re as bloody thankful as ever Bull. And it’s more a we than a me.”

“Pod! What happened to Pod?” Brienne leaned upon her shoulder and she pointed her sword at Anguy. “Who are you?" 

“A friend! We come as friends!” Another voice called out.

Its owner was the second rider she’d seen on the road. He was riding through the trees towards them with Pod riding closely behind. Arya barely registered that the squire looked perfectly fine. 

“Fine watchman you made!” Gendry yelled.

“I…they said…” Pod stammered pointing at the newcomer. "He said he's a..."

“Are all well?” The other rider asked, his face hidden by a hood like Anguy’s had been.

“Can’t tell yet m’lord.” Anguy shook his head and gestured at Gendry’s sword in annoyance. “Nobody has put down their weapons long enough for me to ask.”

“My lady! What happened?” Pod dismounted and rushed to Brienne’s side.

“I am fine. Ser Hyle attempted to betray us and met his end.” Brienne said as she moved to lean on Pod’s shoulder rather than Arya’s

She probably would’ve been annoyed to allow Pod to take her place but she was much more interested in the new stranger. For he’d dismounted and pulled back his hood, revealing himself as no more a stranger than Anguy had been.

He was around the same age as Pod but much better looking. His pale blonde hair had grown since she’d last seen it, almost falling below his shoulders. Yet it was his eyes more than anything which grabbed her attention. Those strange purple eyes of his had always seemed sad.

Yet Edric Dayne was nowhere close to sad as he approached her smiling.

“Lady Stark,” Ned knelt before her with a wide smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you with girl’s hair.”

“I’ve always had girl’s hair! Just like you!” She scowled at the boy she’d met at Beric Dondarrion’s side. “I’m not going to let you hang my friend’s Ned so don’t make me use this.”

With that she raised Needle again and the smile left the squire’s face as his eyes fell upon the bloody blade.

“I don’t...I mean we don’t want to hang anyone! We’re not with Lem’s group, we left after what we saw what the lady became…”

 _Right_ , she remembered, _Gendry said the Brotherhood split._

“Then why are you following us?”

“Because the last thing we ever did of use was look for you.” Anguy chimed in as he finally convinced Gendry to lower his sword.

“Gendry.” Ned’s smile faltered some as he nodded at her friend. “It’s good to see you. I didn’t like how we left things…”

“It’s done with m’lord.” Gendry shrugged before gesturing between the two newcomers. “I’m glad you’re still alive, we heard things at the inn, about the Freys and an ambush.”

“Black Walder.” Anguy spat. “Caught us just south of Hag’s Mire. I’m sure he’s sent riders bragging from Riverrun to King’s Landing how they did for poor Kyle and Puddingfoot.”

“He set fire to a farm that gave us food. There was no one there save the old widow with the little ones…and when we came to see to the dead…”

Ned trailed off then and Arya felt bad for him. Not so bad that she wasn’t still suspicious of why the two of them were here.

Brienne seemed to read her thoughts.

“While I’m thankful for you help with…that.” Brienne jerked her head towards Hyle’s body, which Pod was now gaping at. “Before you tell us why you are here I must ask you lay your weapons down. We’ve had enough treachery here for once day.

Pod drew his blade suddenly, as if just realizing what a sorry company they made against these two.

“Easy lad, remember what we told you up at the road. We mean no one here any harm.” Anguy tossed his bow down before holding his hands up, smirking. “Just the opposite really.”

“He’s telling the truth, we’re here to help.” Ned said but untied his sword belt, offering it up to Gendry. “There, now we’re both unarmed.”

“He’s got a dagger.” Arya pointed to the side of Anguy’s cloak. In truth she hadn’t seen one but figured it was worth the guess.

Sure enough the archer laughed and pulled a small blade loose from beneath his cloak and tossed it down at her feet.

“I’ll be wanting that back, took it off a Lannister captain I feathered myself. More sentimental value than anything else.” His eyes moved to Brienne, with a raised eyebrow. “As nice as it is I don’t think it would have been much of a threat against the lady warrior who fought off the Bloody Mummers alone?”

“We rode through the Inn at the Crossroads and had the story from Willow.” Ned explained. “You defended the innocent, protected those who could not protect themselves. Willow told us the tale herself, she said for your bravery Lem planned to hang you and your friends…Lord Beric would never have done so.”

“So you are not here to hang us…why follow us then?”

“They said they wanted to join us.” Pod jumped in. “I was trying to get back after I heard the shouting and they caught me. They said they wanted to help us get you home.”

“Words can be wind Podrick.” Brienne eyed the two with distrust.

“It’s the truth my lady.” Ned pointed to his sword in Gendry’s grasp. “I’ve given away my sword to prove we mean no harm. But return our weapons and they will be Lady Stark’s to command. We swear to help her, in whatever way she’d have it. Toright a wrong.”

Someone else would’ve felt grateful, maybe even relieved to hear that. Arya didn’t. Instead it bothered her. She had no idea what wrong the Ned was talking about.

All she knew was how sticky her hands felt. They were bloodied from her fall earlier but it wasn’t her blood that coated her sword hand. Hyle’s had dripped down from Needle and stained her hand red 

And despite everything he’d done to them, the pain he'd caused, looking at Hyle's body made her sick.

It made her bloody hand tremble.

 

* * *

 

 JON

 

He hit the ground hard and swore.

“Are you hurt?” Willem asked above him.

 He was but he wouldn't let that stop him. Not while the Royce knight still stood undefeated.

“No. Let’s continue.” Jon got to his feet slowly. “This time I’ll win.”

He took a measure of pride he had not dropped his sword at all today. The cool evening air felt good against his hot skin, some of it finding its way through the cracks in his armor here and there for welcome relief.

“Oh a ten to one day is it?” Willem smiled. “I’d almost welcome it.”

Since returning to the yard Jon had been disappointed in just how out of practice he was. Jon was defeated time and time again by Willem, some days he swore his friend barely broke a sweat. Yet he was improving, that much was clear. His grip was strengthening and his speed and grace of movement were returning to him. It was worth the bruises and aches Jon felt before he slept and more so when he awoke. This past week alone he’d been in the yard more often than not.

And it had been a long week.

His hand was scarred and ugly to look upon but it was still there and its uses were returning to him. The maester said there was hope he could return to his normal self with time, possibly during their march to the North.

Since Sansa had announced their departure a flurry of events had followed. First being the riverlords shouting bloody murder. Of how Sansa was abandoning them and how they needed northern support to throw off the Lannister yolk. The Greatjon had actually come to blows with one who had called into question Sansa’s ability to lead.

Tempers had cooled since. The Blackfish had seen to that by backing Sansa’s plan. He believed the Iron Throne had counted the Riverlands too weak without the North to be much of a threat. That as long as their plans only included the Freys and Lannisters that the Tyrells would not launch another invasion.

To that Sansa had added that she could not ask the northerners to march south as their homes were left to the Boltons no more than she could ask the Riverlands to march north with them. The larger Vale army marching their way probably helped more than any of that. 

However it was done and no matter who objected the decision had been made.

They were going home.

Jon parried a strike from Willem and sidestepped the next. His own attack struck a glancing blow off the knight’s shoulder. Two quick replies had Jon giving ground but he struck back faster hoping to disarm the man before his hand grew too tired. Alas, his opponent’s blade was at his throat by the end.

“Much better Wolf, much better.” Willem grinned and walked to have a drink from the skin of wine his squire held. “You’ll be saving fair maidens any day now.”

Jon watched him gulp at the wine and figured he would likely have some too before he retired for the evening. Sometimes it helped him to rest when his aches were too great.

 _You’ll never rest as well as that evening_ , he thought, _no matter how much wine you drink._

_Or for how long you wait._

It was a hard thing to think on. In the weeks since the day of the executions Sansa no longer called on his chambers alone. When he had a rare visit she always came accompanied by a healer or some other person. Nor would they speak of matters as they once had, most of his information coming from others or from attending councils himself.

Which he no longer did at her side.

 _Five seats down from her_ , he thought, _where you belong._

_You should be happy she finally realized that._

Yet he wasn’t happy, Jon was angry. Mostly at himself for it was plain he had offended her.

He hadn’t meant to. Sansa had just been so crushed after the executions he had wanted to be of any comfort he could. Since Jon could not hold her to him with both arms he did what he could. Having her sleeping beside him had been a sweet thing. The feeling of her breath upon his bare chest him made his pains feel far away.

Wine was no substitute for that. For her.

At the time he had fought against the urge to sleep. Sansa looking so beautiful as she did so that he stayed awake long after her eyes had closed. Just staring at her. Her pale cheeks with just a hint of red. Her lips, full and parted. Running his fingers through her hair put him at peace. If the day had not been so dark and draining he wondered what else he would’ve felt.

He thought he knew.

Sansa may have known it as well. When Howland came to find his arm around her she had started so. He had hoped to apologize that night but Sansa hadn’t returned. Nor had she come the next day to eat with him as usual. When she had come, the Blackfish had been at her side to tell him of the plans they had made and put in motion.

The man had set the about disguising his bands of outriders as Freys so they could move with impunity through these lands. All the while Marq Piper had been meeting with the other riverlords to seek a way to free Riverrun from the Freys. The Northmen under Howland and the Greatjon,  were busy preparing for their march. Only just over a fifteen hundred men would return with them through the Neck to assault Moat Cailin from the south. It was a small army in truth but Maege expected to gather more along the way while Sansa predicted help to come from Bronze Yohn on the sisters. 

All Sansa's battle commanders had tasks and duties, yet she had asked nothing of him.

It left him feeling more than useless. He never truly had men to command but now he couldn’t even ride a horse or fight capably in his current condition. So resolved to do his best to change that, training with Willem so he could serve his queen again. To be worthy of riding in her army once more.

And so it had been a long week.

“Alright this time I’ll try and beat you!” Willem laughed as he wiped wine from his mouth.

The man was a real pleasure.

He was also a skilled swordsman. Jon was hard pressed and blocked maybe two of every three blows. Willem was actually trying now so whenever he managed to avoid a hit his confidence grew. And when he didn’t his body merely accepted another hurt.

Yet when a particularly hard blow landed across his back it forced him to cry out, falling to one knee. Willem paused and dropped his guard long enough for Jon to launch his attack. He leapt forward and bulled into the knight. His shoulder lifting Willem from the ground as he swung an arm out to put his friend down hard.

When Willem looked up Jon’s sword was pointed at his chest.

“You bloody cheater.” He smiled. “Well done Wolf. Care for a rematch?”

Jon shook his head, helping his friend to his feet.

“I’d rather retire with the win, I thank you for the bruises ser.” He turned to leave the yard but stopped at Willem’s squire, taking the wine skin from the lad. “And for the wine."

As he walked away he heard Willem berating the boy for not defending what was dearest to him. The knight could find more wine elsewhere while  Jon expected where he was going none would be awaiting him. Rather than turning towards his chambers he made his way to the stone bridge crossing the river.

He walked along it, only stopping after he'd gone almost halfway across. The bridge tower loomed ahead of him, it was an ugly thing and he cursed it. Galbart Glover had died taking it, and died bravely doing so. The Blackfish had told him that three arrows were sticking out of Galbart before he led the last charge.

“To a good man.” Jon said as he stared up at the tower and drank.

Grimacing some under the weight of his armor he put his hand on the stone ledge and leaned against it, peering over the side and out onto the river. There were guards in the tower and some walking the bridge yet he imagined none would bother him. Jon was but a shape in the darkness and he came to this spot often enough he was confident he’d be left in peace. Left to watch river flow beneath, as quick moving as it was dark, to pretend his troubles flowed away with it.

Jon feared he’d find more waiting when he slept. Waiting for him when he dreamed.

Lately they had become more and more strange of late. More often than not he dreamt seeing through Ghost’s eyes as he roamed the lands near the castle. As he peered out at the lands along the river he imagined Ghost was somewhere out there even now. Hunting a deer or another poor animal unlucky enough to have its scent caught by the wolf.

Those dreams were not so bad, not like the other things he dreamt about.

Melisandre surrounded by ice and calling for him. A boy's fear as a strange, ancient voice coming from a dark place.

Not long past he’d had a strange one about Arya.

Of that little girl he’d loved so, fighting amongst smoke and flame. It had been so vivid despite how absurd it seemed now. Arya had fought alongside a giantess and the ghost of a dead king as they were surrounded by wolves and fire.

 _Willem dreams of women and glory_ , he thought miserably, _I dream of nonsense._

He drank again and thought to cork the skin then, preferring to arrive in the yard the next morning with a clear head. It also bothered him how often he drank now, in truth he took little pleasure from it. He enjoyed it even less when he realized he was no longer alone.

The footsteps sounded distant and at first he thought it probably guards making their rounds so he did nothing. Then he realized they were not far at all, they only sounded so because of how gentle the person’s walk was.

“Good evening my brave knight.”

As sweet as it was to hear her voice his mood did not welcome it.

 _Not her,_ hebegged _, n_ _ot now_.

_Not like this._

Jon could barely see Sansa in the weak torchlight and when she became clearer he wished he hadn’t. Her heavy cloak covered much of her grey gown but did little to keep her face and eyes hidden. For some reason every time their eyes met since their slumber together he felt a deep empty hurt in his chest.

 _Ever since you made a fool of yourself,_ he thought _, apologize now before anything else._

“Good evening to you my queen.” He said. “You lack guards.”

His words probably lacked the warmth they should’ve carried and his bow could’ve been better. Yet his back was sore from the last sparring match. As for his tone, well, that was because he was sore at her.

“Guards patrol this bridge.” Sansa replied and moved to join him in looking out across the river herself. “Also two men stand at the end of the bridge awaiting me.”

“Why walk the bridge alone then?” He would have guards with her at all times but Sansa feared it would make her look weak. It was an old argument. When they used to have arguments.

 

“Why do you?” She asked.

“Who’d want to hurt a bastard?” He  watched as her face fell some at that. He shrugged and drank of the wine. “And I like the view.”

“As do I.” Sansa paused and closed her eyes as a gentle wind enveloped them and pulled her hair some. “It’s peaceful, as peaceful at this vile place can be. I try and come here now and again, to watch the water and feel the breeze. How could the Freys ever become so vile with such a view?”

Her words could have been his own. The nights he spent staring out at the river was one of the few things he’d miss about the Twins.

“I don’t imagine Lord Walder was one for taking in the scenery.”

Sansa laughed, it was a sweet sound. It hurt to think how long it had been since he’d heard it.

For a moment Jon was hopeful she’d come to speak of matters between them. Perhaps he’d have a chance to apologize and they could return to how they’d been.

“I watched you practicing in the yard.” Sansa said, giving him a look that bordered on pity. “I saw the last hit and worried for your back. I had hoped you were heading to a healer.”

“A spy and a queen, I did not know you’d taken a second title. I’ll have to get more reports on the goings on around here.” He said crossly and he regretted it immediately.

Sansa appeared shocked at Jon’s words and he was a bit himself. He had nothing to be cross with her about and he was far from drunk so he couldn’t blame the drink.

“Jon…I wasn’t spying, truly. I was told you’re healing well and growing stronger. I just happened to…"

“Oh so others have been spying for you. Giving you reports on me. I’m glad you’re staying informed.”

_Gods what are you doing?_

Sansa said nothing to that. He wanted to apologize but instead stayed silent, turning away from her. Her hand shot out and grasped at his arm, pulling to keep him in place.

“I did not mean to offend you Jon...I only saw you in passing and I watched because…” She struggled some, her shoulders slumping. “I like to know how able all my knights are.”

He’d been hoping she’d say something else. The pit inside his chest turning into a chasm when she didn’t.

 _You’re only another knight to her,_ he thought _, she couldn’t pretend you were special forever._

“I am becoming more able by the day." He said. "I plan on being able to protect my queen on the march north."

No matter anything else he planned on doing as he'd done since the Vale, riding at her side and guarding her against all harm. Jon had hope she remembered those journeys as fondly as him and for the briefest moment he thought she smiled. Yet it was probably a trick of the light for her face was blank as she loosed her hold upon him and shook her head.

"There are others for such duties Jon." She said quietly. "Men who could act as my guards so you don't have to ride at my side..."

_She doesn't want you. Not even as a guard._

_Who would want you?_

Sadness and anger filled him so that he knew he could not bear another moment here with her.

"I will ride wherever you ask me then. Speaking of duties there are probably some I should be seeing to, so if you’d excuse me your grace I’d beg your leave....”

He made to remove her hand from his arm but she jerked away before he could touch her. Her face was twisted into a look of fear and he thought the reason for it quite obvious. For he had reached to touch her with his burnt hand. His scarred wreck of a hand.

 _It sickens her,_ he realized _, of_ _course it would._

_Why would she ever want to be touched by something so horrible?_

It was sickly to look upon, the skin much too pale. Scarred and stretched strangely as it was he knew it was hideous. He held it up before him, and made of a fist of the ugly thing, Sansa staring wide-eyed as he did so.

“I apologize my queen, I’ll wear a glove to spare you the sight of it from now on. Good night.” He stormed off and away from her, taking a drink of his wine as he did so.

A long one at that.

None of what Jon was doing was how he wanted to act but something was boiling inside him. He even managed to start walking the wrong way, heading towards the tower rather than back to castle where his chambers waited. It didn’t matter, going anywhere was better than facing what she was doing to him.

Sansa said something as he left, he was sure of it. Yet he made out none of it, the words too soft to be heard over the wind and water. Nor he did he give her a chance to repeat herself.

Jon kept walking, he wanted to be away from here. Away from her. Away from her eyes.  
  
 _That’s not what you want_ , he thought, _you want more than that._

He wanted to hold her face his hands. He wanted her lips against his to ward away the hurt. He wanted to pull her against him to keep away the cold.

_I want her._

Instead he only had the wine. And pain.

So when he finished the wine there'd be no pain.

And he'd have nothing.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road again.
> 
> Oh the people you'll meet, the things you won't eat and moments so sweet.

THE WILD SISTER

 

_The small cousins didn’t like where she’d led them._

_The river ahead was wide and moving quickly. The lands she'd left were flat, full of farms and forests. Her pack had been large and powerful in those lands but she could not stay where she'd been. So she left and many of the small cousins had followed her far from their usual hunting grounds. Others had fallen away during the journey, the smell of prey and the hunger in their stomachs driving them._

_The ones who’d stayed were not the strongest, they depended on her and followed her because of it, yet for how much further wasn’t certain. Even now the others sniffed about the river’s edge, dipping paws in to test the current before retreating back away from the edge. Some whined in frustration, wanting to turn back, to move away from the wide, quick water._

_They wanted easy prey, sheep, cows, goats…_

_What drove her here wasn’t the hunt or the hunger she felt. It was a pull, a need she’d ignored in the past but couldn’t anymore. The others were disappearing from the world, disappearing from her dreams. Her sister and the quick brother both lost in these lands. The two in the cold lands had gone even further, the savage brother to some place of salt and strange beasts, the other had just gone. Her dreams didn’t touch him anymore._

_The closest had been the quiet brother, but now he was growing distant again._

_This was the river where she found the woman she knew from long ago.  The one who’d sung to her when she was scared. _The one who’d been cold and still.__

_It was that pack she sought when she leapt into the water, the cold was immediate but she was already pushing out towards the other side. Others followed but not all, a few could not make the trip she was trying. They followed as the current pulled her and the others downstream, yipping and calling out while she focused on the swim._

_They had been carried a long ways down from where she’d wanted to be but when she crawled up the bank she merely shook herself dry and lay upon the soft ground. Letting her legs and heart rest. The ones who’d crossed with her were pulled further but found her after a time. This pack was smaller now, the one across the river howling at her abandonment of them._

_She howled back, as did the other bold ones about her._

_They moved slowly through the trees, all were tired but the closer they came to where she’d wanted to be the greater the smell grew._

_Not just man smell, but dead man smell._

_It led her to a circle of rocks near the river. The others went straight to digging at the pile of ground which smelt of meat. Beneath they found a man, dead for some time but the meat still good. Her hunger screamed for her to tear a leg free but she could not. Something about this man was known to her. It made her show her teeth and back away._

_To her the meat was tainted. The others smelt no taint and feasted._

_She found something else from the dead man. A scent. A scent she'd long forgotten but could smell again. She followed it a little further._

_The rock ring was tall but she leapt over it with ease. Inside was the stink of men but it was old and no men were there now. Men had stayed here some time and had left some days ago. Then others had come without staying long. She cared little for most of the smells, save for the one which gave her comfort._

_The one she knew from long ago._

_The one who was not so far now._

 

* * *

 

 

SANSA

 

_It’s getting colder._

_Every day we get closer, and every day it gets colder._

Sansa hoped that wasn’t an ill omen. They were heading North and winter was coming after all, the cold to be expected. It meant her army’s march through the Neck was slowed less by rains and more by light snows. As of late when Ghost came to her tent she cuddled up even closer for his warmth. Those were the good things.

It was the thought of being another day closer to Roose Bolton which scared her.

She shivered and clutched her cloak tight about her.

“Messenger coming down.” Willem said from his place at the head of her guard, pointing towards the front of the march. “Not alone either.”

Willem had taken command of the company of mounted warriors who acted as her guard during this march. He was good company and she was glad of him most days, yet deep down Willem wasn’t the knight she wanted at her side. Still, with Maege commanding the center and riding alongside Sansa it made staying in good spirits a touch easier. Often Willem and the lady would debate the merits of both the North and Vale. Of whether it was more appropriate to wed sheep or bears.

The Greatjon commanded the rear because she wished a quick pace and gods help the man who fell behind when on his watch. So that meant the messenger coming from the front had been sent by Howland. The crannog lord had command of the front of the column, a sign of respect as much as practicality, it was wise to let the man guide them through his home. 

Realizing the messenger came from Howland made choice of escort following behind the rider very confusing.

“Finally, you’ll see my lady.” Willem called over to Maege. “The Wolf will have my side on this, never met a wolf that didn’t prefer a good sheep.”

“To eat you fool.” Maege laughed. “I think him more likely to marry a wolf than a sheep!”

Sure enough, following right behind Howland’s rider was Jon, carrying the direwolf banner above him. She had to force herself not to stare at him as he came before them. It was a losing battle, her eyes taking in his stern and expressionless face. A face she missed so.

 _To see him smile_ , she thought, _it would be so much better to see him smile once more._

Jon didn’t smile of course, nor did he join the messenger in riding on to her, instead turning his mount to come alongside Willem.

 _He’s always ahead or behind now_ , she lamented, _never beside me._

_As I made it._

During this march Jon had been given command of the outriders. Howland and Uncle Brynden had suggested it themselves so she could allow it without being seen as favoring Jon. It meant he often spent more time riding about the edges of their army, not at her side as it had once been.

_Nothing is as it once was._

“Your grace!” The messenger hailed. “Lord Howland bids me to tell you a company of riders approaches from the north. And they are not of the North!”

That surprised her. Howland had sent word for the crannogmen to seal the Neck as much they could, attacking any traveller or party not of a house loyal to her. So a force of riders coming through the Neck could either be very good or very bad.

“Are they known?” Sansa asked.

The man smiled.

“Ser Jon says it looks to be a company of men from the Vale with Hallis Mullen at the head.”

_Very good news indeed._

It had been some time since Hal had left with Yohn Royce to sail to Sweetsister for the rendezvous. His return alongside men of the Vale was very welcome in Sansa’s eyes.

“Lord Reed has sent an escort to meet them and bring them before the queen, they should arrive shortly!” The man continued.

“And who is among them?” Maege asked.

The messenger then glanced back to Jon who was still speaking with Willem.

“I don’t know m’lady. The ser is the one who saw them I was only told to tell you of m’lord’s…”

“Well if Ser Jon’s the one who saw it why isn’t he the one telling us?” Maege asked and scowled at the messenger’s shocked response.

Jon must have heard for he turned his horse towards them. Sansa held up a hand, signaling the stop of the march. She didn’t stop though, continuing to ride until she could almost reach out and touch him.

Instead she clutched the reins even tighter.

“It was you who spotted them?” She asked and Jon nodded.

“It was. I counted almost four score riders, carrying many banners including the one of House Royce. I know sigils better than faces so I was telling Willem of who I saw so you’d know who to expect.”

Sansa was touched by the consideration until she remembered doing such was what a good outrider would report.

“I think he spotted Ser Morton Waynwood.” Willem put in with a sour look on his face. “Man owes me gold…”

“Ser Mychel Redfort as well.” Jon added. “I recognized him well enough.”

“Ser Mychel! It will be good to see him again!” Sansa smiled as the memory of the young knight who had helped them so. “Is Lord Yohn not among them?”

Jon shook his head.

“It was banner of House Royce of the Gates I saw and they have sent…”

“Here they come!” Willem heralded.

Sure enough Sansa saw a large group of mounted men riding down the column towards her. The banners of the Royces of Runestone and the Gates alongside those of House Waynwood.

“Ride back to your lord.” Sansa commanded the messenger. “Tell him to find a place for us to make camp as soon as possible, I would have our guests and the men rest. It is an occasion to celebrate.”

Though the grey skies gave little hint she knew it was only just past midday. Yet an early stop would be welcomed by the army who kept a good pace so far. Maege made to send word to the Greatjon to leave the rear to his second to join her when he was able.

The scout put his spurs to the horse and took off again, Jon looking to do so as well.

“Not you ser.” She said. “I’d have you here.”

“I would go and tell my men to set up watches…”

“I’m sure Howland will know to do so when you don’t return. Stay at my side…” She paused then and a reason for him to do so became obvious. “The Vale lords will be gladdened to see how far their help has taken us both.”

He shifted uncomfortable then but made no more arguments. They both sat upon their horses in silence watching the Vale riders come on. It didn’t matter they weren't speaking, just being this close was good enough for her.

_That’s what you thought about the bridge._

_Just the one moment and all would be well. Look how that ended._

She focused then on her approaching allies, for they were almost upon them. She saw Mychel first, riding beside a gaunt man in a fine cloak. Beside that man rode a woman, one who suddenly broke away from the others and urged her horse ahead of the rest.

Sansa gave a cry of delight to see her face.

“Myranda!” She called out, not believing her eyes. “My lady!”

Her friend was laughing as she rode up to them, her eyes and smile as full of life. The buxom girl threw aside her cloak as she reached out to grasp Sansa’s hand.

“When I first met this girl she was but a stone, then a lady and now a queen! Such a lovely transformation.” Myranda laughed again before bowing her head towards her. “In all seriousness Sansa, seeing you again, alive and well, makes me happy beyond words.”

“It gladdens my heart to see you too Myranda.” She said. Yet she was also shocked that her friend was here, even more confused as to why she had come. It was a strange thing indeed for the woman to be sent to join a marching, even if they were friends. 

“As welcome at this is I expected maybe your brother or possibly your father…”

Myranda laughed as if she’d expected such a question.

“Those two bores? The Vale can and will offer better to the Queen in the North. I, Lady Myranda Royce, am to be your handmaiden.” She placed a hand upon her breast and said the last word with a note of seriousness. “For a beauty such as you has as much need for a good handmaiden as emissaries. Speaking of!”

By then Ser Mychel and the man she thought to be Ser Morton had joined them. Both bowing from their horses, Mychel shooting a quick nod to Jon afterwards.

“Queen Sansa, we have not yet met but I am Ser Morton of House Waynwood, my mother the Lady Anya sends her regards.” Morton said as he took her hand in his and kissed it lightly. “I am here representing my family as well as Ser Harry Hardyng in all matters of…”

“Oh Morton there’s time enough for that!” Myranda huffed. “And surely better places.”

The knight appeared dumbfounded at the interruption but Sansa was grateful. The mention of Harry the Heir brought back foul memories of Petyr. It also made her wonder why the heir even needed to be represented.

“I was charged by Lord Robert to say he misses you your grace.” Mychel said then, kissing her hand much as Morton had. “I’m to represent Bronze Yohn in any way you’d have me.”

“There’s much we need discuss.” Morton added quickly. “For I bring news and…”

“Good sers and lovely lady.” Sansa interrupted, not wishing to hold court upon horseback in the open. “I have given word to camp for the night and once an area is found I would have us all break our fast together. And speak of the friendship between the North and Vale.”

“As you wish your grace.” Mychel nodded while Morton looked to argue before he caught Myranda shaking her head.

“A good meal would be most welcome.” Morton said instead.

Willem volunteered to help get the sers and their party settled in and began haranguing the Waynwood knight as soon as they rode off. Myranda stayed behind though, riding up close to Jon.

“I pray the good sers will forgive me for being so selfish but I am starved for conversation from a fairer partner. Is it safe to join your queen for a ride?” Myranda asked with a devilish smile on her face.

“I…well yes, if she so wishes and with her guard about…”

“I thought her favorite guard was right here!” Myranda ran a hand along Jon’s shoulder, annoying Sansa greatly.

 _Randa can act however she wants with others,_ she thought _, she cannot have him._

“Myranda!” She said, struggling to keep a civil tone. “If you would like to ride together it would be my pleasure. Don’t pester Jon so.”

“Pestering is it?” Myranda laughed but rode back to her side anyways, the two young women beginning a slow leisurely ride.

“Am I to follow your grace or would have me elsewhere?” Jon asked from his place beside the much larger collection of guards.

The choice between the two options should’ve been simple. Made using the same detachment she’d struggled so hard to maintain. Yet Myranda touching Jon bothered her so and having him around her again felt too good to end.

“One good knight should be enough Jon, more than enough.” She said, beckoning him to follow.

And with that the two rode away with Jon not far beyond. He kept a respectful distance considering they were still beside the column and as safe as could be. She doubted he could hear much even if he tried.

“Your half brother is as somber as I remember.” Myranda said as she looked over her shoulder wickedly. “As comely too.”

That Sansa did not like either. Myranda Royce had been a woman wed and was much more worldly than she. The lady was also cunning, more cunning than most gave her credit for. And capable beyond that, the lady had run her father’s household for years and knew much and more of the secrets of the Vale.

So while Sansa thought her a friend she knew to think her a rival as well.

“You did not travel through the swamps to look upon Jon, Myranda. Nor just to act as a handmaiden” Sansa said not unkindly.

“Unfortunately no.” Myranda leaned in to whisper. “Men are so sensitive, if the others knew my father entrusted me to act as an envoy they’d think little of him. Inviting us to their beds is one thing, letting us join them at the council table quite another.”

Sansa saw the wisdom there. Myranda was brighter than most of her bannermen it was sad to say and having her counsel would not be such a bad thing.

“I also bring good news.” Her friend continued. “The strength my father and his cousin promised your cause awaits you at Sweetsister. Almost four thousand swords and horse with more being raised in the Vale if there is need of it.”

That meant her army had more than tripled in size. It also meant she could finally put some of her many plans in motion.

“This is wonderful news Myranda.” She said, suddenly full of hope.

“Randa, sweet Sansa, Randa. Remember we are friends. Oh and be sure to act surprised when one of the fine men that accompanied me tells you this news again. It was to be their duty, not mine.”

At that they both laughed. It was refreshing to be with a woman who did not worry so about what men thought. To Myranda men were but playthings yet Sansa could never see them as such, having suffered so at their hands.

“I’m happy to see I’m needed here.” Myranda made a disapproving sound as she looked to Sansa’s hair.  “A queen needs ladies in waiting does she not? I saw but one woman back there and she seemed more at home with a mace than a brush.”

“Lady Maege is a warrior and a dear friend. I’d ask you speak kindly of her, she is ever loyal and good to me.”

“I’d rather not upset such a woman, have no fear your grace.” With that Myranda began to whisper again. “I’m meant to upset others in truth. Ser Morton may be here to represent House Waynwood in battle but it is Harry the Heir he is truly representing. Lady Waynwood stills eye a match between the heir to the Vale and yourself.”

Sansa was surprised at that. She thought the taint of Littlefinger would have put such a plan to rest. It was a hard enough to thing to rule with men serving her, having a husband now could only complicate things.

Her thoughts on the matter were hidden poorly and Myranda laughed.

“I thought you’d be against it.” Myranda said. “I am here to turn you against it anyways. Father would prefer such a match for me, with our newly gained lord status it would suit for us to join to the heir. Lady Waynwood rejected me when I was but a steward’s daughter. Now I am a lord’s daughter whose father also happens to be Lord Protector of the Vale. Add to that the friendship of a queen of course.”

 _Gods she is even more cunning than I thought,_ Sansa realized _, but is that so foul?_

Myranda’s plots could never be compared the dark dealings of Cersei Lannister. She had little use for betrayal and suffering. The lady's intrigue was worn on the skirt of her dress as it spun about during a feast or in a bawdy tale to be shared amongst women.

“The heir is yours if you so want him Randa, my support for the match as well.” Sansa smiled, liking the idea she could help at least one person be happy.

“You wicked girl.” Myranda giggled. “Are you so eager to escape that match because you already have one in mind? Some fine man you’ve met on your travels?”

“Hush!” Sansa said instead of denying it, a mistake she realized immediately.

“Hush? So this is a secret lover?” Myranda gave her a look like cat cornering a mouse. “Dear Sansa, those are the best kinds.”

“I’ve no such thing, don’t speak so…” Sansa willed Jon not to be listening, praying he was not. “A queen cannot just be with whoever she wants.”

“Then what is the point of being queen?” Myranda scowled. “True some lords may disapprove of your choice but they always will. As long as its not them or their brothers or sons they always find suitors lacking. It’s all about them serving their needs and not our happiness. They’re rather feel at ease than let us be happy.”

Myranda’s words hit her hard.

“Scorn him Sansa.” Howland had said. “Let him become just another knight in your service and not some threat to a lord’s ambition or pride. Where you would go to him send another. Speak with him but not alone. Show him no favor you would not show another of his rank. To do otherwise...well my old friend is rarely wrong. If you truly care for him do as your father and I once did. Protect Jonfrom this world…as he would protect you.”

Howland's words had been spoken with such certainty, the meaning so terrible, that she’d been too afraid to return to Jon's chambers that night. Throughout the night her sleep was broken by terrifying thoughts of Jon suffering for her love of him. For she did love him. She'd accepted that as the purest truth she could. She loved him so she wanted to stand up to yell it so all her lords could hear.

Yet she feared Howland was right.

She’d already risked Jon once for her own ends and he still suffered for it. Risking him for a love she carried which he could be disgusted by, it was not in her to do.

To betray someone she loved for the sake of love was not something she could ever do again.

So Sansa had done as Howland bid. She set Jon aside as best she could. Throwing herself into ruling, keeping her mind filled with parchments, meetings and other tasks so her thoughts would not linger back to him. She had even changed her daily routine so she would see Jon less, going so far as to put him in a place at the council table where his face was barely visible to her.

It had fallen to Howland and others to tell her of him. For she had that need. To know he was recovering and was not alone.

Yet reports and words about Jon hadn’t been enough.  Not nearly enough.

Her resolve had broken when she’d seen him in the practice yard. Rather than walking away as she should've Sansa had stayed and watched. Rather than allowing him to walk the castles alone she had followed. Foolishly, selfishly thinking by going to him things would be as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t put a wall up between them but now expected to find Jon waiting for her on the other side.

Instead she’d found Jon had put a wall up himself.

He had come to her the day after their encounter on the bridge. He had looked terrible, begging her forgiveness for his foul attitude. While Sansa wanted to tell him there was nothing to apologize for she hadn’t, instead accepting the apology and letting him be on his way.

The worst part had been seeing that black glove upon his hand.

When he’d reached for her hand on the bridge she’d pulled away. Her strength had been so close to breaking just before. She’d feared his touch would destroy all her efforts and send her into his arms. So she’d pulled away.

He’d believed the worst of her for it, and she could not blame him. Most of her life she’d been a foolish girl who hated ugly things. Yet nothing about Jon was ugly to her. To her his hand was a mark of the devotion. 

A mark of love.

“You’re my knight of songs.” She’d tried to tell him. 

Perhaps he hadn’t heard. She liked to think he hadn't, the alternative too much to bear. Sansa had held her tears until she was in her chambers, away from any eyes. Then she had leaned back against her door and let them come in long, body shaking sobs.

She still cried some nights. Blaming herself and the world for it.

Yet Randa's words now opened her eyes to something she hadn't considered.

“You think my lords would give me poor counsel?” Sansa asked her friend. “To meet their own ends?”

Even as she asked the question she felt foolish for doing so.

_Of course they would._

“Lords protect castles, lands, and their titles but most of all my dear queen…” Myranda shook her head. “They protect themselves.”

 _Protect Jon he told me_ , she thought, _like he and father had._

Suddenly it all lay before her. Myranda had merely given voice to doubts she should have had from the start. To love Jon without being seen as monsters would mean the truth of him would have to be known. That a lie would have to be exposed.

_And the liar with it._

_He used your need to protect Jon to protect himself,_ she raged,  _he used your love and trust against you._

She was gripping her reins so tightly the whites of her nuckles showed.

“They have to protect themselves Randa.” Sansa said, barely holding in her anger. “The wrath of their kings and queens can be terrible things." 

“Almost as bad as a woman’s.” Myranda agreed.

 

* * *

  

JON

 

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s what the Queen wants.” Howland responded as mounted his horse. “And I serve House Stark in all things.”

“Of course but to send you now? It’s the middle of the night! And we are days away yet…”

“The Queen commands, I obey.” The lord said simply.

A score of riders holding torches awaited Howland’s coming at the edge of the camp. Darkness had long since been upon them and a light snow was falling about. Few in the army appeared to care of the weather though, for the camp was loud and full of cheer at the news of the Vale army set to join their fight. Sansa had arranged an actual celebration, it was being held in a great tent even as Howland and he spoke.

One Jon had been invited to, but not Howland.

_Howland’s been by her side since Greywater Watch._

_Why send him away during such a celebration?_

He rarely questioned Sansa but ordering Howland to ride out of their camp into the dead of night was strange. They had days to prepare for the attack on Moat Cailin and as far as he knew there was no reason Howland himself was needed to inspect matters there beforehand.

Even stranger was who she had chosen to command his forces in his absence.

“My lord you know I did not ask for this. That I would never have asked Sansa for such a thing.” He looked up at Howland. They weren’t close but he had a healthy respect for this man who had served Sansa faithfully in all things. “Your men should not be mine to command.”

“Jon, my men know you, they respect you and I have told them of my respect for you as well. Any man raised by Eddard Stark has my trust in these matters.” Howland turned his horse away then before shooting him a final look. “I was not given the chance to but give my regards to the queen. And be safe Jon.”

With that Howland kicked his horse and was off into the night. The men who closed in around the lordwere not even his own but some of Maege’s. That bothered Jon as well.

 _It’s more like an exile than a command_ , he thought, _what could he have done?_

As he began his journey back to attend the celebration he was very late for Jon spotted another man he knew. One who was almost meant to be at Sansa's festivities yet seemed thoroughly at a loss among the maze of tents.

“Ser Mychel.” He hailed. “I thought to find you at the Queen’s tent.”

Mychel smiled to see him. His arrival among the Vale party had been a welcome surprise. Sansa could always stand more true knights like the man before him.

“And I thought to find the commander of the crannogmen!” Mychel offered his hand. “Congratulations sir, that’s what? A third of this army?”

“It’s Lord Reed’s command, I only serve until they are reunited in short time.”

“It’s still an honor.” Mychel put in. “Not even a surprise to me. You've been pegged as commander by others as well. You knew that Bronze Yohn ordered his men to follow you should Willem fall?”

He hadn’t. Jon was about to say so when he remembered a conversation with Willem long before their attack upon the Twins.

“We’d best hope I survive this bloody thing, I won’t even tell you which ugly sot is meant to take up the charge if I fall.”

_I owe that man a beating._

“Is there something you need?” He asked Mychel, he didn’t think the knight was wandering around in the dark just wishing to congratulate him.

“We need to arrange some guides to get the Greatjon and I to the coast so we to take ship to the sisters.” Mychel looked about to ensure no one was listening but the men around them seemed too intent on song and drink to care. “It’s us the Queen wishes to join Bronze Yohn when he sails for the Dreadfort.”

Earlier that day a council had been called to work out the details of their attack upon the North. Jon had taken part of it, and to his shock, had found himself back at Sansa’s side at the table. It had been an awkward thing to sit so far away only for the Greatjon to laugh and pull him up and drop him in his appointed seat.

Sansa had smiled at his confusion.

“I thought being back in the North we would go back to our old seating arrangements.” She’d said. “If you don’t mind.”

He hadn’t but he’d kept his gloved hand under the table the whole time, out of fear of offending her.

During the discussion that followed their strategy for taking Moat Cailin was confirmed with their Vale allies, one fairly familiar to them since Howland and Bronze Yohn had agreed upon it themselves moons prior. It was the siege of the Dreadfort which took up more of the council’s time.

That attack had been proposed by Ser Mychel, on behalf of Yohn and although it had sounded a sound plan Jon had spoken against it at first.

“The Dreadfort is not named lightly.” He’d said. “It is a strong fortress with natural defenses and once held out under a siege for two years when they had no army in the field to threaten their attackers lines. Nor did that siege occur during a northern winter. We should not try and storm it unless forced to.”

Others argued him on that, Ser Morton in particular but the northern lords largely agreed.

“Ser Jon is right, trying to take the castle would be costly and dangerous to attempt.” Maege had said, sounding somewhat irritated having to debate northern castles with men not of the North. “That doesn’t mean a siege there would be wasted though.”

“Just imagine how those standing with Bolton will react?” The Greatjon had asked.  “How strong will Lord Leech look with his seat under siege by our alliance while the queen marches towards her home?”

“You would ask our men to simply stand outside the walls and freeze?” Morton had challenged.

“Some may freeze but more would live than trying to take that castle.” Jon argued right back. “It may even draw some of the Bolton army away on a long march from Winterfell.”

“Let his men fear for their homes for once.” Sansa had agreed. “How it will look and what it could cost Lord Roose matters more than a bloody victory. Let the Boltons bleed instead of the Vale.”

“It’s about time someone bled Roose besides Roose.” The Greatjon had grumbled.

The Umber lord's hatred of Roose Bolton was clear which is why Jon had expected him to be part of the march on Winterfell, not the siege of the Dreadfort.

He'd thought the same of Mychel as well.

“You just arrived, you’re to leave again this quickly?” Jon asked and Mychel nodded.

“That was always the plan. As much as I want to help pull down Roose Bolton and his bastard I’m needed at the Dreadfort more.” Mychel’s face darkened then. “I know much of its defenses and how the Boltons have treated sieges.”

Jon suspected he knew where Mychel got such information from but not why he was so full of anger towards the Boltons. He had never suffered at their hands like Jon’s family had.

Mychel had more reason to be disposed to them in truth.

“Did you know Domeric Bolton?” Mychel asked then.

“I saw him once or twice at Harvest Feasts but I can’t remember ever speaking with him.” Jon answered truthfully, his father at the time had warned him away from doing so. Lest Lord Roose be offended and seek some form of redress, and Eddard Stark plainly had foul thoughts of what that could mean.

“Domeric was my father’s ward. I had three older brothers but I only ever had one brother I chose.” Mychel said sadly. “Domeric was a good man, too good a man for his father or what his family has come to. My brothers and I always knew that bastard killed him…and what does his father do? Legitimizes my friend’s murderer.”

Jon had heard those rumors too when Sansa’s men would speak of Ramsay Snow. It was a foul thing to think but little compared of the crimes he was held responsible for. How Mychel spoke of Domeric reminded him of how Robb would speak of Theon.

 _Robb was always a brother to me_ , he thought _, I guess he’s the brother I choose now as well._

“Domeric told me much and more of his lands and the history of the Dreadfort. Of the battles fought there.” Mychel continued. “That castle was supposed to be his. I’d rather seen it torn down than given to his killer.”

“I trust no one better than Lord Yohn and yourself to do so Mychel.” Jon said before reflecting on what else he’d just learned. “Still I hadn’t thought the Greatjon would be leaving as well.”

“Yohn always wanted a northerner to guide us in this.” Mychel shrugged. “His first choice was you but when I suggested such to the Queen she preferred to send the Greatjon instead.”

_She’d rather keep me than the Greatjon?_

The idea shocked him until he thought on it a bit more and felt foolish. Of course she’d rather send the Umber lord. He’d be a good representative of the North and could even try and rally support from nearby houses, including from his own.

He told Mychel he’d find guides for him the coming morning and the two continued on towards Sansa’s tent. Even from afar the large meeting tent sounded with shouts, laughter and singing. Almost on instinct he thought to be elsewhere but being late to this celebration was bad enough, not to attend at all would be an insult to Sansa.

Yet it turned out he was meant to be even later. For standing without the tent was Ser Morton, and when he caught sight of the pair he hurried towards them.

“Mychel! Mychel I heard you sought the good ser and was hoping you’d return with him.” Morton smiled as he blew into his hands to keep warm. “Go on and warm yourself while I have a word or two with Ser Jon. There’s hot mulled wine waiting.”

Mychel did not need to be told that twice and quickly excused himself, leaving Jon with this heir he couldn’t claim to have seen before today.

_What would he need to speak to me of?_

“Ser Jon, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Morton held out his hand and they shook quickly as the heir returned to warming himself again. “I’m sorry to have not done so sooner.”

“And you ser…how is your lady mother?” He asked unsure of how to proceed. “And your brothers?”

“Well and, I hope, warmer than I. Donnel now has four hundred men guarding the Bloody Gate under him. Yet he envies me this adventure.” The man said with a grin.

 _An adventure to him, life or death struggle for Sansa_.

_Are there so many knights of summer even as winter is upon us?_

He had heard such talk in Renly’s camp as well. It was an effort not to think poorly of the man for it. Nor did Morton wait for a response, as if in a hurry to get to a point.

“Well truly Jon, if I may call you Jon, my mother bid me to speak to you on a certain matter of our mutual interest.”

There was little he could imagine Lady Anya needing to speak to him about. Jon had barely spoken with her and even less with her other sons.

Taking Jon’s silence as a signal the knight continued.

“As you know Ser Harry Hardyng is the heir to Robert Arryn and thus heir to the Vale itself. He is also my mother’s ward.” Morton seemed proud of the fact and then added quietly, “He is also not yet betrothed.”

It came together quickly then.

 _Littlefinger’s plot,_ he realized _, the vile man haunts us still from beyond the grave._

In the Vale the proposal had bothered Jon because it had come from that evil man. While he could still claim that as a reason it was not the first one he thought of now.

_They want to take her away from you. Give her away to another._

“I have heard this idea before.” He admitted. “You would have Sansa wed to Ser Harry? Why speak to me of it?”

“You are her only living male relative. My lady mother deemed it polite to ask your blessing to propose such a match.” The man said with courtesy he probably hadn’t felt from Jon’s question. “It also binds the strength of the Vale to the North in a much more permanent way.”

It angered him how much that made sense. Sansa could have a great army at her back and an able knight if she married the heir. Whereas Jon offered offered several hundred borrowed warriors and a scarred, ugly body besides.

_I have only that yet they still want my blessing._

_What more could the gods want from me?_

“Sansa is Queen in the North. I believe she needs no ones permission to marry whomever.” Jon said curtly. “Certainly not mine."

“Permission? Well no of course…we just thought to give the courtesy…” The knight said, sounding surprised. “If I gave offense I did not mean to.”

Jon knew how unfair he was being then. Morton was not the one giving offense here. He and his mother were doing the honorable thing in seeking his blessing. More than honorable considering Jon's status. His whole life he had been scorned by most highborns and now, having recently been accepted by some, he was kicking dirt at them.

Worst of all he was acting with anything but honor. They offered Sansa an army and protection and asked simply for his blessing to do so. And he meant to deny them that simply for his own selfish wants.

 _And she’s not yours to keep,_ he lamented _, she can’t be._

“Ser I apologize for my tone, you deserve better.” Jon bowed some before Morton. “Forgive me, it has been a hard ride and I thank you for this courtesy. Propose any match you wish to Sansa.”

Morton’s face broke into a beaming, satisfied smile, his hand clapping Jon’s shoulder.

“You live up to your reputation ser, you bite yet with honor! A wolf if there ever was one.” The man gestured towards the tent. “Have a cup of wine with me in celebration? It would warm me.”

Jon followed Morton into the tent where his mood could not have been more out of place.

The meeting tent had been turned into somewhat of a feasting hall. While it lacked the food to mark it a feast in truth the long table was filled with lords and knights who argued and laughed.

Some had even taken up a horribly out of tune rendition of The Dornishman's Wife.

At the center of the good cheer, with many gathered about them, were Sansa and Myranda. Myranda’s popularity with the men was obvious, and for more reasons that just the dress drawn too tight about her chest. In the short time since he’d arrived in the tent she’d already caused an outburst of laughter among the crowd. Leading the conversation and attention of several men at a time.

It was the exact opposite of Sansa. While the lady laughed and touched men’s faces and arms Sansa sat serenely while others approached her. She laughed when others laughed, smiled when spoken to and gave each man such attention Jon imagined they felt as if they were the only two in the room.

When Morton waved over a serving man for some wine Jon was almost tempted to drink of it. His resolve held though, the Waynwood knight having to accept a cup of water against his goblet of wine. He had forsaken the drink since the morning after the tower. He’d been in such a foul way he hadn’t even been able to train, let alone forgive himself for his treatment of Sansa.

So he’d scorned it in favor of water, pain and foul dreams.

And in the midst of this merriment he felt like he was the only one who would.

“Only you could be surrounded by such good tidings and keep that long face.” Willem laughed as he thumped Jon’s shoulder. “Morton, do you have my gold?”

“I told you…”

“No? Then away with you, this smelly beast is mine to torment.” Willem laughed as Morton took his leave. “Did you know that man writes poetry? I’ve heard a rumor…"

“Speaking of collecting debts I owe you a beating.” Jon said and was about to explain himself when he got a queer feeling.

Sure enough glancing back down the table he discovered the entire group collected around Sansa was staring at him. That included Sansa.

It made him uncomfortable in the worst way.

“Ser Jon!” Myranda called with a smile and a playful tone. “I was just saying I remembered a somber knight in the Vale yet not one so handsome! A toast to your beautiful queen and her wolf!”

Cheerful laughter rang out and cups were raised up. Willem put his hand on Jon’s shoulder and cheered as loud as any. If it was a jest at his expense he couldn’t tell so he did the safe thing, raising his cup to the lady.

Unlike the others who quickly lost interest in him Sansa’s gaze lingered. When their eyes met she raised her cup again to grin, not moving those blue eyes away. As if on reflex he did the same, and as her smile grew he couldn’t help but smile with her.

Until Morton took a seat beside her and their moment was lost.

_She is for the heir._

The thought came unbidden and the smile left his face. He looked downwards towards his now empty cup. Suddenly all the talk and laughter was booming about him and he couldn’t be here anymore. It was too much, almost suffocating to him.

Placing the cup upon the table he walked out, ignoring Willem as he spoke to him.

_She will have a castle and the Vale to love her as well as the North._

He burst out in the cold air, breathing it in deeply.

_You can be her sword and nothing more._

His hands were fists at his sides and he thought to run from the camp. To go and seek some quiet dark place. Perhaps even some wine.

He had almost decided to do so when a sound off to his side caught his attention and he jerked his head towards its source. There he spotted Ghost rounding the side of the tent, the wolf's large white form a stark contrast to the darkness beyond. It pleased him to see his friend but something was off about the beast.

The direwolf was staring at him and in a different way than usual. And it had tensed some

As if readying to run at him.

“Ghost? What’s gotten into you…”

Loud calls and shouts erupted from the tent then and Jon’s hand went to his sword hilt. He was about charge back into the celebration when the flap suddenly flew outward and someone quickly walked by him. A moment later another followed after.

In the dim light he saw it was Sansa and Willem.

They hadn’t walked out far, both having stopped and seemed to be looking across the camp. 

 _They’re looking for you,_ he thought _, to tell you about the proposal._

 _Hide. Find some shadow_.

He was about to do so when Ghost ran straight into him, knocking Jon hard against some barrels which rattled loudly. The wolf left him sprawled against them as it turned and took off into the night.

 _Traitor_ , he cursed, _maybe they didn’t hear._

“By the seven Wolf you made the queen worry!”

_Willem, another traitor._

He was standing upright again when Sansa and Willem joined him. She was looking him up and down, as if inspecting him for injury. Willem was looking at him like he was an idiot.

“Willem you may rejoin the others, Jon will guard me as I have some air.” Sansa said without looking away from Jon. “If he is able?”

“I am.” He straightened, meeting her gaze.

Willem’s eyes moved between the two of them several times, appearing very confused. He actually scratched his head before he shrugged and smiled.

“Lady Myranda did swear she had some stories to taunt Waynwood with.”

And with those words and a bow to Sansa he was back within the tent, leaving them both outside.

 _Alone_.

Alone for the first time since his apology to her for the bridge. He remembered a time when such a thing did not make him fearful.

Or nervous.

“Why did you leave?”

“I am not one for such occasions.” He answered truthfully.

“It looks poorly.” She spoke softly. “As if you do not welcome our guests.”

Forever a lady and queen Sansa was. He had not thought of it that way but she saw the effects of his actions far beyond he did. Jon was usually better at such and felt the need to defend himself some.

“Considering I served with men of the Vale I don’t think they doubt my appreciation of them. And the northmen will speak to how I’m not usually a feature at feasts.” He said awkwardly. “They’ll remember Winterfell.”

It was the truth. Many of the highborns within had been to special occasions at Winterfell. Their visits often meant Jon would sit away from his family and his status as an outsider even more pronounced.

“I doubt they’ll miss me too much.”

“I missed you.” Sansa said, taking a step towards him. “And many have just heard the tale of how you commanded such attention at my coronation. That was why Myranda toasted you. She said she’d never heard of anything more gallant…”

He remembered the day well.

They had danced that day, only the once but he thought of it often.

“That was for you. And it would have been hard to stay away, as happy as you were and how beautiful you looked..."

As soon as the words left his mouth Jon knew it was a truth he should have kept to himself. Sansa’s mouth opened in surprise and he thought she even flushed. He prepared to apologize when as quickly as it happened something changed in Sansa’s expression.

“So what has changed that you could not stay within tent tonight? Is it because this occasion is less grand? Am I less enjoyable now?” She said, her eyes wide in exasperation and she gestured at her gown as if he saw something wrong with it.

“No, Sansa…I didn’t mean…you are the picture of beauty.”

He had to find a way out this. She was too clever. She would learn the truth and be disgusted with him. So he decided to speak part of another truth to keep her off the trail.

“My thoughts preoccupied me.” He offered. “Sending Howland away…”

“Was my decision.” She said curtly. “Lord Reed has…proven himself worthy of other tasks for the time being. Not much to worry on Jon.”

He decided to drop that argument, it was clearly not one she wished to discuss. When she was about to speak he blurted out the next thing that came to mind.

“The Waynwoods! I mean Ser Morton…" He felt his strength leave then, speaking this aloud drained him so. "He intends mean to propose a marriage between you and the heir.”

She nodded and waited for him to continue, as if this news did not shock her. He must have looked foolish just standing there with nothing else.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew. I am happy for you… I hope he can make you happy. I was just thinking of the effects and…” Jon started but she moved forward and grasped his arms tightly.

“You’re good to do so but I’m going to reject the match. Myranda told me of it as soon as she arrived, she eyes the heir for herself in truth.” Sansa spoke calmly. “I could not hand the reigns of the north to the heir to the Vale. My bannermen would be wroth, as accepting as they’ve been of me asking them to accept the authority of an outsider would be too much. If I must marry it must be to a man of the North, with the blood of the First Men.”

He marveled at her words. The girl Jon had once thought a silly thing with nothing but knitting and knights on pretty ponies in her head had strategized her way out of the match already. And it had been less than half a day since the arrival of such news.

_Soon enough she won’t need advisors or counsel._

“I…I am not half as smart as you your grace.” He said, trying to keep his good cheer hidden. "We're all better off for it."

He felt so at least, for the relief rushed through him, warming him better than any wine ever could.

_This means she won't be another’s. She will be here with me._

_For now._

“You lack for grace not wits, and speaking of grace…I am Sansa when we are together Jon.” Her hands on his arms slid down and took his hands in hers. “Always Sansa with you…”

She turned her head and began looking about the camp. Despite the celebrations throughout the camp they remained very much alone right then.

“I’ve been a fool.” Sansa stepped closer, pulling his hands to her chest. “To push you away it was the last thing I wanted to do…I didn’t mean to hurt you…I just wanted…”

“Sansa I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He mostly didn’t at least, she had put distance between them but how that saved him hurt was beyond him.

“I’m just sorry…so sorry…”

Sansa shivered then and it was then he saw she wore no cloak against the cold. He pulled his hands from hers and she gave him a look of reproach. Jon unclasped his cloak from his shoulders and gently placed it upon hers. 

When he’d finished she reached to catch one of his hands in hers. His burnt hand.

"One more thing I'd have." She said and before he could stop her she’d pulled the glove from his hand.

“No!”

“Hush. This is not an ugly thing Jon.” Hers words spoken almost as softly as she cradled his hand. “It could never be ugly to me. Nothing about you could.”

Now he met her eyes and they were gazing at him earnestly. Her lips were parted slightly and her cheeks rose tinged. Some strands of hair had fallen across her face and with his free hand he reached up to push them away, just slightly touching her skin. And he thought she trembled then.

_She doesn’t feel the same._

_She can’t._

He would not have a chance to find out. Loud voices interrupted them and he quickly pulled back from her body and hands. A moment later Ser Morton stormed out of the tent angrily before striding away into the night. Following shortly after came Willem and Myranda.

“My love for you so true, as sure as your eyes blue!” Willem called after him laughing and drinking of his cup.

“Tis' a fine poem ser! Worthy of song! Truly!” Myranda joined in.

“Poem?” Sansa asked looking confused.

“You didn’t know? When our Ser Morton was courting his wife he wrote her some poetry.” She said regarding the two of them coyly. “He did not expect her handmaidens to share it with me.”

“Oh gods you told them his poetry?” Sansa laughed and put her hand to Jon’s arm to steady herself.

“I have manners your grace.” Myranda acted hurt. “I only told the good ser here and…”

The flaps of the tent flew outward again as the Greatjon burst out into the night, two cups in his hands.

“SHOULD YOU BE MY LADY, MY GARDEN SHALL NEVER BE SHADY!” He boomed, his laughter coming out as huge white plumes of mist.

Jon did his best to hide his own at the poor man’s expense but failed miserably. The other three made no such attempts and openly laughed as Willem and the Greatjon did their best to recite more of the knight’s poetry.

He realized then he was happy. For the first time in a long while he was genuinely happy.

He hadn’t been for weeks now but among people such as these how could he not be? When Sansa’s laughter had exhausted her he held his arm out to her and looked to the others.

“I’ve had enough air your grace, I’d join you and the others within." He said. "It would be good to celebrate the arrival of friends.” 

Sansa took his arm eagerly and, before Willem could do so, he offered the other to Myranda who grabbed it and pulled herself tightly against him.

Willem was shocked at this boldness and Jon left his friend gaping as he led the two women back into the rowdy tent.

“You could always escort me you tiny fool.” The Greatjon’s laughter followed after.

 

* * *

 

 

BRIENNE

 

“Another week or two would be smart dear, or at least a few more days…”

“Ten has been quite enough.” Brienne winced as she pulled her shirt over her bandaged ribs. Such actions still hurt bring pain but enough for her to bear. “But I thank you anyway oldmother.”

The kindly old woman gave her a weak smile yet her disappointment was obvious. She’d been demanding Brienne call her such since they’d arrived at the village and while the woman had proved capable at tending her injuries she’d resisted doing so. Giving in to that small request seemed the least Brienne could do since she had no intention of doing the other task the healer asked of her.

“You and your men…like a blessing you were. I almost had hope we wouldn’t have to leave for the winter.” Kenna was the old woman’s true name, and her voice was full of worry as she gazed out the window of this cabin. “That we could keep out home.”

Outside lay her village, a collection of small wooden buildings surrounded by a poorly made palisade. Had Anguy not found the well trodden trail leading here they would have rode right by it without every knowing it was there.

Small and unknown, the village was nestled in thick woods at the base of the Mountains of the Moon. It had made a good place for Brienne’s group to seek shelter and give her time to heal.

Their arrival had only been welcomed because of the fear the villagers lived in. The mountain clans had taken to raiding more frequently in the past weeks. The savages had burned two other settlements the villagers knew of and they’d embraced Brienne and the others if only for the extra swords they carried.

“Staying was never an option for us Kenna. We have someplace to be and you could not have fed us for the entire winter.”

She’d seen the state of their stores. These were a simple people, farming rocky lands and hunting game to meet their needs. Such meager earnings would never be enough to support sworn swords or even a group as small as her own. “Travelling to one of the other villages and joining your strength is your best option for fending off the raiders.”

“You and my son have the right of it…I just know the wildlings. What we leave will not be here when we come back. They’ll burn it just to warm themselves and to spite us.”

“It’s better you lose empty cabins than your lives.” She said but felt her words would be of little comfort.

Gendry and the young Lord Edric had spotted the wildlings not a day ago during a ride about the edge of the villagers’ small fields. It was only a small party, a few men on short, shaggy horses who disappeared back towards the mountains. Yet the danger was clear.

Payton, the village headman and Kenna’s son, had thought the same as Brienne. Those men had likely been a scouting party and more could be on the way.

A knock came upon the cabin door and Brienne threw on her cloak before answering. Outside stood Pod, the lad had Oathkeeper and her sword belt in hand and his eyes on the floor, as if fearing to see her in undress.

“I traded the rest of Hyle's things for supplies. Are we leaving soon?” The squire asked as she began to buckle the belt back around her waist.

Her arm was still not well enough to wield the blade but the splint was long gone now so others need not know that.

“Good lad, and we are.” She did not meet Kenna’s gaze as she said so, instead nodding to the woman before guiding Pod to follow. The village was barely ten cabins and a few other buildings, most abandoned, yet seemed to be bustling today as the villagers prepared to take their leave as well.

“The horses are ready?”

“Yes my lady, Arya’s already on hers. So are Anguy and Lord Edric.”

“I believe he prefers to be called Ned.” She herself felt uncomfortable referring to the Lord of Starfall in such a familiar way yet it was a fair trade for him to stop calling her Lady Brienne. “And of Gendry?”

“He knows…I mean I told him…” Pod was plainly uncomfortable elaborating and she could understand why. The two young men had begun to form a bond of friendship during their travels. Yet Gendry’s recent behavior had put it to the test.

If she’d thought the appearance of two of Gendry’s former comrades in the Brotherhood would please the outlaw knight she’d been wrong. Ever since their arrival his temper had been short and his manner withdrawn towards everyone else. It stood in stark contrast to how the rest had taken to the new arrivals and what they’d have to tell them.

Their faction of the Brotherhood had been south of the Trident when, according to Anguy, a septon they’d done good deeds by had shared some interesting information with them. Word had come from King’s Landing, from the new High Septon himself, that Brienne had pillaged Quiet Isle and made off with a highborn lady under the protection of the Faith. The septs of the nearest lands had been told to take notice of any matching her or, more importantly, Arya’s descriptions.

Anguy and Ned had recognized, or hoped at least, that lady to be Arya. They also learned of a force of men sent out from Harrenhal to seek Brienne and the others out.

“When the lord here decided he’d be going after the lady no matter what I figured he needed the best man of us at his side.” Anguy had smiled to tell the tale while young Ned had blushed. “Merritt took the rest along the quickest route from Harrenhal. First they dressed up Swampy Meg like a warrior woman and had her brag of Tarth while keeping small Melly in a cloak the whole time making a big spectacle of themselves. Might as well of hung a sign on their horses saying follow us.”

Hearing someone had been leading their pursuers about the Riverlands had answered many questions for Brienne. Namely how she’d been permitted so much time to rest while camped at the ringfort.

“When we chanced the Inn at the Crossroads we found Willow angry and full of talk. She hadn’t taken kindly to what Lem claimed to have planned for you Gendry.” Ned had said and it was Gendry’s turn to look awkward. “Or that he left so soon after an attack against the inn. She couldn't tell us much but said she'd had word from a fisherman come off the river. He said someone was using an old ringfort along the Kingsroad. He saw your fires I guess.”

After that they’d asked other old folks of the lands and learned of a marker for an old ringfort. It was distressing to think how easily Lem or others could have just as easily learned their hiding place.

Brienne thanked the seven it had been these two to find them.

If they’d done half what they claimed to have done in their quest to help Arya they were allies to be sure. With how poorly her group was faring Brienne could not in good sense turn down their help. Especially since the two claimed months of travelling through the very Frey lands they needed to pass through in their journey.

Arya had been happy enough with her decision.

Gendry had not been.

“Do you trust these men?” She’d asked him during their travels through the forests east of the Kingsroad. “Will they do what’s best for Arya?”

Gendry had not answered right away, instead glancing behind at the conversation between the Ned and Arya. The frown upon his face had made her fear another reason for his poor welcome to the newcomers.

“As long as getting her through the Frey lands and to the Neck is what’s best for Arya I trust them. They will do her no harm. If they keep their mouths shut that is.”

She hadn’t understood that and Gendry wouldn’t speak further on it.

As Pod and she neared the entrance of the village they found the Ned and Arya already a horse.

They were talking and the girl was almost smiling.

 _No harm in that,_ she thought _, never harm in that child having a reason to smile._

_She should do it more often, her mother would want that._

When Pod helped Brienne upon her own horse she hissed in pain. Yet it was still an improvement over what it had been. She’d spent the last ten days at rest or walking about the village willing herself to heal.

_Now it is time to put it to the test._

She kicked at her horse and it jumped forward, the jolt sending shots of pain through her chest. It had been more than she hoped but she could tolerate it. Considering the route she’d spoken to Anguy of they’d have no reason to ride too hard.

“It’s good to be riding again m’lady. Better to see you well enough for it.” The archer smiled as she rode up beside him. “And today’s fine weather to begin again, especially the way Payton and his folk will be going.”

“I wish them the best but it is our travels I’m concerned about. Are you sure it’s not wiser to stick to the woods?”

“The Kingsroad is the best for a good while, for how quickly you’d like to travel and what word we could get from any coming south. The Freys patrolled the part near the Twins some but any travelers we’d meet on the way could let us know if that’s changed.”  Anguy pointed to a small purse tied to his belt, he’d bragged of how they’d use Frey gold to outwit the weasels themselves. “That’s when we’d hit the woods again and our travels would get trickier.”

She thought it sounded as good as it had days ago when the outlaw had first proposed returning to the road. The horses could move much faster upon it and the ride would be much gentler upon her. Anguy was seemed confident whatever pursuit they’d once feared would have long ago been abandoned.

“There’s our knight of smiles!” Anguy called out and she saw Gendry coming from the direction of the village storehouse. “Still trying to find a smithy to get me those arrowheads you owe me?”

The young man didn’t respond and if he thought Anguy’s jest funny he did well at hiding it. He went straight to his horse, checking the saddle straps and what had been packed upon it before pulling himself upon it. Gendry gave Pod a quick nod then and thanked him quietly for seeing to his horse.

Arya began ride her own alongside Gendry who quickly responded by riding toward Anguy and herself.

“I’m sorry m’lady, I was helping Payton and his boys load up the last of their oxen. A lot of work for some so old and young…”

“It’s no bother and kind of you to do.” She said, wishing she could do more for their hosts. None appeared to bid them farewell and it was understandable. It had become almost a routine for her to depart a place of welcome under a pall.

“Pod, see to the gate, I’d not prolong this any longer.”

Anguy led the way as they’d arranged, his eyes were sharp and he knew the way back to the Kingsroad. Pod and Ned would ride to their rear while Brienne and Gendry would keep Arya with them in the center. As useless as her sword hand was she hoped the size of Gendry and herself would discourage any attacks near Arya.  

She expected some awkwardness between Arya and Gendry at the start of the ride and had assumed it would drift away. It was soon clear that had been a foolish hope. The only talking the either of them did was to her and the childishness of it became more tiring than the ride itself.

“Brienne can you ask Gendry for the water since he’s too good to talk to me.”

“M’lady should tell Lady Stark she should not have to drink from the skin of a commoner.”

“Brienne ask Gendry what water I should drink then?”

“M’lady might want to suggest the young lord’s water skin, surely it’s good enough for her.”

“Ask Gendry what it’s like to have shit for brains!”

“Enough!” Brienne reached up to touch her head. “Pray enough…”

It hadn’t been of course. For the better part of an hour petty bickering like that continued so much so that the two youths bothered her more than her ribs.

 _If you confront them it’ll become worse,_ she thought, _they’ve both too stubborn to see reason._

_The only time they’re not fighting is when they’re fighting someone else._

It was trying to think of other matters, like having Pod scour her armor, that gave her the idea.

“There’s a matter I’d speak of, between only us three.” Brienne said suddenly with as conspiratorial a tone as she could muster. “And I’d have it stay quiet.”

When she had both their attention her mummery began.

“Even if the Freys do not watch the road there are other things to fear in these lawless times. Wildlings, bandits, broken men, the list is almost endless and I fear how little warning we could have if any await us.”

“Anguy doesn’t miss much Brienne.” Arya spoke before Gendry could. “That’s why he’s riding ahead isn’t it? For warning?”

“Barely a warning.” Gendry muttered. “If we can see him then any in hiding who spot him can see us too.”

“I knew that! I was just saying he’d see them first!”

“You both might be right.” She interrupted the bickering. “It’s not something I’m eager to chance. I’m thinking of having someone ride much further ahead, to draw any attention or attack long before we could be set upon.”

“Like bait?” Arya asked.

“I could do so m’lady.” Gendry volunteered.

“No you can’t!” Arya protested. “You’d be…”

“It would be Podrick if it was anyone.” She said firmly. “Gendry we need your strength if it comes to battle. As we’d need Anguy’s bow and Ned’s knowledge of the Freys. No it would it be Podrick, he’s the only one we could spare.”

“We can’t spare him!” Arya said angrily and Gendry looked just as upset.

“I don’t mean disrespect m’lady but Pod’s shown his worth. Enough squires came by Mott’s forge for me to tell the good ones from the shit ones. Pod’s a true one, he charged the Bloody Mummers with a meat knife of all things. A boy as foolish and brave as that…if any attacked he’d rather fall than flee…”

“Gendry’s right.” Arya’s words made Gendry’s eyes widen in surprise. “He’s too good to be bait. Anybody who wouldn’t attack our group would go after a skinny sot like Pod in a moment!”

She didn’t care for Arya’s description of Podrick but the pair’s defense of the squire was touching. Even better it was uniting the two squabbling friends against her. Brienne surrendered the issue not long after but it had spawned other discussions she was able to guide the two into agreeing on. Like whether Arya should continue to train with Needle or move to a normal blade, Gendry taking Arya’s side in favor of the fine blade her brother had gifted her.

They reached the road by dusk and made camp far enough from it to keep their fires well hidden. When Pod volunteered to keep watch on the road both Gendry and Arya had scolded him harshly, leaving the poor lad confused on how he’d earned their ire.

The villagers had added to their travel supplies greatly and young Ned showed himself quite adept at fireside cooking. They ate some roast pig with grease dripping from their fingers and chins.

“Any of you spot a boar let me know. We’ll eat like kings.” Anguy said licking at his fingers.

“We’ll be watching for wildings or Freys, not game.” Gendry said sourly.

“I think he means if we happen to see…”

“I know what he meant, begging m’lord’s pardon.” Gendry cut off Ned, glaring at him fiercely. “Still doesn’t mean he’s not cocky enough to need reminding.”

Ned could have taken offense to that yet simply nodded and smirked at Anguy.

“You are too cocky."

As Anguy took to arguing in his own defense Brienne rose to join Arya at the far end of the fire. The girl was laying a whetstone against her blade, eyes some where else.

“It is good you take such care of your blade.” Brienne sat next to her, offering the girl some water. “When I was a child I never did so.”

“I’m not a child.” Arya protested.

“You are, even if sometimes you don’t act it, you are still a child.” Brienne spoke quietly. “No matter what you did to Hyle. You remain a child Arya.”

They hadn’t spoken about what Arya done to Hyle. It was Brienne’s shame which had stopped her from doing so before.

_That grim task fell to her because of your weakness._

_The traitor’s blood should’ve been on your blade, not her hands._

“I don’t feel bad about it.” Arya said simply, avoiding her gaze. “I had to.”

“He betrayed us. Maybe he would’ve even have betrayed you. I can’t speak to what was in his heart.” She spoke softly, wishing the girl to understand what she was about to say was not meant with malice.

“But you did not have to kill him, we both know this.”

Arya whipped about to face her, the girl’s face twisted into one of hurt. Possibly of betrayal.

“I had to. I did for his leg and with all those arrows…even if he lived we couldn’t tie him up and drag him around with us…” She waved about at the country they rode through. “Can you imagine tying him up on a horse in this?”

“I’m not talking about whether you made the right decision. I believe you did.” Brienne sighed. “Had Anguy not arrived Hyle would surely have killed Gendry. Perhaps even me. His death was by his own doing.”

“I knew you understood! If I didn’t fight him he could’ve hurt all of you! I didn’t…”

“You could have let him take you.” She offered. “You could’ve given in, let him take you, find some septon to marry you and had a knight for a husband and protector. You wouldn’t have had to spill his blood, he would’ve lived and you might be better off than you are now.”

“Better off? I’d be his prisoner! I told you, I won’t be a prisoner again! I told him if he hurt you’d I’d kill him and I’d do it again!”

Brienne wasn’t surprised or upset by her outburst, only sad. She raised her hand towards Arya’s shoulder but stopped just short of touching her, letting her arm fall again.

“I believe you did the right thing…and I would have killed Hyle myself if I had been able. It’s my shame to carry that I couldn’t protect you. Killing Hyle would not trouble me nearly as much as the shame I feel now. But I am a woman grown and a warrior beyond that, I do not know how I would feel as a girl of one and ten.”

“I feel fine.” Arya said again but Brienne felt her shoulders slump some.

“It is no easy thing to kill no matter how many times you do it.” Brienne reached to lift Arya’s chin so the girl’s glistening grey eyes looked into her own. “But if you must act strong to deal with such I will allow you that. It is an easy enough thing for me to believe of you Arya Stark. Just know it is normal for it to bother you…”

Brienne was cut off then by the cries of the horses.

They began to rear and show unease, stamping their hoofs and pulling upon their lines. She’d barely had time to stand when Anguy darted to the fireside, bow in hand and an arrow at the ready. His eyes darting about about into the night beyond.

“What’s wrong?”

“Quiet.” Anguy’s joking tone was gone as Brienne and the others all drew their swords.

The rest joined the archer in peering about them, Brienne herself saw nothing save the darkened trees surrounding the camp. Then a twig snapped somewhere in the night. Then another from the opposite direction came a moment later and Anguy cursed.

_Someone’s encircled us._

Her first thought was the clans had found them, the growing number of sounds all around the camp made her picture a horde of wildlings closing in. Yet all she made out in the weak light were dark shapes moving quickly here and there.

“Arya behind me.” She pulled the girl between her and the fire, hoping to shield her should arrows come into play.

Almost as if on cue Anguy spun suddenly to his right and loosed an arrow into the abyss. A sharp yelp rang out followed by high pitch whining and a flurry of movement. Loud growls and glowing eyes appeared all about them then and their foe was revealed.

_Wolves._

Fear gripped her then. There would have to be a large number of the beasts circling them to be making the amount of noise they did.

_And to be so bold._

 “We need wood.” Anguy hissed as he notched another arrow. “The fire needs to be bigger.”

“Pod! Ned!” She called and the two squires rushed to the wood pile they’d gathered and began throwing sticks and logs into the fire with little abandon. A shadow burst from the darkness towards them and the twang of Anguy’s bow answered the wolf’s attack.

The beast fell and lay to rest with its snout almost at Ned’s boot.

“Brienne…”

“No Arya, stay where you are. Let them come to us.” She tried to sound confident despite how unsure she was of how to handle this. “Gendry to me.”

The horses were in a full on panic and she thought it likely they’d lose some unless they did something quickly. As Gendry ranto join her in sheltering Arya she took a chance. She reached down and plucked a burning log from the fire and tossed it high to land just beyond the horses, a wolf briefly outlined as it landed before disappearing again.

She did it again to the other side of their mounts but knew it only delayed the inevitable. They’d nowhere near enough wood to ring the beasts and themselves to keep at the wolves at bay.

_And we are lost without mounts._

“Again, do it that again.” Anguy yelled at her. “Further out, give me something to shoot at.”

She did as he asked and as the fiery log flew through the air Anguy loosed at a wolf she’d thought a hedge. He missed but came near enough she thought it their best chance.

“Brienne! Let me...” 

“Quiet Arya!” She couldn’t deal with the girl and try and follow the beasts the same time.

Another toss sent a log rolling across the ground before coming to an abrupt stop. No wolves ran away this time, instead something much more unnerving happened. Out of the darkness, as if emboldened by their attempts to kill it, stepped a monstrously big wolf.

The beast stood before the flaming log, its golden eyes flashing in the light and staring at them, defiantly.

“Seven save us.” She prayed.

The wolf was of a kind with Jon Snow’s and while his had a coat of white this one had one of grey. Anguy had just loosed an arrow at another wolf when he caught sight of this beast. He swore as he turned towards it, reaching for another arrow and notching it quickly.

“No!” Arya yelled, running forward and throwing her shoulder into Anguy’s side.

They both pitched forward and landed upon the ground as the arrow flew up into the branches above them. Arya rolled further than Anguy and the reaction from the wolves was immediate. Two of them came running at the exposed girl, their fangs bared and ready for to kill.

“No!” Brienne cried out and ran to protect the girl before being jostled out the way by another.

Gendry charged forth, swinging his sword in a wide arc. The closest wolf dodged his attack but lunged upwards at the knight, knocking him onto his back and trying to tear out his throat. She could’ve turned to help him but her path took her to Arya, her heart racing as a wolf closed on the girl much quicker than she.

But not as quick as the monster from the shadows.

Or a savior as she would later view it.

The huge wolf slammed into Arya’s attacker, biting and clawing at the smaller wolf, drawing it away from Arya as Brienne reached her side.

The other wolves were all attacking now as well, possibly sensing weakness. It was chaos after that. Arya attacked with Needle, skewering the one atop Gendry as Anguy, having notched again from only a kneeling position, took another down through the neck.

Pod and Ned charged forth, both with swords and flaming sticks in each hand, each shouting war cries.

"Starfall!"

"The Lady!"

The two youths drove a number of wolves back as Anguy picked them off. Even hobbled as she was she managed to unsheathe Oathkeeper and, wielding it with two hands, fended off a wolf from attacking Gendry’s exposed back.

Gendry, Arya and herself fought back to back as the wolves darted in and out from amongst the burning branches.

It was like no other fight Brienne had ever been in. A flurry of teeth, flame and flashing swords.

She watched in awe as the giant wolf attacked another of its small brethren which came too close to Arya. Mauling it so viciously the poor animal’s head was almost torn from its body.

By the time the wolves retreated back into the night seven lay dead and most of the group bled or nursed scratches.

“Arya move!” Anguy cried as he tried to take aim at the sole remaining wolf.

The giant hadn’t left with the others, instead it paced before Arya, its eyes locked on the girl.

Nor did Arya do as Anguy asked. Rather than helping the girl lowered her blade and held out her hand to the beast, her palm up and open.

“Don’t Anguy…I know her…” Arya spoke softly as she took a step towards the wolf, which covered in blood as it was, made Brienne’s heart stop.

“Arya come away from it.” She took a step towards her but the wolf dropped low and snarled as she did so.

“No, Brienne I know her…she knows me…” Arya let Needle fall from her grasp and clatter upon the ground. "She won't hurt me..."

When she knelt before the beasted Pod and Anguy to gasp. In such a position Arya was forced to look up into the eyes of the wolf which had stopped pacing. It stood looking down at Arya and soon began sniffing at her, its mouth hanging open and those large fangs making Brienne grip Oathkeeper even tighter.

“You remembered me?” Arya’s voice waivered then, her arms reaching out to the wolf. “I remembered you…I’m sorry I left you. I had to or they would’ve killed you…”

The wolf growled and every one of them jerked forward some, each member of the party standing ready to defend Arya should the beast do as they feared. Arya held her hands up, waving them back while never taking her eyes from the wolf.

_How did she know we neared then?_

“Nymeria…Nymeria please…they won’t hurt us…” Arya reached forward again, as if beckoning the beast to her. “We’re all that’s left...it’s us now…that’s why you came isn’t it?”

 _Nymeria_ , she remembered something Lady Catelyn had said, _that was the name of Arya’s direwolf._

“Let’s go home.” Arya almost whispered. “Let’s go home.”

The wolf Arya named as Nymeria shot the men a look Brienne didn’t care for. The beast appeared much too wild and threatening for her taste. Yet when its eyes found Arya again Brienne swore they softened some, the direwolf lowering its head to sniff at the girl’s open hands cautiously.

A moment later it began licking at one vigorously. Then the wolf moved to do the same to Arya’s face and while the others became uneasy again Brienne didn’t.

When Arya’s arms wrapped around the neck of the direwolf she knew what she’d seen. The direwolf had been calmed by Arya’s words, maybe even convinced by them. The men stood in shock while Arya hugged Nymeria tightly to her but Brienne was shocked by something else entirely.

For Nymeria's gaze had fallen upon her now. The fire flickering in the wolf's eyes as it looked upon her. 

Staring in a way Brienne had seen before.

 _Quiet Isle_ , she remembered, _Arya’s eyes when I took her from the fire._

 _She knows me_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not wanting to be alone. No longer being alone. And to be alone.

SANSA

 

“My queen we would have you further back!” Hal shouted.

“No! I will stay!”

Sansa had not been allowed to take part in the battle at the Twins and she was determined to be of some use at this one. So hiding at the back of the lines like Hal wanted was not something she would be doing.

Not as long as her men could see her as they marched onward. Not when she sent them forward to die. Not with so much at stake.

_Not with him out there._

The Stark army continued on up the causeway, Jon somewhere at the front leading this attack against the ruined fortress ahead. From the towers of Moat Cailin arrows rained down upon the tightly packed column of men who moved forward at a crawling pace. War horns blew here and there to keep the attack moving, a hard thing to do as the scores of enemy archers loosed death upon her army. Her men staggering behind raised shields, doing their best to deflect the constant fire from ahead.

The direwolf banners behind her flapped noisily as the strong winds blowing south swept across the battlefield throwing dust up into her eyes. She clenched them shut, and cursed the wind for it  gave their enemies extra reach so that even more of her men found themselves targets. The odd arrow would sometimes land less than twenty steps from where she sat her horse.

Another came even closer and Hal cursed.

“Queen Sansa please!”

“Hal I’m not leaving!”

“We are well away from arrows!” Myranda added, the woman beside her atop her own mount. “Safer than those poor souls.”

Myranda was watching the wounded pass by, men who were not so lucky as they to be merely watching the battle. A constant stream of the injured were being carried or dragged by Sansa's party. Some bore it well, clutching wounds with silent grimaces while others were crying out in pain. Or for loved ones.

Sansa hoped most would live yet was not so naive to think all would.

And she knew more would follow. For every man coming back ten more joined the long line pressing forward. Onward to meet such a fate themselves. That was why Sansa wanted them to see her there. She wished to show them that she saw their bravery, their courage, their sacrifice as they marched on.

_Or their cowardice should any think to break._

That had been Myranda’s suggestion, her friend believed the men cared more about what their queen would think of them than their own survival. Shame itself a powerful motivator.

 _I could not think badly of them if they did run_ , she thought, _it looks so horrible up there, so..._

“Help! Queen Sansa!” A horrible cry pulled her gaze from the battle to a man staggering towards them with another in his arms. “Help please!”

“Move back!” Hal walked to block his path, his sword drawn. “Wounded to the rear!”

“Please! My boy!” The man she did not know cried again.

When her eyes went to the body in his arms Sansa saw no man there. Only a beardless boy with an arrow through his side.

A boy who, as bloody as he was, reminded her of Bran.

“How dreadful…” Myranda gasped as the man wept and tried to bring the child onward.

“He wouldn’t stay behind me…” He stammered. "I said to..."

"There's no help to be had here!" Hal barred the man’s approach, who stopped as if in a daze. “The healers are at the back!”

He stared up at Sansa helplessly, tears streaming down his bearded face as he held the boy up higher.

“Then he must get there as quick as he can.” She said and began to climb from her horse to the shouts of her men.

She could watch this battle from a saddle but to sit there as that boy died in front of her was to much. Then, in her hurry to dismount, Sansa tumbled and sprawled out in the mud.

“Sansa!”

"Your grace!"

“I’m alright.” She said, pushing up to her knees before Hal was there helping her to stand again. “Thank you Hal but he needs more help than I. Get that poor man and boy on my horse. They can ride to the healer.”

“It’s not proper…” Hal protested but she waved him off.

Soon enough the father was on her horse, his son cradled in his arms as he rode on down the line. As she watched them go she saw how many others walked slowly behind on foot.

 _It’s all part of the plan_ , she reminded herself, _their eyes must be on the south_.

“Here Sansa.” Myranda rode up and reached down to her. “My horse would be honored to carry such a queen.”

She nodded her thanks as others helped her into the saddle. Myranda had moved back to allow her the reins, wrapping her hands about Sansa’s middle and pressing herself tightly against her back.

"I know now why Ser Jon always looks so down. You cause so much worry..."

Sansa paid that little mind, hearing Jon's name drew her attention back the fight. Ahead the battle raged, which more and more she thought a slaughter instead. Her army was making little progress in their advance, it seemed like the only reason men moved forward was because others ahead had fallen.

From where they were Sansa could see much of Moat Cailin and how her army would meet certain defeat. For even if they somehow advanced as far as the fortress’ crumbling walls the lines of spearmen hunched behind them would be more than enough to throw back their assault.

It was utter madness that they attempted this attack. Their enemy had complete control of this chokepoint and were strangling the life from her army with it. Everywhere she looked along the causeway she saw men tumbling down the sides. Whether dead already or just wounded their fate below was the same, all disappearing into the muck of the bogs.

For half a moment she pictured Jon, pierced with arrows and sinking below those dank, dark waters.

“They will be fine.” Myranda whispered softly into her ear. “Jon and Willem both. They made a promise and neither are the kind to break them.”

Myranda was right, the two knights had sworn such when Sansa had allowed Jon command of the southern push. Willem had been forced to make a second promise to her later, that he would see to Jon's safety.

The knight’s vow to do so and Myranda’s words comforted her some, but the horrible sounds of the battle threatened to drive away such good thoughts.

Yet the battle was not so loud to drown out what she heard then. For a half a moment Sansa thought she’d imagined it, until it came again and she turned to see the smile on Myranda’s face.

For her friend had heard it as well.

The sound of trumpets.

Such was how the second attack from the north was launched. Much farther up the Kingsroad small specks begin to appear in the distance. As they came closer those specks quickly and surely took the shape of horses. Horses with armored men atop them. The banners of House Royce, Waynwood, Redford and several others appearing amongst this long charge down the road, moving rapidly against the exposed rear of the castle.

The defenders had heard the trumpets as well and were now rushing their spearmen into a line to meet the enemy charge. Should the Vale horsemen ride into it Sansa feared not only for how many could be lost but if the attack could even succeed.

“It is time.” She announced turning to one of mounted crannogmen among her party. “Give your lord his signal.”

The man did not need to be asked twice. He pulled a horn up to his lips and let go a long, loud blowing of the horn. Then another. Then one more.

And not long after the swamps surrounding edges of Moat Cailin came alive. Muddy patches of moss and reeds began crawling up the approaches of the old fortress, wending their way up barely there trails and climbing over its undefended walls. Such was how Howland Reed’s crannogmen joined the battle.

When they fell upon the barely formed line of spearmen Sansa couldn’t imagine which was more terrifying to their enemy. Whether it would be how much like monsters the crannogmen appeared or how otherworldly their war cries sounded as they leapt forth with their spears and mauls.

 _Bogdevils is an ugly term_ , she thought, _but I understand it more now_.

By the time the Vale riders had arrived few of the spearmen stood ready to meet them and those were cut down quickly enough. The battle was now within the fortress, archers who had been firing at the causeway now turned inward.

With fewer arrows falling upon them her army surged up the land bridge towards the Moat. There was a fight within the fortress and they wouldn't be denied their part in it. The men ran up the causeway, their swords flashing and spears raised high, shouting and yelling the whole time.

“Stark!” Men cried. “Stark! Stark!”

When the forward ranks clambered over the sunken walls one man paused and raised the direwolf banner high. Defying the arrows and waving her banner, signalling to the rest of the army the front's breakthrough. More continued on by and soon the three towers of the fortress themselves had attackers swarming about their gates.

The doors of the Drunkard’s Tower were the first to give way.

Then the Children’s Tower was breached and the Gatehouse Tower soon after.

“They’re done for your grace.” Hal said then. “Inside those towers will be men who did not expect to do anything more than kill from afar.”

Despite his words and her confidence victory was within their grasp the screaming did not abate. Bodies flew from tower windows and Sansa could only imagine the fates archers within met at the hands of those who had endured the causeway. Some of the enemy sought escape by fleeing into the bogs beyond the castle. Most were cut down by her archers as they did so. That was until the archers suddenly stopped, someone most likely giving the order to save their arrows, for the bogs finished those who fled just as surely. She tried not to count how many she watched struggle and flounder in that filth.

 _Their families and children will have mercy,_ she thought _, let my men have vengeance._

“We will ride forward.” She said, believing the battle to be at a close. “I will go north.”

“Too soon your grace…” A guard tried to argue but she spurred her horse forward anyways.

Her men scrambled to catch up, doing their best to put themselves in front of her as Myranda gripped her middle tightly.

Moving up the causeway was slow going, it being so narrow and much of her army still marching up it. No arrows flew from the towers any longer, all that came from them were the  terrible screams carried in the wind.

As Sansa rode between the three towers she could not believe such poor looking things could cause so much death. Men cheered her arrival even as wounded men still lay about and she directed them to be seen to quickly.

_Celebrating can come later. I’d save those we can._

She looked about for any sign of her bannermen but saw none. Others found her quick enough though. An armored man in a black starred tunic rode towards her upon a large horse and at the head of company of knights.

“Queen Sansa!” He hailed from beneath his greathelm as he met her cordon of guards.

She could not name him until he lifted up the visor and smiled at her.

“Ser Symond!” Sansa smiled to see the Knight of Ninestars. “I was glad to hear you’d lead these men!”

“As I pleased as I to see you among these men.” Symond answered, pulling the helm from his sweat soaked head. “It’s a mark of bravery for you to be here. There are still Bolton and Frey men about and I’m not sure all the enemy archers have been done for…”

“And battle is no place for women.” Another said as he too removed his helm.

Sansa almost drew back in alarm when she saw who hid beneath. Of all the men she thought to join her in retaking the North she had never believed Ser Lyn Corbray would be among them. She despised the man and a good part of her wanted to order him from here.

 _That be a foul thing to do_ , she thought, _he just fought for you._

_Is it a fouler thing to wish he’d fallen doing so?_

“Ser you’re addressing a queen.” Myranda said from behind her.

“My apologies.” He said shrugging. “Battle is no place for women though, they might dirty their gowns.”

It was then Sansa remembered her fall and glanced down to see her dress quite filthy. Myranda had wanted to dress her in one of her finest gowns for the battle. Something to inspire the men with she’d said. Sansa was glad she’d declined such a thing and worn a bland grey dress.

Northmen would have been as impressed with her wearing a pretty gown during a battle as Ser Lyn looked to be with the mud covered queen before him.

“With such fine men about me Ser Lyn dirtying my gowns is the only concern I had in this battle. Who would dare challenge them?” She said before giving a slight nod to Hal. He answered it by drawing his sword, heralding the many other Stark warriors around her to do the same.

“For House Stark is always wary now, on guard against any threat…or treachery.”

Sansa was enjoying the slight red tinge coming to Lyn’s face when she heard the shouting. Just to her left the knights she’d worried most for were striding towards her. Willem shouting at Jon who was doing his best to outpace his friend.

Her knight wore no helm and had filth all about his face yet the smile he offered her was as bright as it had always been.

It almost made Sansa miss the bloodied cloth he held to his shoulder.

“Your grace tell the fool to seek a healer!” Willem opened his arms in mock defeat. “For he’s clearly under some spell where neither I nor reason can be heard!”

“I would tell Ser Willem and her grace the arrow barely made it through my armor and it is but a cut.” Jon said as he stopped below her horse and knelt. "I am well Sansa, truly.”

“Rise ser, if Willem feels it is worthy of seeing a healer about then so do I.” She said trying to keep the concern from her voice. “I would not risk you, truly.”

“Well the fortress is ours…truly…” Willem added as he noticed at the other Vale men.

He had looked please to see them but his eyes narrowed when they fell upon Ser Lyn. She watched him reach to his swords, as if to ensure they were still there.

Then Jon took notice of the knight as well.

“Ser Lyn, I had not thought to see you here.” Jon said as he glared at the man, wiping the blood from his blade.

“Show me a battle and I will be there to fight.”

“Our side is fortunate to have you then.” He said coldly before turning his attention to the others there. “Good men, we are in your debt.”

“The way I see it we are still in yours.” Symond said gesturing to the Arryn banner flying near them. “Littlefinger and the murder of Jon Arryn is not forgotten.”

“I see only riders here ser, I thought there was to be foot as well? And siege engines?” Willem asked.

“There are. A thousand men await us just up the road. Lord Royce saw fit to send most of the mounts brought to Sweetsister here. Horses are little needed at a siege but since foul weather hampered our crossing we took only the fastest to this battle.”

“Then the force meant for the Dreadfort has launched as well?”

The knight nodded.

“Some time before we did.”

Sansa decided they would speak on that more later, preferring their men begin seeing to the setting of a camp and securing of the fortress as quickly as possible. She thought after that and the clearing of the dead was done there would be time to talk.

She took the Gatehouse tower as her own seat. It still stood straight and had the remnants of walls. The knights of the Vale and lords of the North could shared the other two  between them.

Later as she looked out her window at the fires of the camp she wondered how many men now missed the laughter or singing below. The battle had been kind to them, her army paying a much lower price compared to what it could have cost without the Vale warriors arriving. Yet she knew her commoners had contributed much blood to seeing this fortress won, for the lowborn suffered always in these matters.

 _A few days without a march is little reward_ , she thought, _the celebrations below will do little to heal the wounds today's fighting wrought._

She took solace in knowing none of her bannermen had fallen today and for that she was thankful. The survival of one lord in particular had gladdened her, despite his anger with the man.

Howland Reed had done well in the task she’d assigned of him, for his had been as dangerous as Jon’s had been. Even for those who knew the Neck as well Howland and his men moving about the swamps and bogs was a deadly affair.

_You had to see if he would balk._

_A lord worried about his own neck would have argued against such a command._

Howland had not argued. Nor had he been upset when she’d told him Jon would his command men until the task completed. He'd just seemed sad for her to order him away as she did.

_He showed loyalty in accepting my will but I must be sure of him._

_The true test of Howland's loyalty lays ahead_ , she thought, _I’ll know his worth then._

“I would see to your hair before you rest your grace.” Myranda broke in to her thoughts, the woman having pulled out a chair with a brush at the ready.

“Of course Randa, I’m sorry to keep you so late.”

“A queen needn’t apologize to her handmaidens and I’d sleep better knowing you well on your way to resting as well.”

Sansa smiled at her friend’s words and took a seat in front of the small looking glass as Myranda lifted away her crown. Her friend was an excellent lady-in-waiting, always ready with a story or some new gossip to share. Sometimes when Myranda brushed her hair Sansa thought of when her mother would do so. She would have traded Myranda for her mother in a moment, not that the lady was too rough or lax in any way, Sansa just missed her mother.

“Morton wishes for me to break my fast with him tomorrow.” Myranda grinned as she smoothed her hair. “I dare say he never seemed so eager before.”

“You two are well acquainted, perhaps he merely wishes your company.” Sansa watched her friend’s grin grow even wider. Two days earlier Sansa had formally rejected Morton's proposal for her to marry Harry the Heir as courteously as she could. She had been honest with her reasons and Morton had not been unkind in realizing he failed in his duty.

“Or perhaps he seeks another potential bride to offer when he sends word to his mother?” She added, smiling at her friend. “You may have an ally in your quest for the heir.”

“Quest it is? Interesting word for what I plan for him.” Myranda dragged a couple fingers across the top of her chest. “The man has fathered two bastards, it makes me think there are better ways to lead him into a marriage.”

Sansa laughed then, she wondered how it would feel to be so bold.

Yet Myranda's face quickly lost its mischievous look, the lady taking on a grim expression instead.

“Morton may have accepted your refusal to marry but others may not be so kind. Your lords will press you to marry Sansa, have no doubt of that.” Myranda said darkly. “They sing your praises now but soon they will begin thinking of how they or a relative of theirs could be king.”

 _She's probably right_ , she thought, _few of the lords I've ridden with so far have had potential husbands to propose._

_Yet others here in the North will have sons, brothers or even themselves to offer._

“When the war ends I will take a husband to rule the north with." Sansa said firmly. "One of my choosing."

“Some may not be willing to wait until the end of the war, they may demand it when you need their strength and have little choice.”

Myranda's words were like her brush strokes, considerate while being somewhat forceful. Despite whatever her friend's intention had been Sansa was somewhat put at ease by the topic. Much and more ahead of them lay uncertain. Yet who she intended to marry was as certain as anything could be. Something she'd thought on often of late.

And her thoughts on the matter were not something she would share with Myranda just yet.

“Today we saw a battle where my men died…I would have a night where I can honor their sacrifice without plotting about their lords." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I can do that for them.” 

Myranda seemed to let the topic drop, continuing her work in silence. After a few moments though Sansa caught her eye in the looking glass and saw the woman smiling.

“So you have already chosen one then.” Myranda whispered. "A secret man you won't even share with me."

Sansa stared back and showed no reaction. She was not mad at Myranda for guessing such.

 _It's true afterall._  
  
“You are wicked.”

_Perhaps, but I am not alone._

 

* * *

 

 

ARYA

 

“Ride! Don’t look back! Ride!”

Somehow over the noise of their horses’ thudding hooves Arya heard Brienne’s yelling. The lady sounding so desperate and far away it forced Arya to look back.

And she saw what she feared. For Brienne was falling far behind the rest in their mad flight.

Gendry and Podrick were the just ahead of Brienne, riding two to a horse with the poor beast faltering under their weight.

“Do as she says Arya!” Gendry shouted as he fumbled at freeing his blade while bouncing upon the horse. “Just go!”

An arrow flew passed him as Anguy did his best to loose backwards as he bounced upon his mount. There were four and ten riders chasing them, all armored and upon fine mounts with tunics bearing the seven-pointed star. Arya was a good distance ahead of the strangers, with Ned and Anguy close behind but the other three were close to being overtaken.

Even as Arya urged her horse onwards she knew she couldn’t leave the others.

 _They can’t fight all of them_ , she thought, _they won’t have a chance._

It was because of Nymeria they ever had a chance to escape in the first place.

Pod’s horse had gone lame upon the road and they’d been forced to kill the poor beast. The squire had done the deed himself and she hadn’t mocked him for crying as he did, the horse has never done anything to anybody.

“Where’s that beast of yours?” Anguy had asked when the deed was done and Pod had shot him a baleful look. “Easy lad, none here know how to slaughter a horse and leaving it to rot is a waste. I’m saying it might as well be of use to someone and I doubt the lady’s wolf would pass it up. I think we’d all prefer it well fed…”

Anguy was scared of Nymeria, as were most of the others. She'd told them not to be but telling them and convincing them were different things. Especially when it was obvious  Nymeria didn’t care much for people save for her.

The direwolf had either growled or bared her teeth at most of the others since their reunion but never at Arya. It was her the Nymeria wanted and while the direwolf might keep her distance when they camped or rode she never went far. No one really objected to how rarely Nymeria came near save for Arya.

Often enough when the others fell asleep Nymeria would creep into camp and lay beside her, the two spending the night sleeping side by side.

As it was meant to be.

Arya had become so comfortable with it that when today had been different she something was wrong. Come morning Nymeria would usually be gone, having returned to a safe distance by the time the others rose.

But when Arya had woken up this morning she’d seen no sign of her friend.

Even stranger, she’d been filled with a sense of unease the whole day despite how peaceful their journey had been since Nymeria’s return. The few travelers they’d met spoke of strange happenings in the Frey lands but nothing of weasels upon the Kingsroad.

Yet still, she'd felt tense for most of the ride. The feeling growing worse while they worked out the riding situation with Pod horseless.

They’d been working it for Pod to share Ned’s horse when something made her turn to gaze south down the road. She couldn’t say why, she just knew something was amiss even though the road stood empty and quiet.

 _Trees_ , she’d thought, _look to the trees_.

A ways from the road the trees stood, barely moving in the light breeze. Nothing sinister at first glance, not until she’d seen the birds. Far off she watched a number of birds fly high and away from where they’d been sitting amongst the branches. Then another group of them took flight, these ones even closer.

“Something scared those birds.” She'd said. "Something's wrong."

“Why do you say that?” Ned had come beside her peered up at the flock too.

“I just know…”

The smell of horses and the sweat of men had filled her nose suddenly. The sounds of hooves moving swiftly upon the ground and armor clanking ringing in her eyes. Yet the only thing around her was her friends and none appeared to sense what she did.

She'd felt anger then as well, not at Ned though. But at someone. More birds went up into the sky, closer again, causing Ned and her to share a worried glance.

“Brienne…south of us, look.” She’d said pointing. “Anguy look.”

That’s when they’d heard the screaming of horses. The sounds were faint but came from the area the birds had fled, and Arya thought there had to be a lot of horses to make such noise.

Then the shouting started and she saw Nymeria burst through the trees much further down the road. Several riders appeared not long after, chasing after the direwolf with spears at the ready.

“They used the trees as cover!” Anguy shouted as Arya watched rider after rider emerge from the trees in pursuit of the direwolf. “The bloody wolf flushed them out!”

“Horses! Get to your horses now!” Brienne made to flee rather than fight. “We outride them!”

“Nymeria needs help!” She’d protested as Gendry lifted her high and onto her horse.

“She’s doing fine, we’re the ones needing help!”

He’d pointed back at the ever-growing number of riders gaining the road, far more than she knew they could fight. Gendry was also right Nymeria did well enough on her own, threading her way amongst the riders. Her friend went about snapping at the horses, keeping the strangers scattered and confused. Giving Arya and the others a chance to escape.

Before today they hadn’t ridden at a full gallop for fear of drawing attention to themselves but now all need for secrecy was lost. They rode hard and fast up the Kingsroad, praying their pursuers’ mounts tired before then.

“Anguy! Ned! Stay with Arya!” Brienne yelled up at them, drawing Oathkeeper and grimacing in pain as she did so.

If the sight of the bright sword scared the Faith it didn't show, the riders closing in on Brienne even more. Pod pulled his own sword as Gendry abandoned his trying to do so as he almost fell in the attempt.

“We need to fight!” She couldn’t take her eyes off the three falling behind. "All of us! Together!"

“It’s not what the lady wants! We’re to get you out of here!” Anguy shouted back through gritted teeth. “We can’t help them!”

“We have to!”

_I have to._

In her mind she saw what would happen. The Faith would overtake Brienne and then Gendry and Podrick, outnumbering them more than four to one. They’d try to fight and Arya closed her eyes against the thought of how that would end.

_They wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me._

It had been the others who gave Arya hope.

Brienne who saved her from Quiet Isle. Pod who fought beside her at the Crossroads and killed the man who would’ve killed her. Gendry who saved them all from the Brotherhood and abandoned the home he’d made for himself. Ned and Anguy that kept the Faith away for all this time.

_All for me._

As Arya looked back at all their faces she knew it wasn't in her to abandon them. Any of them. With her mind made up she prepared to pull back on the reins to slow her escape when Ned cried out in alarm.

“Fuck me!” Anguy swore, gaping at what lay before them.

Further ahead she saw the road was barred by a large group of mounted men. So many in their party that they crossed the breadth of the road in an unbroken line, with spears and swords at the ready. Arya felt her heart sink in disbelief the Faith had them trapped so.

The disbelief turned to burning hatred when saw what banner they flew.

For it was not the seven-pointed star of the Faith.

It was two blue towers united with a bridge.

 _Freys,_ she realized, _murdering, traitor, bloody Freys._

As they came on one of the Freys raised his arm and a good many others drew bows, notching and pointing their arrows towards them.

“Halt!” A man hailed them. “Halt now!”

 _  
_Brienne had said the night before how odd it had been they hadn’t seen any Frey riders. Arya wanted to tell her that she’d dreamt of seeing Freys dying and Northmen doing the killing yet she’d always kept those dreams to herself. She was glad she had then. For she would’ve looked a fool for thinking the Freys defeated and gone.

 _I won’t be caught by bloody Freys either,_ she thought _, I’ll kill them all._

Her feet dug into her horse's side so they charged forward. The others yelling to her but this was her time. The horse and her were like the wind itself. She screamed in rage, drawing Needle and pointing it in front of her. 

Needle was more than her sword then. It was her hope. Her vengeance.

She pretended the yells coming from behind her were all those she’d lost, urging her forward. Urging her to avenge them

_Mother. Father. Robb. Sansa. Bran and Rickon. Jon._

It was these men who’d taken her family from her. It was the Freys who'd beat the drums as they killed those Arya loved. The drums were beating again. Loud and powerfully in her head and the gates of the castle were right there again. Her family right there with only these Freys in the way.

This time she would cut through all of them. For her family and for the home lost to her.

  
“WINTERFELL!” She yelled as she bore down at the Frey line.

So close now she saw the confusion flash across their captain’s face. It would have been funny if she weren’t preparing to die.

Then he shouted and jerked away from her coming, more Freys following suit. A good part of the line was parting before her, as if her charge had broken their spirits altogether.

She rode right by them, looking back to watch as the others did the same. Behind Brienne the Faith riders had stopped their pursuit and were frantically forming themselves in a line while the Freys closed the opening in theirs.

Arya started laughing.

_Oh gods let the idiots fight each other!_

_We can be far and away by the time they’re done._

Arya was still laughing when she realized her party had suddenly grown larger.

More Frey riders had emerged from the trees to their sides, riding right into their midst. The horsemen surrounded the group, Arya's own horse faltering some as two cut in front of it.

She heard Gendry swore loudly and saw Pod yanked backwards from their horse. A moment later Gendry was knocked off as well by the butt of a spear. Brienne was cut off too, three men quickly surrounding her.

“Arya look out!” She shouted even as crossbows lowered all about her.

Arya whipped her head around as a man grabbed hold of her reins. She swung Needle at him but the sword only glanced off his helm and cut his cheek a little. He answered with a curse and a stinging backhand.

Her horse no longer wanted to run but Arya was not so willing to give up. She made to stab at the Frey when someone grabbed her from behind, wrenching her sword arm in a painfully tight grip.

“Little bastard!” The Frey she’d meant to stab slapped her again.

The one holding her arm twisted until she cried out with pain, letting Needle fall from her grasp. When he tried to pull her from her saddle Arya kicked out, catching the man who’d slapped her right on the chin. When she tried to bite at the other’s hand he let go of her, sending her falling to the ground.

It knocked the wind out of her and someone laughed. When she looked up the one she'd kicked had dismounted and looked about ready to kick her in revenge.

“Hold!” Someone shouted. “Can’t you see that’s a girl you fool!”

“She fights like a boy ser!” The man yelled back at a helmed rider approaching, rubbing his chin.

“So do you!” Arya shouted as she rose to her feet.

A smoky laugh answered that but Arya didn't think there was anything funny about this. The Freys had formed a ring of death around her and the others, herding the smaller group  together like sheep. Gendry had been knocked down to his knees by three men while Anguy earned a fist to the gut for trying to hold onto his Lannister dagger. In quick time all the others had their weapons taken away as well.

Arya could see Needle behind the man in front of her but her hip hurt so badly from the fall the thought of dodging him to get it seemed impossible.

_Of course I had to land right on my dagger..._

_Oh you idiot._

_You still have a dagger,_ she realized, _you can still fight._

The helmed rider had arrived alongside some others and shook his head as he looked down at her.

“Did you have to toss the child from the horse? Just because we dress like Freys doesn’t mean we need act like them.” The man said sternly.

“She almost kicked in my face ser!”

“I thought it was your arse!” She snapped back.

The helmed rider began laughing again.

“Oh I like her.”

Arya took the chance to get a better look at this man who looked to be in charge.

He was atop a dark courser, clad in mail and leather. While he hadn’t drawn a weapon drawn yet she saw a sword at his side and a bow strapped to his saddle. From what little she could see beneath his halfhelm she thought he was an older man, his face lined and weathered. His bright blue eyes took in all before him with a confidence that made Arya think he was the most dangerous one here.

 _He’d be the one to get_ , her fingers twitched towards the dagger, _him first_.

A hand fell upon her shoulder then. Brienne was there beside, shaking her head and glancing down to where Arya had hidden her dagger.

 _She knows_ , she thought, _of course she knows she gave you the dagger after Hyle._

“Don’t be a fool.” Brienne’s hiss was quiet, her eyes locked on their enemies. “You follow my lead on this Arya.”

The old man in charge was conferring quietly with two others when another rider joined them. Arya recognized him as the fool who’d fled her charge.

“Ser! It’s like the outrider said. They’re warriors of the Faith, out of Harrenhal. They’re calling themselves the Holy Hundred…”

“A tad short of that hundred aren’t they?” The commander’s deep, smoky laugh rang out again. “Tell them to hand over their arms in the name of the Lord of the Crossing or they'll get a taste of Frey hospitality."

"At once!" The captain rode off leaving the older man to sigh.

"Of all the days to lead a scouring...it’s my luck isn’t it? We need grain but instead we find a bunch of fanatics chasing a giantess and a motley band of outlaws.”

“We are no outlaws! We are merely fleeing men who meant us harm!” Brienne called. “Please good man, we mean you no trouble.”

“They claim you hold a lady meant to be under their protection.” The captain said and made to say more when the commander silenced him.

“I know you I think.” He tapped the side of his helm thoughtfully before stiffening up in surprise. “Be that you Brienne of Tarth?”

Brienne drew back in surprise, releasing Arya and freeing her hand again to reach for the dagger.

_Ned and Anguy said the Faith was telling everyone about Brienne._

_He better not try and touch her,_ she thought _, and Brienne better lie._

The lady was a poor liar though. She stayed at a loss for words for so long that Arya thought any lie Brienne came up with would be a poor one.

In the end Brienne didn’t even try to lie.

“I have journeyed far and met many in my travels.” Brienne squinted at the man. “I…I can’t recall meeting you ser…”

“Well it’s hard to forget you my lady.” The commander replied. “I’ve only known of one giant lady warrior and she was sworn to my niece’s service. Name yourself, and fear nothing for doing so.”

“Your niece?” Brienne choked out, gazing at the man in shock. “But…you are a Frey man…”

Laughter rang out from the commander and his men, causing her to grit her teeth. It was bad enough Arya and the rest were at the Frey's mercy, now they had to endure the weasels laughing at them.

“It’s good to see our mummery works!” The leader pulled at his cloak chuckling. “For the time being we’d have any who see us see us as Freys. Trust me it’s as foul a thing as it sounds. But you’ll find no weasels or turncloaks among our lot.”

“Who would want to be Frey if they weren’t one?” Arya asked.

“It has its uses unfortunately.”

“That doesn’t make any…”

“Hush!” Brienne interrupted her as she stared hard at the man. “Ser…I only ever swore service to one lady…”

“And no finer a lady has ever lived.” The man bowed as he removed his helm to show long grey hair and busy eyebrows. “Look here and see I am Brynden Tully, called uncle by Lady Catelyn Stark, great uncle to our murdered King Robb and castellan of the Twins. Seven save me.”

_Mother’s uncle?_

Mother had told them some stories of this knight but she’d never met him. People called him the Blackfish and last she heard of him he’d held Riverrun against the Lannisters long after the Red Wedding.

_But the castle fell and now he’s a Frey._

_Is he a traitor?_

"Ser!" Brienne shouted, lowering her head as if in respect. "I thought...I mean I'd heard..."

"That the Lannisters got the better of me?" The man shook his head as he climbed down from his horse, striding toward the pair. "The Kingslayer gave it his best but...well I guess I owe you for the pleasure of losing my home to that honorless piece of..."

"Ser Brynden!" A Frey man shouted from back towards their horses.

A group of them had been going through the group's saddle bags and this one ran from Brienne's saddle with a bit of parchment in his hand. One her traitor uncle grabbed and began to read. His face darkening as he did so.

"Which horse?"

"In the woman's." The man pointed back at Brienne. "She's a Lannister spy!"

"I'm no such thing!" Brienne protested. "I was tasked with..."

"Returning Cat's daughters to her, not becoming the pawn of the Kingslayer and his ilk." The old man spat. "Take her. I'm glad Cat need not see me hang her woman as a traitor..."

"Don't touch her!" Arya yelled before she was knocked aside as men began to restrain Brienne, forcing her to kneel.

Arya made to help again but a man threw his arm into her throwing her back on her arse at the old man's feet.

“Leave her!” Gendry yelled and tried to rise up, earning a fist to his chin for his troubles.

Ned had faired little better, one of the men driving a spear butt into his gut when he tried to run to her as well.

"Stop that child." The old man said as he looked down at her. "There's no need for you to get hurt in this."

She was about to rage at him when a cry went up and the so-called Freys started yelling and pointing behind them towards the trees. It was there Arya saw something that gave her hope.

 _She made it_.

_I knew she would._

Nymeria had emerged from the trees just a bit aways from them. The direwolf was keeping her distance from the party, her eyes on Arya as she paced back and forth. As the horses and men panicked at the sight of her Nymeria crouched low, baring her teeth and growling at them. The old knight wasn't panicking though, he didn't even act scared as he looked out at the wolf.

That's when Arya realized his attention wasn't on her anymore.

And hers turned to his leg.

 _Take out the leg like Hyle,_ she thought _, when he's down put the knife to his throat and the others will let you leave.  
_

_You won't even have to kill him._

She knew she had to move quickly. The archers in the Frey party were already notching their bows to take aim at Nymeria. With so many of them she doubted Nymeria could escape without being hit so the wolf would need a distraction. She was on her feet, pulling out the dagger and about to strike when the man yelled.

“That’s a direwolf! Just like Ser Jon’s.” He waved at the bowmen angrily until they lowered their weapons. “Hold you bloody fools!”

_Ser Jon’s?_

“Who has a wolf like Nymeria?” Arya asked, dagger still in hand but her arm had fallen limply to her side at his words.

“Nymeria?” The old man turned his attention back to her, appearing surprised to see her standing there. Then shocked to see she had a blade. “None of that.”

Her wasn't rough but he snatched it away from her grasp in a quick, fluid motion. Arya barely even registered she'd lost her weapon, his words still echoing in her head.

_Ser Jon. Ser Jon.  
_

_He was a squire. He never became a knight. He died._

"Who is Ser Jon?" She dared to ask the scowling man. "He has a direwolf like Nymeria?"

“I don’t know any Nymeria but I do know a Ser Jon and that wolf is of a kind with the knight's.”

“Is his name Ghost? Is he all white?”

"How do you know Ghost..." The man trailed off then, narrowing his eyes at her.

_He knows Ghost._

“Ser if we could speak in private…” Brienne tried to break in but a man cuffed her violently.

Arya had turned to watch but was grabbed about her shoulders and spun around to face the old knight again. He knelt in front of her now, holding her firmly but not so tight it hurt. His eyes were roaming over her face, as if trying to make sense of her. Then his eyes met hers and the man sucked in his breath.

"It can't be..." He rasped. “I mean they told me you look like him but ...”

Arya's heart was beating hard then. People only ever said she looked like her Aunt Lyanna, her father and her brother.

"I look like Jon Snow." She said numbly. "Did you know him?"

Arya swallowed then, daring to ask one more thing.

"Is he alive?"

He couldn't be of course. Jon had died with all the others. They were all gone now. She was the only one left. Arya knew that.

She'd known that.

Then the old man tore that truth to shreds.

"Last I saw him he lived." He smiled then. "He and Sansa both. Tell me you know Ser Jon. Tell me you know Queen Sansa."

_Queen Sansa?_

Arya was struggling to deal with all she was hearing. She didn't know if she could trust the man. She wanted to believe him. Nymeria was whining from somewhere off to her side. Brienne was supposed to be hanged. Jon was alive. Her friends were prisoners. Sansa was alive.

“Who are you child? Please speak it so I can know I’ve done some good here. For Cat.” He said then holding her a bit tighter. “Who are you?”

"I'm...I'm their sister..." She struggled to speak as the strength left her. "I'm Arya Stark."

"Oh thank the mother." A tear broke free from the man's eye. "Oh Cat she's alive...your family misses you so girl..."

Her knees gave out then, Arya falling to the ground as a sob wracked her body. Her uncle wrapped her in his arms, pulling her to his chest and holding her there.

 _They're alive,_ she thought as she cried _, they're alive._

_I’m not the only one._

_Not anymore._

 

* * *

 

 

 JON

 

He waited until the last man had gone within the farmhouse to raise his hand.

_We go now._

Hal caught the signal with his group behind the rocks to his left. Among the trees to his right the knight commanding the other group raised his fist as well.

Jon rose up to a crouch and began to run as quickly as he could through the ankle high snow. The others doing much the same, his party mounting a full on attack across the snow-covered field.

The building they charged towards was a shambles. While smoke arose from its thatched roof and firelight flickered through the wooden door the stone building ahead was as pretty as Jon’s hand. The sounds coming from it even uglier. The screams and cries from within had been hard to endure while they waited, but they'd done so anyways. The farmhouse ahead just big enough not to be called a hut but so lively he wondered if they’d miscounted their enemy’s number.

Seven they could overwhelm. Ten would be suicide.

As they grew closer he feared any moment that door would swing open and an army would spill forth.

Instead it was Hal who wrenched open the door and their two crossbowmen who spilled first blood. The bolts took two of their enemy through the back and as Jon ran within his sword cut down the one still attempting to stand.

Half their enemy had been sitting upon the ground about a fire, the others enjoying a naked crying girl upon a pile of furs.

That was all he saw before it became a bloody massacre. Hal and the others rushed in as swords were pulled and men cut down for the effort. He pinned a one-eyed man against the hovel wall yet another of his party gutted the man before Jon could even think to offer mercy.

One man fell into the fire during the fray and the burning foe ran by Jon and straight into the dagger of a Royce man. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh filled the small room long after the clashing of weapons and screams fell away so that everything became oddly quiet.

The only sounds he heard now were his own heavy breathing and those of the others.

“Any of ours?” He asked, looking about the dead upon the ground.

“Not that I see.” Hal answered, kicking over a body to look upon its face. “They were surprised.”

The man had a talent for stating the obvious.

Only one outside of Jon's men still lived, a beardless boy with a bloody lip pressed against the wall with a knight holding a sword to his chest.

A quick glance to the corner where he’d last seen her bore the truth of the girl's fate. The side of her neck had been cut open in a nasty gash and her small, bruised body was coated in blood.

 _A wide cut meant for another_ , he thought, _at least I hope so._

“Hal check for any messages. Bring him out.” He gestured to the lad as he turned to walk out of the hovel. When he was outside again he pulled a white cloth from his sword belt and waved it towards the trees off in the distance.

In what light the early evening offered he soon saw four riders come forth, leading three times as many horses.

And then their prisoner was led out and tossed roughly into the snow.

“Please…please…” The boy raised his snow-covered hands up as he sat shivering on the ground. “Don’t kill me…”

“We haven’t yet. Don’t make us change our minds.” Another Ser Jon said.

Ser Jon Redfort was Mychel’s older brother and one of the four knights including himself in this party. Ser Kyle Condon was the one leading their horses back from where they’d left them. When they’d passed Greywater Watch on their return to the north two hundred Northmen had been awaiting their coming, more survivors of Robb's campaigns who had slowly collected in the Neck since their departure. Among them had been Ronnel Stout and Ser Kyle, and it had been Kyle he had entrusted with the horses rather than the last knight of their party.

Ser Lyn leaned against the doorway, his bloody sword still in hand, listening to the boy's pleas with a bored look upon his face.

The boy was far from bored, his face was twisted in fear and tears streaked down his cheeks. Rather than focus on that Jon looked to the badge of the flayed man upon his chest to avoid feeling too much pity for him.

“Tell us what you were doing here lad.” He said. “Why here and not Winterfell? Or the Dreadfort?”

The boy trembled some and swallowed.

“We was to keep an eye out for ironmen…keep the road safe for m’lord’s riders to the Moat…”

“And what news have you had of Moat Cailin?”

“News?” The boy blinked. “No news. We never had to do much of anything. Ironmen don’t come so far as the road…we just watched it…Bors said we was lucky. We got the easy work…the farmer’s girl…the others have to do the fighting.”

“Fighting who?” Jon took a knee before him, the lad cringing away. “Who are the Boltons getting ready to fight?”

The boy mumbled something then, much too quiet to hear. Someone cursed behind them and kicked snow at him, urging him on.

“Lord Stannis!” He yelled. “Lord Stannis! Bors called him stupid! Said he was marching all the way to Winterfell just to die. That Lord Roose would do for him!”

_So it’s as the others said._

_Stannis marches to Winterfell._

They’d taken few prisoners at the Moat, the bloodlust too great among the men to realize so few fighting there had been Boltons or Freys. Those they had captured were mostly Tallhart and Umber men, a group with little enough reason to love the leech lord.

It had been them to tell Sansa and the others of Stannis Baratheon’s march on Winterfell. In the south they’d heard wild rumors of the man but now it appeared some of wildest were true. According to their prisoners Stannis was locked in a bitter conflict with those who had set upon the North in Robb’s absence. He had thrown back an attack on the Wall, taken back Deepwood Motte from the ironmen and, if these men were to be believed, now moved to attack Roose Bolton himself at Winterfell.

When Sansa had gathered her commanders to her it had been to discuss their continued march north and the news of Stannis. Ser Symond had joined her council alongside Jon, Howland and Maege within the drafty solar of the Gatehouse Tower. By the time they’d arrived Jon had already thought hard on a course of action in response to what they'd heard.

“We should send a party to seek Stannis.” He’d said to the others. “To learn the truth of these stories. To see if his army still stands or he yet lives. If we can join our strength with his…”

“Would Stannis join with us?” Maege had asked. “From what Lady Catelyn took from the man he saw King Robb as a threat the same as the Lannisters. Would he not think the same of the Queen?”

“I believe he would think Roose Bolton a greater threat than Sansa.” Jon had answered truthfully. “I spent more time with Stannis than Lady Stark did and I doubt he will consider Sansa much of anything to him. He would hold little respect for you…”

Sansa had not appeared upset to hear such. He was glad she knew the difference between him speaking to his own views and him merely repeating those of others.

“We can correct him of such a notion at a later time.” Howland said. “As ignorant as Stannis is of Sansa’s strength we are as ignorant of his…”

“Your old friend has told you nothing of Stannis then?” Sansa had asked with an edge to her voice.

Howland had not been offended though, even bowing as he answered.

“Little and less I fear. I wish it was different but I cannot always control what my old friend chooses to share.”

“Well Roose Bolton won’t be ignorant of us.” Symond had put in. “Ravens took flight from here as we arrived at the battle. He’ll know you’re coming.”

“He would not wait for that to happen.” Howland sounded certain. “If Stannis marches as we believe Roose will move to crush one of our forces before we have the chance to join against him.”

“I’m not sure if that would be as bad as having to fight him with the might of Winterfell’s between our men and his…” Sansa said quietly and met Jon’s gaze. “He could use our home against us.”

“Likely.” He admitted, it would be what he would do. “A long range scout could tell us whether we face a siege or an army marching south to meet us. It would also give us time to prepare.”

“Hopefully Roose moves against Stannis then.” Symond smiled. “It would help your cause greatly if they destroy one another’s strength.”

“That’s a damn fool thing to say!” Maege had raged, moving to point a finger in Symond’s face. “There are northerners among both armies. Good people on both sides and many would gladly bend the knee to their rightful Queen so don’t you dare act like they’re better off…”

“My lady…” Sansa lowered Maege’s hand gently, her other hand going to the lady’s shoulder. “The knight meant no disrespect. Good people are at risk throughout the North, just as he was yesterday when he fought to take this fortress with us.”

Maege had been red-faced in anger, Symond as abashed as he was confused and Jon felt the need to tell him the reason behind her outburst.

“Her daughter and a good many Mormont men march with Stannis.”

“My apologies my lady, truly.” The knight backed away, his hand at his chest. “Had I known…”

“You would never have said so but thank you for proving Ser Jon’s point.” Sansa smiled at Maege before turning to him. “What we don’t know can lead to rash actions. So I would know as much as possible of what awaits us. We shall send this scouting party ahead of our march north. If Stannis is out there those men can act as envoys to him, to see if we can make common cause against the Boltons.”

Jon had been glad she had accepted the idea so readily. It had made him hopeful then that the second part of his proposal could be well received.

“I will prepare letters immediately for Stannis.” Sansa had gone to the table where some parchments awaited. “When should this party leave?”

“Immediately would be best. Our men should have some days rest before another long march is asked of them. That would give the scouts a greater lead.” Howland said. “I’d suggest a small force…”

“No more than twenty men at most.” He’d added.

“Small but a mixed force at that.” Sansa agreed. “Northmen and men of the Vale. Let Stannis see what allies we have made.”

He’d thought that clever. It was as much a threat to Stannis as it was an opportunity.

_Make common cause with us and the Vale may make common cause with you._

_Make an enemy of us and we make common cause against such an enemy._

Jon feared Sansa ready to excuse the others so he knew he had to act quickly. His best chance at her agreeing to his proposal was with them about.

“My Queen, I beg the honor of leading the scout.”

Sansa had whipped about to face him, her eyes wide in surprise. The others were a bid taken aback by his boldness but it was not their reactions he'd worried about. Sansa had looked ready to reject the idea out of hand before an almost sad expression came over her and she was silent. So he’d continued on.

“You can spare no lords here and I know the lands well.” He said quickly so the others would know the wisdom of his case before she could argue against. “And as you all know I have treated with Stannis before and I feel I have the queen’s trust to negotiate on her behalf…”

He had learned from Sansa and prepared his arguments prior to coming here with the idea. She could risk none of her commanders so sending one of them to treat with Stannis was not an option. She needed someone she could depend on to do this and Sansa was forever forcing the others to trust him so he figured now it was her turn.

The others had said little against Jon leading the party, supporting it fully in little time. Sansa took a touch longer and only after the others had all made points in his favor. After she gave her blessing she had asked the others to leave the room so that she might confer with him on what must be said to Stannis.

He had been somewhat worried as the guards closed the door leaving them alone within the room.

She had said nothing as the door shut. She had walked over to her table not longer after and poured herself a cup of water and said nothing. When she'd taken to just staring at him, still saying nothing, he had felt very awkward. Even surprised.

He had expected yelling, not silence. Anger, not staring.

“I would promise to be careful and take no unnecessary risks.” He’d offered.

She’d nodded.

“I thank you for it.”

“And I will give Stannis no information he could use against us.”

“I know you wouldn’t. You have my trust.”

Her tone had been devoid of anger or much of anything else, and still she stared at him. When she had finished her water she gently laid the cup upon the table before lining up the parchments in a neat line.

“You are angry…”

“No Jon, no I am not. If anything I'm sad.” She said softly. “Why must you always have plans such as these? Why must you always throw yourself into danger and leave me behind to worry? It is an old song now.”

“I never want to leave you behind.” He said truthfully, being apart from her was a terrible thing. “But who else knows Stannis as well as me among your men? Who else could do this?”

“As a queen I say you are right,” She had begun wringing her hands then. “As someone who cares for you I say anyone. Anyone else.”

“You are a better queen than I ever hoped Sansa. And I thank the gods to have someone like you to care for me.”

Sansa said nothing to that, the only sounds between them had been the wind howling outside the tower and crackling of the fire in the hearth. He still feared she'd decide against his leadership in this. He would argue with her if it came to it. He didn’t want to fight. Not with the journey he had planned and how long they could be apart. But he would argue because it was the right thing to do.

After a time she finally spoke.

“You would take Ser Willem?”

“I wouldn’t. He should stay with you, with so many newcomers here now you’ll need his help. Willem knows these men, and I trust him to keep you safe.” He smiled to add another to the list of those not to accompany him. “Ghost will stay as well. He’s as protective of you as I am and I don’t think he’d come if I tried to make him.”

Sansa had not looked happy to accept that but she had. Ghost had his own idea about things and often enough it didn’t matter what they wanted the wolf to do.

“Fine, but other knights should accompany you. It would ease my fears and make our delegation look stronger.”

“I was thinking of Ser Kyle to help represent the North. Should I fall he knows the lands as well as I.” He’d made a mistake mentioning his possible death so he’d moved on quickly. “You need Symond for the march so from the Vale I thought Ser Jon Redfort, Mychel’s brother.”

“He has been anxious…his brother’s standing with Lord Yohn may be wearing on him.” Sansa nodded. “I think him eager for another action and chance to prove himself…yes…him as well then.”

“And I’d have Lyn Corbray too.”

His dreams of a peaceful conversation were dashed then. Sansa was livid.

“That man is a killer and cannot be trusted Jon!” She’d yelled. “He already tried to kill you once and probably plotted to return me to the Lannisters…”

“Exactly why I’d rather have him with me and not here with you. Where I can keep an eye on him.”

That argument had been fierce but he’d not relented on it. Ser Lyn was a famed warrior and having him amongst their number could only help if it came to battle. Sansa allowed it in the end only after she decreed no Corbray men would join them on the ride. They’d ask for guards from the Royce men in case he did try some treachery.

When the party’s members had been decided upon Sansa had still been upset. He’d wanted to help her with that but once again she found a way out of the problem for them.

Brightening suddenly she had begun to fuss with her the ties of her hair.

“I’d ask you to take something besides letters on this journey.”

After a moment she pulled loose one of the long ribbons binding her hair. It caused some of that bright hair to fall across the one side of her face as she came to offer it to him.

“A favor…to ward away evil.” With that she placed it in his hands and he thought it as blue as her eyes and as soft as her touch. “I am no red sorceress but I have to hope Jon.”

It was a kinder gift than he’d thought to have.

Jon put his other hand to her face pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. They were glistening but she did not weep. He was glad of it. He'd wanted the moment be a pleasant one.

“I will hold it safe until I can return it to you.” He vowed and made to kiss her forehead. “I bid you goodnight and…”

He hadn’t been ready for it. He was a knight trained to have quick reflexes yet she got the better of him.

Before he knew what she was doing Sansa had pulled his face down and moved hers up.

Her lips soft and warm went against his. As surprised as he was the kiss was so tender he responded immediately.

Neither had spoken of what was between them. They moved around it as well as they could and pretended it was something to be dealt with later. Only having small moments where they could hint to each other their feelings.

This kiss was not like it had been with the tavern girl or Melisandre. Those had been hungry fumblings. Borne of lust and foolishness.

This was a need gently filled.

Borne of love.

It could not have lasted long but when they drew away they were breathless. He’d wanted nothing more than to stay with her but that hadn’t been an option. Others were expected in the solar soon on other matters and he had a ride to prepare for.

Their farewells when the party departed the next day had been in public and cordial.

To him their true farewell was that kiss.

So as Jon stood holding his bloodied sword, watching the Bolton boy weep in the snow he felt as if that kiss had happened in a different world.

A world far from this dark moment.

“We should stay here the night.” Kyle said as he led the horses towards them. “The barn would do for the horses."

“It would do for us.” Jon Redfort said, gesturing back at the hut. “You wouldn’t want to bed down in that.”

“What else do you know lad?” Jon asked but suspecting the youth knew little more of use. “How many does Lord Roose have? How many horse? What lords are at Winterfell?”

The boy shook his head at each of those questions, more and more confused at each.

“I was never there m’lord…we stayed here when they marched on…Bors had been there…he’s the one that told me.” The boy lowered his eyes then. “Please don’t hurt me I can’t tell you nothing more…don’t flay me…”

Jon turned away and walked back towards the hut with the others.

“I believe him.” He said simply, Hal and the Redfort knight nodding in agreement. “I don’t think we can learn anything more by hurting him.”

Lyn scowled and shook his head, so Jon ignored him.

“Not really in the mood for torture myself.” Kyle added as he joined them.

“So we set the boy to digging graves and then what?” Jon Redfort asked. “We drag him along on this march? Whose horse does he share?”

“The lad would give us away the first chance he got.” Hal said and Jon hated to think he was right.

"It be best to be quick about it then." Kyle shook his head, putting his hand on the pommel of his sword. 'I can do it if you..."

"Do what?" He asked even though the man's meaning was clear. "Kill him? You would kill him? He's our prisoner."

"Prisoners are executed all the time." Lyn said but Jon couldn't just accept killing the poor crying wretch.

 _Leave him some food and ride on without him_ , he thought, _let Sansa’s army find him._

_Surely that's better than killing him._

None supported such an idea when he gave voice to it. The others all had the same mind on this yet it was Jon they looked to decide the boy's fate.

“We have leagues of lands controlled by our enemy to travel through yet. Our odds of doing so better without this boy slowing us or giving us away." Kyle said. "This is war. He is our enemy."

 _He's but a boy_ , he thought, _someone put a blade in his hand and sent him to fight._

“And that girl in there was raped Jon." Hal added. "That boy a party to those who did it. Your father would not have allowed such a crime to go unpunished. Nor King Robb.”

That gave Jon pause. In the drive to learn what they could from the boy, in the relief of hearing Stannis still out there, he'd almost completely forgotten the poor girl in the hut. It shamed him to think he'd almost set aside the crime done to her. For Hal was right, that girl had plainly been raped. He hadn’t even thought of her when thinking of freeing the lad.

He spared a glance to their prisoner, still laying in the snow shivering. His youth as obvious as his fear.

 _She was young as well, barely older than Arya would be now,_ he thought _, does his youth excuse her suffering?_

Father and Robb would never have suffered rapists. Jon never thought to either. What caused him to hesitate was the idea of killing the boy himself. A knight defended the weak and helpless, which their prisoner was now. Yet the dead girl had been in even more need of defending,

_And you ordered the attack that cost her life._

As much as he struggled with it Jon knew what the answer was. What the answer would have to be. He knew what he would have to do. _  
_

"We can't leave him..." He started before being knocked aside by Ser Lyn.

“That’s the right idea.” The Corbray knight said, heading straight for the boy.

With his Valyrian blade in hand.

The lad's eyes opened wide in terror as he tried to crawl back away from Lyn's coming.

“No!” He screamed. "No please!"

“No!” Jon yelled. “Stop!”

The knight did not stop. He lashed out with Lady Forlorn, cutting through the cowering child without even breaking stride. The lad had reached up to protect himself just before the end, his hand as well as his head being severed in that cruel cut. Both hit the snow before his body did, which fell in a bloody heap soon after.

Lyn jerked his blade back and forth in the air as he circled back around, as if proud of what he'd done.

“Murderer!” Jon roared.

He made to raise his own sword but someone stayed his hand. Kyle had a firm grip on it and Hal joined him in wrapping an arm around Jon’s chest, holding him in place as he struggled against them.

"Hold ser." Kyle said. "It was poorly done but it was what had to happen."

“Let me go! He’s a murderer!”

"And the lad was a raper and enemy besides." Hal held him back. "I know it was for you to do but it's not worth challenging him over."

"Oh I forgot! You northerners prefer to do the dead yourself." Lyn smirked before flicking his bloody blade at the ground, spreading a bit of red upon the snow there. "There, the snow got itself bloody. Happy?" 

Jon was anything but. He knew what Lyn had done was wrong. That it was as disgusting as it was dishonorable.

Just as he knew Lyn was right. For Jon had been just about to kill the boy himself. The deed should have fallen to him and as much as the Corbray knight filled him with rage Jon felt worse for being somewhat relieved the boy's blood was not on his conscience.

Until he realized it was.

 _You asked for Corbray,_ he thought, _you asked for a monster.  
_

_And he acted as one would._

Those thoughts made Jon feel the cold around them now much more now than he had before. It felt like it crept inside him and spread through his bones. The feeling as horrible as the grin on Lyn’s face. He must have calmed enough for the others to feel at ease for they released him, leaving him to gaze upon the murderer he'd invited to ride by his side.

“Get out of my sight.” Jon said then, shaking his head. “And the next time you execute a prisoner without my command I will kill you myself.”

"You're welcome to try..."

"Shut it." Jon Redfort said. "Do not make this worse. If you're so eager to be bloody you can help us drag out the bodies so at least the horses can rest within that hut."

Lyn might have argued yet was clearly outmatched as the rest eyed him darkly. So they all left Jon where he stood. Some going to prepare the barn for their slumber. Others tending the bodies. A few keeping watch so such a fate did not befall them.

Jon stayed outside. Watching his breath float away in the cold air. Staring down at the large patch of blood stained snow around the boy's body. His head had landed face down in the snow and Jon had not the strength to right it.

The cold was still in him. The thought of being around a fire with Lyn disgusted him. Seeking shelter from the wind  within the bloody mess of the hut bothered him just as much. In truth he just didn't want to be around the others at that moment. He would eventually seek a fire to warm himself but not now.

Instead Jon closed his eyes and tried to remember that kiss with Sansa.

Desperately seeking to remind himself there was something beautiful in this world besides the blood and cold.

But when he opened his eyes the lands were still dark, cold, and empty.

And he felt very alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, I'm embarrassed of the mistakes that keep getting by me. If anyone spots any please let me know. I will fix them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcomes news, hard truths, bad memories and strange dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the battle for computer rages on.

**BRYNDEN**

“I did my duty.”

“A traitor’s duty.” Jason Mallister quickly added to the lady’s statement.

For the hundredth time today Brienne of Tarth was called such and Brynden still marveled at how she cringed at it each time. 

 _You think she'd be used to it by now_ , he thought, _or at least come to expect it._

_Everywhere this woman goes somehow she ends up on the wrong side of things._

He kept any sympathy he felt well hidden as this secret trial continued. The room was large and felt almost cavernous with so little furnishing or people within. There were two guards at the door, the only things worthy of notice here save the long table the Brynden and the others sat around. They were four in all, Olyvar, Jason and himself who sat at one end while far down at the other a woman sat awkwardly by herself.

It had come to him not long ago how strange this whole situation was. The three of them were to sit judgement over the lady before them all because of the actions of another lady so dear to him. For it had been Brynden's niece who set Brienne out on the journey from Riverrun, a journey as notorious as it had been dangerous.

It was surprising she had survived at all.

_Survived only to see what fate?_

Cat's freeing of the Kingslayer had been forgiven by their king but it did not change all that spiraled out from that desperate act. Despite all the horrors that followed it had somehow led to Brynden welcoming Cat's youngest living child into his protection. It had also led Brienne of Tarth to where she sat now.

And depending on what the lady said here it could also lead to her death.

 _Had she come to us alone she’d be dead already,_ he thought _, at your command._

_She only lives now for the sake of the company she keeps._

“Speak to it woman, you ferried the Kingslayer from Riverrun to the capital and abandoned the Starks for the Lannisters while doing so.” Jason pressed, so aggressively that some of his hair fell amongst his fierce eyes.  “You betrayed the wolves for the lions.”

 _More grey there than there was_ _Jason_ , he thought,  _being held hostage in your own home can do that._  

_Jason still fared better in his trials than this poor creature._

Brienne had suffered great hardships, a glance to her scarred face and healing limb would make clear. Yet she'd suffered more since.

All at his command.

Three days he had kept Brienne away from her party, locking her in a small, windowless chamber with nothing to do save endure her own thoughts. The only respite from such isolation had been when he came to question her, several times a day, always asking the same questions and Brienne always offering the same answers.

While he’d been gentle in the matter and no violence brought to bear on the woman others would scarce believe it by looking at her. Brienne had dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair hung greasy and unkempt about her face. She almost trembled before them and Brynden had begun to fear the lady ready to collapse under such strain.

Yet she held on.

For one more answer at least.

“I served neither wolves nor lions.” Brienne said shaking her head. “I swore no oaths to House Stark and none to House Lannister. Only to the Lady Catelyn…and to Ser Jaime, to see her daughters safely…”

“Safely delivered to their Frey allies?” Jason continued. “That’s the truth of it isn’t it? That you meant to deliver the princess to Lord Walder and it was only chance you found us here?”

“I would never have done…” The lady choked on her words, the plot before her apparently too dark to comprehend. “I had not thought…I sought to seek the Neck and…”

Olyvar interrupted the lady by clearing his throat.

“I don’t think there was any plan to come here with Princess Arya. On this charge at least I believe the lady is innocent.” Olyvar earned a harsh glance from Jason for saying so but the young man showed heart by pressing. “They were taken by our men far north of where they should’ve been if they meant to come here. And why not just take the girl to Riverrun if she was to be handed over to Freys? At least there she would find some Lannisters…”

“I agree.” Brynden added quickly, eager to move on.

His words obviously shocked Jason and Olyvar but he didn’t care. He had gathered the two here on the pretext of taking stock of the woman who, depending on which accounts were believed, was either the truest warrior born or a traitor to their cause.

Yet it was all a mummery.

Less to humor the two lords and more to test Brienne's honesty on something Brynden suspected of her. Something he needed her to speak to in front of witnesses. Something she could not hide from.   

“Nor do I think she meant to deliver the girl to Roose Bolton either.” He continued cutting off Jason’s next argument, which the lord was too smart not to have thought of. “To try and pass through the Neck with such a party unmolested would be suicide. So Olyvar and I vote that charge out, what’s next?”

“The charges of being in service to the Lannisters and pillaging a septry.” Jason turned his attention back down the table. “Both brought forward with strong evidence.”

“I said I swore no oath to the Lannisters…”

“You travel with the Kingslayer’s sword my lady. A blade you freely admit he gave to you.” Olyvar put in. The young man was finally starting to act a lord and Brynden had hope for him yet. “You carried parchment declaring you about King Tommen's business while in possession of the Princess Arya.”

“And those Holy Hundred knights swore testimony you’d been heard to cry out the Kingslayer’s name in your sleep at some inn.” Jason drove the point home. “They swore on the Seven-Pointed Star itself and those kind of men don’t do so lightly." 

Brienne closed her eyes and lowered her head, he imagined being presented the same evidence again and again quite tiring.

"I attacked no one on Quiet Isle I merely discovered the lady...I mean the princess there and took her away as she bid me to do." Brienne said. "And Ser Jaime secured that document for me...to aid me in my quest to find the Stark girls and get them to safety. He wanted..."

“Did he seduce you?” Brynden asked, Brienne’s face falling at the question. “The Kingslayer? Do you love him?”

All the other questions could be ignored as far as he was concerned. This was the one that mattered to Brynden. One he was confident he already knew the truth about.

For Brienne was not the only one who’d been questioned since arriving at the Twins.

Not the only who’d had to give him answers.

“Seduce me?" She choked out, drawing back into her chair. "No. No he didn’t…I did my duty…I saw him to the capital out of duty not out of love.”

“Carefully worded answers are a fool’s errand in our company Brienne.” He said, shaking his head. “Lord Jason has sat in judgement enough to spot the truth of something no matter how you well disguise it and I've seen too much of the world to be misled by one so clumsy by you. You did your duty? Fine, but answer my question, do you love the man?”

Brynden had known little of Brienne at Riverrun, enough to think her a woman of strength and ability. One with lofty ideals of what knighthood and service meant. Naïve in some ways but earnest and forthright in how she’d served Cat. Not one to balk at a task asked of her.

That was not the woman he saw now. This one was scared. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes not meeting any of theirs, merely staring at the tabletop. Her mouth open yet no words came forth.

He'd heard much of the lady's heroics in the last few days. She'd survived her travels, persevering against any enemy and all forms of violence to do so. Yet he imagined had Brienne's enemies dropped their swords and used words instead they may have prevailed against her. For theirs today had done far more harm to her than any weapon had.

His words for certain.

“Speak to it Brienne.” He commanded. “You must. If Arya Stark matters at all to you, you must.”

_If I can trust you at all you must._

_Any lie will seal your fate for me, for one who hides their love is one who can betray you for love._

She tried to reach for a cup of water, her hand trembling so it spilled, rolling off the table and to the ground. Her hands flung up to the side of her head then, her fingers running through her hair in frustration.

It was a feeling Brynden could sympathize with but still he pressed.

“Speak to it.”

“I love him.” Brienne spoke barely above a whisper. Her chest heaving and her breath coming in deep labored gasps. "Damn me...damn me for it but I love him."

She laid her hands down on the table and gently slid them over the wood as she repeated the words again, and then again.

“I love him...I love him...”

“She admits it…now we see what...” Jason grumbled with disgust but stopped when Brienne fixed her eyes upon him from beneath her matted hair.

Brynden thought he was seeing the first sign of the woman he’d found on the Kingsroad then. For her jaw was set and her hands curled into fists in front of her. She glared so intensely at the lord had she the power Brynden imagined Jason would be set aflame by her ire.

“I admit it. Yes I admit to loving him.” She rasped. “I also admit I have hated him…that I have wanted him dead. I have wanted to kill him myself…”

“Why didn’t you?” Brynden asked, those angry blue eyes moving to his now.

“Because I swore a vow. Get Jaime to the capital and have my lady’s daughters freed.”

“The Kingslayer did no such thing! From what we’ve heard the Lannisters never had Arya Stark and we know Queen Sansa escaped the capital long before then.” Jason reached out to refill his empty goblet. “So when you heard Lady Stark was dead you took up service with him? Swore to hunt down her daughters for the man you love? To see them returned to Cersei loving care?”

“Never!” Brienne yelled, rising from the table so abruptly her chair flew backwards.

The two guards behind her put their hands to their daggers as Brienne pressed her fists into table and leaned forward at her accusers.

“Never!”

“Easy! Be calm” Brynden rose himself. He was speaking more to the two guards moving towards the lady than her. “My lady I told you we wished to hear from you and you may speak to any claims against you…”

“That girl…Arya…I would have killed any who tried to take her from me. I will kill any who mean her harm.” Brienne struck the table hard. “Any!”

“And you would have us believe the Kingslayer offered you all he gave to do so?” Olyvar asked, almost seeming impressed at the display. “Are you so convincing?”

“No. Honor bid him to do so.” Brienne paused then as Jason let out a laugh and even Brynden thought it a jest. “He swore in return for his freedom to see the Starks girls returned to Lady Catelyn. He could not do so himself so he tasked me with...”

“If you expect us to believe…”

“Hold my lord.” Brynden interrupted, holding a hand out to calm his old friend’s fury. “The lady has answered to the only charge I myself thought her guilty of.”

“You’re taking her word over men of the Faith?”

“She admits to loving the Kingslayer…”

“I apologize to you both for this, for I have been already heard testimony from a witness who has swayed my belief towards the lady’s innocence to the other charges.” He tried not to smile then. “A witness of a very convincing nature.”

While he’d questioned Brienne he'd also set about questioning the others in her little band. He’d gleaned the truth of Brienne's feelings towards the Kingslayer while doing so. Not that her comrades ever really offered him much, their few answers on the matter just cemented something he'd already suspected from how the lady reacted whenever he mentioned the Kingslayer.

The outlaws knew little and less of her, only to say they thought her a true woman and the big one refused to speak to the claims of whether it was Jaime Lannister's name she called out in her sleep. 

The Imp’s squire had said the least, for a time he'd wondered if the lad was simple. That was until the squire offered such a grand and passionate speech espousing the bravery and honor of the lady that even one of the guardsmen had been brought to tears. For the life of him  Brynden couldn't remember exactly what the boy had said.

He did however remember the twitch on the squire's face whenever he mentioned the Kingslayer and the lady. A small clue but a reaction he thought important nonetheless.

The most talkative member of the group and had also been the angriest. The only one to extract a promise from him.

“Bring her in!" Brynden said, waving at the guards before turning to the others. "I'm afraid I made a promise that the witness I speak of would have a chance to stand for the Lady of Tarth...I pray you forgive her...”

He did not get to finish, for as soon as the door opened a skinny girl pushed her way through. The guards were shocked, the sour faced Frey septa following behind angry and the princess storming forward had a face full of fury.

 Until she caught sight of Brienne, and the child's face eased into a happy smile.

“Brienne!” Arya yelled as she rushed straight to the woman’s side. "Brienne I didn't think you'd be here!"

“Arya.” The giantess enveloped the girl in an embrace which showed none of her usual awkwardness. “You are well...it is good you are well…”

It reminded Brynden of how Sansa had run to him after the battle to take these accursed castles. As warm as their relationship had become his younger niece and he had been a different matter altogether. The girl trusted him little and was furious he’d kept her apart from the others. The princess apparently growing quite attached to her odd little band.

Since arriving at the Twins and being separated from the others she’d bloodied two guardsmen and almost scarred another permanently in her attempts to free herself and reunite with the lady. Arya’s fear for her had clashed strangely with what she swore was the truth of Brienne.

“Do you think me a monster?” He’d asked during a particularly nasty argument in the girl’s chambers. “That I would hang her even if you stand here and swear her innocent of all we accuse her of?”

“She is innocent! She never heard anyone at the septry and she wasn’t going to give me to the Kingslayer!”

“I believe you.” He’d said. “But what of these words claiming she calls out for the man in her sleep? That she loves him?”

The girl, to her credit, had said nothing to that. None of them had. Yet all their reactions, the squire’s, the hedge knight’s, the princess’s, even Brienne’s had all told the truth of the matter.

_All that I needed was for the woman to prove herself honest._

_Let Arya prove all else to these others._

He tried not to let it bother him how long the girl held Brienne for. Nor for how tightly she appeared to grip her either.

“Did they hurt you?” Arya asked, finally breaking the embrace. “I told them if they hurt you I’d see them all…”

“I am well. Your uncle has treated me kindly.” Brienne nodded, a slight smile pulling at her tired face. “And your treatment? Of the others?”

Arya scowled, pointing at him.

“He won’t let me see them! He keeps Nymeria outside the castle and me in chambers...”

“That’s for our safety as much as hers.” Brynden put in.

“A wise action." Brienne nodded. "Nymeria is quite wild…”

“I was speaking of my niece.” He chuckled, the princess turning red faced.

“My mother called you brave! The Riverlords were supposed to be for us!” The girl raged. “Instead you lock up my friends and make friends with Freys!”

“Princess, we only wish to…”

“Don’t call me that!” Arya cut Jason off, the man’s face reddening itself. Obviously the lord of Seagard was not used to being spoken to so harshly by a girl.

“Arya!” Brienne put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Respect must be accorded to men of…”

“Why? What have they done? You saved me from Quiet Isle and the Bloody Mummers and they’re all whispering about you being a traitor? They don’t care about the truth! They only care about sitting in these castles getting older and fatter...”

“Alright girl.” Brynden held back from laughing. The girl reminded him too much of someone he’d once been. “You asked to say your piece here today, get on with it.”

For once the girl did as he asked and he was impressed at how well it went.

His niece told them the tale of her time at Quiet Isle and the nature of her escape, a story which clashed greatly with the accounts given by their Holy Hundred prisoners. Arya told the story of the battle with the Bloody Mummers well and Brynden thought it as convincing a defense as any. For if the woman merely sought reward he doubted she would charge headlong into a battle against a group of such monsters alone. 

That Brynden named the act of a truly brave and foolish person. It fit what he thought of Brienne of Tarth. Whether the others were as convinced he couldn’t say, yet he hadn’t expected them to challenge the girl's testimony and neither did. 

Although how Arya ended her testimony probably did little to endear herself to them.

“Brienne is with me and so are the others, more than any of you have ever been.” Arya crossed her arms before her and glared down at him and the others. “You’ve got no reason to keep us apart and if you keep it up you’ll suffer for it. I’ll make you suffer for it."

The girl’s words hung in the air between them all. He was shocked at how serious the threat came across himself. Most of those made by children seemed idle enough.

_I believe hers though._

"That's enough for today Arya, you're excused." He said.

Arya looked ready to argue but Olyvar chose that moment to rise and address her.

“Your grace, thank you for your testimony...I have not had the honor but I'd have you know I'm Olyvar Frey.” Olyvar said bowing as he did so. “I served as your brother's squire and, well, I’d have you know…no matter what my family did I serve the Starks and have served them since your brother was made king. I will restore my family's honor by serving your sister. I fought beside your brother…”

“But you didn’t save him.” Arya’s voice was like ice itself, her eyes even colder as she took in the lordling. “I was here for the Red Wedding. I saw the killing. I saw what your family did to mine…"

The girl took a menacing step towards Olyvar then.

"And I know what Sansa did to yours...I know what Ghost did…I don’t know why Sansa left you alive but if you think to do anything to Brienne or the others…” Arya inclined her head towards the window at the side of the room, the one which opened into the lands beyond the walls. "Well Ghost isn’t here...but Nymeria is. Remember that Frey.”

Olyvar’s face was stunned, the young lord left speechless with his mouth slightly agape. He was not alone in his shock, as both Jason and Brienne stared at the girl in disbelief. For such a threat to come from such a young girl, had Brynden not heard it himself he probably wouldn't have believed it.

“Enough.” Brynden said as he felt a strange worry pull at his stomach. “Enough of that now, septa please have the princess off to whatever activities you’d have of her.”

Arya did not go so easily, it took both Brienne’s urging and the help of a guard to remove the girl from their presence. When she was finally gone it was the lady warrior to appeal to them on Arya's behalf.

“I beg forgiveness for her manner of speech my lords.” Brienne said. “I am a better warrior than a lady but I apologize for her courtesies.  You must understand Arya has suffered many hardships since her father's arrest and fleeing the capital…some during my care and I accept blame for that.”

“I’d prefer to lay that blame with the Lannisters rather than you.” He said, leaving his chair to approach the woman. “The princess herself just ordered us to free you, her, and the outlaws you came in with. As a loyal servant to her sister what should I do?”

Brienne was taken aback, that was clear enough. She glanced over towards the others before finally settling her gaze upon him again and hazarding an answer.

“She’s still a child ser. No matter what she’s seen or done. Or title." Brienne struggled then. “You must keep her safe. You must do what you think best to see her back to her sister. It is more than I could hope but I’d beg to be a part of it. I beg you to allow me to fulfill my oath.”

“And should your oath ever mean taking up arms against the man you love? Could you do so?” Brynden swallowed before continuing. “Can you put your duty above your own selfish feelings?”

This had been the question he’d dreaded asking.

One he’d been forced to answer himself once.

Brynden had still been young when they'd met.

A brash, overconfident squire with a head full of stories and a thirst for glory. He was always excited for tourneys at that age, hoping he'd find some of what he was looking for at them. For they were always filled with lords, ladies, knights of castles and hedges and all manner of people in between.  

He'd always thought to find adventure at such occasions. Then at one when he was but five and ten he'd found something else entirely.

It had been the eyes of course.

He still remembered the first time he’d seen them, as blue as the sky after a spring rain. They stood out all the more beneath hair the color of harvest wheat. He’d thought those eyes full of excitement, of possibility and hope. As if all that life could offer was reflected in them. They had been easy eyes to dream of or lose a thought staring into. 

That tourney and their time together had been his first brush with the love which kept hold of his heart most of his life. They saw little of each at first but later, after he became a knight, it was different. He sought every opportunity for them to chance upon each other again. Whether the occasion a feast or tourney it didn't matter, nor did the distance, sometimes he felt like he traveled half the realm and back again in his quest.

Once or twice he’d even joined parties hunting down outlaws just so they could be together. It had been a hard thing sometimes shrugging it off as coincidence, for he’d never dared proclaimed his feelings.

He couldn’t.

The closest Brynden had ever come to doing so was during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. When they had fought side by side on the Stepstones, sharing the same dread moments before battle and the toasts of victory afterwards.

The fight to slay Maelys the Monstrous had been a brutal one, even worse than the battle at the Twins. For the fear which had clutched at his heart made it all the worse. Brynden had been at Hoster’s side during the battle, watching as the Golden Company did its best to kill what he so cherished. He could not stand back while such a thing happened, so he’d left Hoster to charge forth. He threw himself into that fray, cutting down man after man all to protect the only thing in life he loved more than his family.

Afterwards, when victory had been won and his beloved earned cheers and rewards from lords and knights alike they’d found each other again.

“Not enough sing your praises today Tully.” Barristan had smiled as his squire wrapped one of the many cuts he’d taken in that fray. “I would’ve been dead half a hundred times over without you there right behind me.”

“Leave the praises where they belong, with Kingsguard preeners and lordlings.” Brynden had japed back and Barristan’s laugh had been music to him. He’d wanted to wrap those wounds himself, to care for this knight he’d loved for years but he was not so bold.

“Knowing you’re able enough to spare a cup of wine with the likes of me is all the reward I need.”

“Just one cup? I think not, a barrel at least for two old friends like you and I." Barristan had risen then, going to pull something from his bags. "Wine's no proper reward nor are my thanks, you deserve more so I’ll that's what I'll offer.”

Barristan had come to him then and placed something in Brynden's hands. The feel of Barristan’s fingers on his palm had been almost cruel since it had ended so quickly. Leaving only the object he’d placed there.

 “It’s not much I admit but I cherish it anyways. We met when I squired for the Swanns, this was a gift from their lord and the only finery I ever had as a young man." Barristan had smiled as he clutched Brynden's shoulder with a firmness that had sent shivers through him. "Take it Brynden. Take it and know I know your worth.”

The silver swan pendant Barristan gifted him that day had become his first and only connection to the man who haunted his waking thoughts and cursed his dreams.

Years later, in the aftermath of the Battle of the Trident, it had been that pendant Brynden clutched as he made his way to a guarded tent. The guards there were many but too few to stop him. Not with him knowing who they held prisoner within and what fate could await him.

“Whatever you think to do you cannot.” His brother’s words had cut through the night air and stopped him.

“This doesn’t concern you Hoster.” He’d tried to wave him off, thankful to see his brother without men about him. “Go back and tend to your new king.”

“And how long would he allow me to tend him after my brother frees one of Aerys’ finest knights?” Hoster had spat at the ground between them. “Do not lie about what you intend to do here.”

Hoster had long known if not suspected. As careful as Brynden had been his brother was not a slow man and he’d taken notice of the signs. The many times Brynden has found his way to Barristan’s side in their youth. The girls he’d spurned at feasts to share tales with the knight.

Of how Brynden had abandoned Hoster during the battle on the Stepstones. His brother had been grievously injured afterwards and had it not been for that Baelish man Hoster would have died and the fault would have been Brynden's.

After he’d rejected the marriage Hoster had arranged all their ill will had come to a head. While Hoster never spoke to the truth of things he had made it clear he found Brynden's feelings to be foul ones. Ones he would never support.

“I’m not in your service Hoster. Let them call me a turncloak and bare that burden myself.” Brynden had drawn his sword, the first time outside a training yard he had ever done against his elder brother. “I cannot let them kill him. I can’t.”

“You bloody fool Robert rejected Bolton’s suggestion out of hand.”

“And what if he changes his mind? Robert Baratheon is known for his temper!”

“Exactly!” Hoster had come at him, no blade in hand but fury in his eyes. “Think of my children Brynden. What if he doesn’t accept you did this as a lone man? What if his rage turns to Lysa or Edmure? To Cat of all people?”

His thoughts of how defeated Barristan had looked after the battle had clashed with those of Hoster’s children laughing about him. They were not his children but he loved them as if they were. Especially Cat, the girl a gentle reminder of the good this world could offer even when it seemed its darkest.

It had shamed him to think he hadn’t even considered how his actions could harm them.

How they might suffer for his sins.

“Family. Duty. Honor.” Hoster had taken his shoulders, the closest they’d been in some time. “Those are our words Brynden. For everything else we quarreled about I never thought you’d forget that. I ask you brother not to forget our family. For my children who love you so I must ask you...”

As he watched Brienne of Tarth struggled with the question he’d put before her he heard Hoster’s voice rasping in his ear again.

_'Can you put your duty above your own selfish feelings?'_

“I can and will.” Brienne answered then, her chin raised defiantly. “I am not a knight but I am a lady who fights as one. A lady who has sworn oaths…”

She paused then and looked to the sword they’d taken from her, it lay upon the table before Olyvar and Jason. The attention she gave it did not go unnoticed and Olyvar laid a hand upon the blade while a guard moved even closer to the woman.

“I never swore to Jaime’s safety. His sister wanted Lady Sansa dead…he knew this but he wanted to spare her such a fate. He knew that should Queen Cersei ever learn of that betrayal…” Brienne shook her head. “Jaime did not task me to protect him, he made his choices and he knew which side I would fall on if any threatened the Stark girls...he knew I would keep my oath.”

She put a hand to her chest then, closing her eyes and dipping her head as if in memory.

“I serve the Lady Catelyn. I defend her daughters. No matter the threat. No matter the foe. I keep my oaths.”

It was a powerful enough statement, as strong as any he’d heard in his long life. Yet he wished to hear one more truth from this woman before he could accept her for what she claimed to be.

“Do you care for the princess?” He asked. “Do you care for Arya as well?”

“I…to care for her…she is my charge ser. I think highly of her in many ways…”

“I saw how you held her. I saw how you willingly fell back to keep those fanatics from her and the others testified you’ve offered your life for her on several times.” He shook his head. "As she has threatened others on behalf of yours."

He smiled some then, the woman was almost hideous to look upon with her scars but it was plain how happy Arya had been to see her.

“You care for her, there’s no shame in it. The mother knows that girl needs all the friends she can get.”

“I have grown fond of her.” Brienne admitted sheepishly. “As troublesome as she is there’s a strength to the girl…she reminds me very much of her mother.”

His eyebrow raised at that. It was high praise indeed.

“I’ll have to spend more time with her to see that for myself.”

“Brynden, words are wind.” Jason leaned back his chair, looking quite exhausted with all this. “How can you trust this woman after everything she’s admitted to regarding the Kingslayer?”

“Because she just admitted to loving a man we all hate. If she means to betray us to him that's a bloody fool thing to speak to. Besides, she cares for Arya as well. I know the type to abandon the ones they care for and are duty bound to protect for love…” Brynden shrugged away the memories. “She’s not the type.”

He turned to face the two men then, deciding to push a little further to get his point across.

“Besides, between you who can say they haven’t been associated with someone who betrayed the Stark cause themselves? Or bent the knee to their enemies for the sake of a loved one?”

Olyvar’s eyes lowered at those words while the Mallister’s jaw clenched tightly. Whether in shame or anger Brynden didn’t know, nor did he really care. His point had been made.  

“And the princess is fond of her, which of you want to be the one to tell her we’ve locked the lady in the dungeon?” Brynden waited patiently for answer.

When neither offered one he walked down to take Brienne’s sword in his grasp.

“Princess Arya was your charge for the journey here, I task you with keeping her safe within this castle. I can think of only one other I’ve met who has shown such devotion to predicting my niece’s daughters. A man I misjudged at first, I don’t wish to make the same mistake gain.”

After saying all this he offered the scabbarded blade back to the lady, who was as stunned by the turn of events as any.

“Of course I’ll have other men about you as well but this is a princess we’re speaking of.”

“Of course ser.” Brienne nodded, taking the sword back in hand. “I welcome it and am in your debt.”

“Keep the girl from wounding any one else and I’ll consider the debt paid. Now leave us.”

The others may not have been as convinced of his decisions as he was but they kept their tongues on it. Other matters pertaining to the ongoing insurrection against the Iron Throne still had to be dealt with and their talks went long into the night.

Afterwards he did not seek the comfort of his own chambers and the peace of sleep. Instead he sought the chambers of the great niece he knew so little of.

He found Brienne had already taken up her duties, standing guard outside the doorway while the two men he’d had posted had moved to keep their distance. He was amused at that, he offered the lady a nod as he silently went within the room.

He wasn’t surprised by what he found in there.

 _She’s not even peaceful in her sleep_ , Brynden lamented,  _seven save that septa._

Arya’s blankets were tangled and strewn all about the bed. Kicked and thrown away as the girl tossed and turned throughout the night. She did so even  as he came to stand by her beside.

Now and again she’d make a noise and Brynden thought perhaps she was having foul dreams. Yet her face betrayed no foul mood, he saw it was calm and her mouth even curled into a smile at times. As a guttural noise started from deep within her chest another sound drifted in from the room’s small window.

Somewhere beyond the castle walls came the long, drawn out howl of a wolf. He had little doubt of what beast made the sound.

_Bloody made for each other aren’t you?_

_Both beautiful little beasts._

He smiled at the thought but did little else other than watch the girl as she dreamt, being as quiet as he could. He welcomed whatever dreams the child had to take her away from the shit state of the world.

_If Edmure is lost all I’ll have left of my family are the children of the children I loved._

_If Sansa is defeated, besides that little shit in the Vale and Roslin’s unborn babe this fierce girl is all that's left to me._

_I could have had it differently... _I gave up my heart for this...__

_I gave up him for this._

Brynden could claim few things as certain in this world but he felt confident naming time as the greatest enemy a man would ever face. It stole from you, it weakened you and it did all this before you even realized it had come and gone.

The evidence of it was everywhere. Long ago his fiery hair had been lost to grey and his youthful face to lines and wrinkles. Family and friends long dead and buried while moments treasured were as frayed and faded as old parchments.

Yet some memories were as bright as they’d been the day they’d happened. It was cruel thing that the one tormenting him now could still be so vivid.

Robert Baratheon, still a warrior then, had been bandaged and ailing as Barristan was brought before him. His newly proclaimed bannermen and warriors gathered about to witness this act, Brynden among them.

As he’d watched Barristan he remembered thinking time had taken their toll on his knight as well.

Where once his hair had been blonde it had turned to white. To all who knew him he’d been forever brave and true against any foe. That was before his prince was lost, before the news from the capital had come. Now his knight of songs had been defeated and none who saw him now could question it.

Barristan’s back was not as straight as it had been, where one he'd stood proudly it looked as if he was weighed down by an unseen force. His knight who could stare down any man now kept his eyes firmly on the ground. Brynden’s heart broke to see Barristan so lost, to watch as he knelt before the man who wrought destruction to the crown he’d faithfully served.

When it had finished Brynden remembered hoping Barristan’s eyes would find his as the knight walked by. He prayed his love would see him standing there beside Hoster, his swan clutched tightly in his hand. He'd hoped Barristan would know that he had not lost everything.

Their eyes did meet but Barristan’s were not how he remembered. They remained blue but somehow seemed dimmer than they had been. The hope and life they’d once shone with lost to sadness and remorse.

He’d been dumbstruck by the change yet still made to raise the pendant for Barristan to see. To show him he was not alone, no matter the choices that had been made. To offer him that much at least.

Yet they were denied even that.

Hoster’s hand had found his and forced it downwards, his fist forcing Brynden’s fingers tightly around the pendant. His grip powerful and intent clear.

So Barristan’s eyes had moved on and Brynden’s chance was lost. The knight strode by and out of his life.

For the shame he felt for accepting what Hoster asked of him kept Brynden from ever seeking Barristan again. Nor could he abide being at Hoster’s side for much longer afterwards, scorning Riverrun and all he’d loved for what it cost him.

It was only when Hoster neared death that he could force himself to be at his brother's side again.

So now, as he stood staring down at Arya, he thought of what he would give to be watching Barristan sleeping there instead.

Of what he would give to go back and make a different choice.

The girl whimpered some then and something about the sound shook him free of those thoughts. For it reminded him so of Cat. His eyes finally caught on to what he truly saw on the girl’s peaceful slumbering face. Of how her small mouth pursed and her eyebrows took on an almost thoughtful expression.

Just like how her mother had looked when she slept so deeply. The shame came quickly after, shame for the choice he had just put to himself.

 _You selfish fuck_ , he cursed,  _to think such a thing in this castle of all places._

_Cat and the others had been worth it then, this little one is worth it now._

Another howl came from outside and the Arya answered it by kicking the blanket almost completely off her skinny body. He thought she’d wake but she continued to lay still, even shivering some at the cool air.

So he bent down and pulled the blanket up to tuck his princess back in. As he had once done with her mother countless times at Riverrun. Brynden even gave her a small kiss on the forehead, just as he’d done with Cat. There were too few let in the world he wanted to kiss and Brynden would not waste a chance to do so again.

Nor would he miss a chance to be with the girl at her most peaceful, setting himself in a chair beside the bed.

Watching her sleep and cradling a pendant in his hands.

* * *

 

 

**MELISANDRE**

 

“No! You’ve no right! No right!”

The Northman yelled and struggled as her faithful began to tie him to the stake.

“The south.” Melisandre spoke as the cold wind blew about her, snow melting against her skin. “He must face the south. That is where R’hllor’s favor must be asked.”

The men did as she asked, binding Cregan Karstark to the wooden pole and tying his neck to it so the man stared south. Towards her and the others.

 _And towards Stannis himself_ , she thought, _somewhere he is out there and in need of the good will this offering will bring._

All that remained of her king's strength here at the Wall had gathered here in the darkness, the night broken by a few score torches. Queen Selyse and the young princess had attended, the girl doing so at her mother’s urging. The knights and lords who attended her here at Castle Black were also present, all gathered about the royal women and all seeking favor themselves.

_The only favor that is needed is that of R’hllor's._

_Soon all will see. Soon all will turn to his bright flames as the cold and dark advance._

Behind the large wooden pyre they'd build just south of Castle Black was the only thing holding back the evil she so feared. The Wall stood even now, unbroken, because of the coming of her King, Azor Ahai. The castle would have fallen without coming of Stannis and the remaining a bastion of the Night’s Watch holding it likely would have perished as well.

Now, as the Wall sheltered it Castle Black sheltered the king’s family and forces he had not permitted join him on the march south.

It offered Melisandre more than shelter though. It gave her strength.

Since coming to the Wall her powers had grown, her ability to channel R'hllor's will heightened and her visions all the more powerful. Which made the mystery of her king's march all the more troubling.

For it was a journey Melisandre could not see in her fires when she sought the king.

 _The fires showed me nothing of my king,_ she lamented _, only of snow._

It worried her R’hllor showed her so little of Stannis. Not that it was in Melisandre to question the Lord of Light’s will, it was just taxing trying to understand why she would be shown nothing of Stannis and more of this girl beside her.

The young lady’s face was troubled as she watched what unfolded at the pyre. Her cloak hid much of her skinny, coltish frame but enough of her features bore the truth of her northern heritage.

“Alys! Alys please!” Cregan called to his cousin. “Just tell them to let me go and I’ll leave here and never…”

“Your fate is not for the Lady Karstark to decide.” Melisandre answered. “You have been promised to R’hllor by Queen Selyse, on behalf of the only true king, Stannis!”

“May your fires guide my husband’s way!” Selyse shouted as well, the men about her nodding in agreement.

The man cursed their words as more logs and pitch were piled about him. Alys Karstark had arrived at Castle Black not long before her pursers did. Long enough to beg the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch for sanctuary and protection from her family. From an uncle and a cousin who chased after her and title the girl could offer him.

In return for their protection she'd offered word of plots and betrayals threatening the king.

 _Treachery I had not seen in the fires_ , she thought, _they show me so much but not that._

_R’hllor’s tests my faith, my power here is greater than it has ever been yet I must be humble_

“One realm. One god. One king!” She shouted and the others met her cry.

The Lady Alys did not cry out as well. She eyed the torches the many men about group held nervously, they'd formed a half circle around the fire and Melisandre could sense the eagerness in some of them for what was to come. Yet Alys showed no such enthusiasm.

Even though there was little love in the girl’s heart for this man Melisandre knew she opposed this punishment. Alys's faith in false gods and their ways blinded her to the truth before her. Her lack of faith kept her from being grateful to those who had rescued her as she was taken from Castle Black. Left her at a loss to accept the truth that the flames they'd light tonight would spare her the fate the Lord Commander would have allowed.

Melisandre spotted Alys's true fate standing at the edge of their torchlight.

The young leader of the Thenns had come to witness this offering as well. He stood off to the shadows, surrounded by the large group of wilding warriors he commanded allegiance of. Sigorn had been one of the many to accept their king’s terms for traveling through the Wall, his group the most powerful of those to do so.

The terror of what had forced the wildlings into their mad attack against the Wall came ever closer. Sigorn had not wished to have his people still north of the Wall when it came.

Yet as wise a leader it made the young wildling she knew the minds of young men.

She knew that words and vows offered were little compared to where their eyes roamed, to where their thoughts went, and what they'd do for the warmth all men sought. So her Queen had accepted her words that they would bind this Thenn to Alys Karstark. A marriage to be done in R'hllor's name where the two could shun their false gods as they forged a new life together.

Tomorrow she bind them anew for now she but turned her attention back to Cregan's struggling form. A wedding being a trivial matter compared to the one before them.

“Stop this!” A voice came from the darkness beyond the pyre. “Stop this now!”

A party of black cloaked riders rode towards them from the direction of the castle, coming between the faithful and the pyre. Their number less than it should have been to challenge the will of the queen’s men yet their leader came forth anyways. For this man was constantly challenging not only the queen’s will but that of the king’s.

And R’hllor’s beyond him.

 _His opposition is as constant as the sun_ , she thought, _yet the sun sets and darkness falls._

_And the darkness comes for him, his fate was set long ago._

“I gave this man safe passage!” Jeor Mormont called out as he rode about the edge of the pyre, pointing at Cregan. “He was free to leave…”

“He did leave Lord Commander.” She explained. “In the dead of night with Lady Alys, as you wanted. He rode safely from your castle and we did not take him until he did so. So your command was followed.”

“This was you!” The large man needed help from one of his men to dismount and stand before her, glaring at her with one good eye. “Where are my men?”

 _Most are dead north of the Wall_ , she thought, _dead and already beginning their return._

Jeor Mormont would have been a large, burly man in his youth, one to inspire fear and fealty from others. Yet what age hadn’t robbed him of the evil from Beyond-the-Wall had taken instead. The man’s left eye was gone, the flesh around it twisted and pale from where the wight had done its foul work. The scars about his middle were hidden under his clothes but she knew they were there. It was well known the attack which had cost him his eye had seen him almost disemboweled by the hands of a dead man.

It was a testament to the power of the Great Other that the bodies of the Lord Commander's own dead, retrieved from Beyond-the-Wall, had risen and come for him one night long before Stannis had turned his eye to the North. The old lord had barely survived the attack to tell the tale and much of his strength had never returned. His flesh hung loose about his old weathered face, his body shaking as he leaned upon a cane to make up for the shambles the Battle of Castle Black had left his leg.

Yet Melisandre believed it was his defeats that weakened this man down more than his wounds.

Hundreds of his men had perished in the ill-fated ranging north of the Wall. A ranging the Jeor Mormont  would have led himself were he not wounded so from the wight attack. Instead others fell in his place, the few who lived brought little enough warning of a massive wildling attack upon the Wall itself.

The lord defied the attack, costing him much of his castle to raiders and many of his best men until Azor Ahai had arrived.

For in the end it was not in this old man to save the Wall from being breeched, but for her king to do, saving the realm as he was meant to. After the battle Stannis had been impressed that the black brothers had held out for so long against such an overwhelming enemy. He credited much of it to the Lord Commander's leadership.

She had thought he could have the blessing of R’hllor for a time.

But she was mistaken.

Her king had demanded little in return for his deliverance of the Night’s Watch. Lands and castles, little used or abandoned, for the men he'd brought north to continue his war. It had been meager request compared to the true war awaiting them yet the Lord Commander had refused it. Instead he'd asked the king to grant him the men and means to restore the Wall's castles and see them placed under the Watch’s authority once more.

Her king had not been amused. Even less so when the Lord Commander scorned the thought of Stannis using the surrendered wildlings as an army.

“For a man wishing to bring the North to his side you…”

The lord had not finished, seemingly catching himself but the king has pressed.

“Speak, do not leave me in suspense for how you may defy on this as well.”

“The Watch takes no part.” The lord had said. “I cannot help you.”

“Yet I helped you, because it was my responsibility as king to defend the realm.” Stannis had ground his teeth before gesturing to her as she watched. “Even without the lady’s dire predictions of the end of the world I knew what a king must do. How many others have come? Have you heard anything from the other pretenders?”

When the lord said nothing Stannis had scowled.

“To protect the realm I must hold the Wall. To hold the Wall I must win the North. To win the North I need men! Men to march and attack the Dreadfort…”

At that the Mormont man had grumbled something before shifting his weight upon his cane.

“If that is to be the extent of your help then I would ask you to leave me.” The king shook his head and turned from the man. “If you would not offer my men these castles I will have to take them. Wasting time and resources neither of us can afford. When I return from the Dreadfort I will bring my army back to reinforce your Wall…”

“You will have no army to bring back here if you do as you plan to.” The old man had sighed, falling into a chair, his expression similar to those men she’d seen in the red temples who had been promised to the flames. “Attacking the Dreadfort with an army of wildlings will get you and your men nothing but killed.”

The king had crumpled some parchments in his anger but the old man pressed on.

“If I should offer you a history of the North, as a man who spent most of his life as a lord of a northern house, would you listen to what I know of the Wall?” The Lord Commander asked. “Would you trade a lesson for a lesson?”

Her king had not been pleased to have to trade for anything, yet he was also not a man to ignore insight into martial matters, so he allowed for the old lord to speak. From the Lord Commander Stannis heard of the dangers of a march upon the Dreadfort, of how the terrain and lands he'd have to cross would leave him vulnerable to vicious counterattacks. Then he'd offered tales of the hatred and distrust a wildling army would earn any king wishing to win the goodwill of the North, speaking of how House Mormont itself had spent time untold battling off their raids.

Then a tale was told of lands where a great number of men could be won by showing them the courtesy of a visit.

Melisandre had watched and listened to all this, witnessing her king accept the wisdom of the man’s words on matter after matter and style his plans based on the lord's lessons.

Afterwards Stannis decreed no castles would be taken from the Watch save for the Nightfort, which he would take as his own seat. Nor would the wildlings be taken on a march, rather the king charged the Lord Commander with hosting his new subjects until his return. And for all hospitality to be offered his family still at Eastwatch.

He also told the old lord to prepare for Melisandre to remain at Castle Black and for her to be permitted as much freedom as a member of his court should be expected. 

Yet after Stannis had left the man defied her constantly. When the false Lord of Bones she'd created was sent south to do her bidding at Winterfell the Lord Commander has taken notice of his absence and was wroth. He'd even had a raven sent south to Winterfell warning the Boltons to be wary of such a man and some wildling women to prove the Watch took no sides in the war.

She doubted he suspected that raven had never reached beyond the sight of Castle Black. She'd watched it burn herself as it plummeted back down to the ground.

The worst of his obstructions had been helping the old maester and his fat apprentice hide a babe which should have burned in her fires. Even now she knew the child hidden somewhere at the Castle, kept from her grasp at his orders.

And now with the fate of the realm’s only hope hanging in the balance, this old lord sought to restrain her again.

“I asked you a question!” The old man took another shaky step towards her, anger abound in his eyes. “Where are my men?”

“They are unharmed, and in the Queen’s care." She answered. "It was not them we sought for the fires.”

In truth the four black brothers who’d escorted Cregan and Alys from Castle Black had offered little fight. Her will was feared almost as much as the weapons of the men at her back. Or perhaps they been among a certain group of crows she'd heard cawing angrily in the fires. It was no secret the Lord Commander’s decision to return the Lady Alys to her cousin’s custody, in defiance of Selyse’s wishes, had not been welcomed among certain groups of his men.

_Some see the strength of joining with King Stannis. They see the danger of defying the only hope they have._

_More still see him as offering us too much, he should not need fires to see the storm he invites even now._

“I deny you the burning of babes so you resort to this?” The Lord Commander spat at her before looking at Alys. "You would force his kin to watch such a thing?"

"You gave me back to Cregan." Alys said sadly. "I told you what he and his father are trying to do...how they're trying to get Harrion killed. You gave me back to a man who would marry me then kill my brother to have Karhold."

"I had no choice my lady." The old bear protested gently. "Whatever crimes he's committed are not ones he'd done on lands I control. I could not deny you to him, no matter what I thought on the matter."

"Yet you would deny seeing him suffer? It's alright for me because you wouldn't have to see it but for me..." Alys said nothing more, instead turning her chin up defiantly and gazing back towards the pyre.

The old man's face looked stricken for but a moment before he straightened up, turning back to Melisandre, his eye narrowing at her.

"She's right. I would see this thing because these lands I do control! And I gave him safe passage out of them!" He shouted before turning back to his men. “Release him!”

His command was clear but few moved to do as he ordered. Those that did stopped as the men about the Queen drew their swords and the surrounding torchbearers drew in closer. The wildlings as well.

“This man and his kin have betrayed the king!” Ser Axell shouted, who had not drawn his sword but urged the other knights near him forward. “The Queen demands justice!”

“Those who defy the true king must know their fate!” Ser Patrek added, coming up alongside the Lady Alys. “Any who choose to interfere will share it.”

“Stop them! By the gods Mormont you said I was free to leave!” Cregan added to the uproar but her eyes were only on the Lord Commander.

"We are men of the Night's Watch! This is our land, our castle, our watch! Get him down..." He tried urge his men onward yet still they hesitated, even the ones who’d thought to do as he commanded had stopped, eyeing the armed men surrounding them.

The old lord saw this too.

And she wanted him to see even more.

“Now! For R’hllor! For the true god!” She threw up her arms and beseeched her true lord to here her. “We offer this man to the Lord of Light! To guide our king’s way, to guide him to the victory that was promised!”

Whether R’hllor heard her she could not say. The torchbearers were a different matter. One man threw his torch into the pyre, then the next, then two more, until two score of them had landed among Cregan’s struggling form.

His cries and terror were as lord as the Lord Commander’s protests.

“This is not right! This is murder!” He roared, whipping about to face her but his cane gave way, sending the man sprawling into the snow.

Ser Axell laughed, as did Ser Patrek and even the Queen chuckled to see the old man come out in white.

"Look princess!" Ser Patrek pointed as Mormont struggled his way up. "A snow bear!"

Laughter followed but Melisandre cared little for that display.

For the fire had reached their offering and it was he that deserved her attention. As the flames licked their way up Cregan's legs and his flesh blackened his screams took on a tone most would at this point. A song only the dying could sing for her true lord.

She took to praying in the tongue taught to her by the red priests of old.

_‘Grant our savior the favor he needs to prevail.’_

_‘Guide him through his troubles to your light.’_

_‘Gather upon him your favor and the rewards such offers.’_

_‘For the one true king, give this.’_

When Melisandre finished she looked within the flames and sought R'hllor's hints of what was and what was yet to come.

_A wolf scorning the meat of stoats._

_Another, as black as night, chewing a crown of bronze._

_An old bear pulled down by grasping men, their daggers rising and falling in the dark._

_The sound of a harp coming from a dark place where the statues wept._

_And snow, a great and powerful snow, blowing up from the south._

_Coming for them all._

 

* * *

 

 

**SANSA**

 

_The hare had come this way._

_Its trail in the snow easy to spot even in the darkness. The fear it felt made its scent all the more powerful. It had tried to run for shelter amongst all these trees but she followed it._

_The dawn would be on them soon and her hunt would end so she moved quickly. Ahead of her stood a tree different than all the others around it. Its bark was bone white and its leaves the color of blood._

_And it had a man face, one with big, unseeing eyes._

_Hers saw clearly enough as the hare darted out from beneath some fallen pine branches. It was fast, she was faster. She caught it just as ran across the base of the bone tree._

_Her jaws clamped upon its middle, crushing the hare's small body. As she whipped her head back and forth, she shook out what little life remained in her prey.  
_

_It had been a good hunt. She had not run too far from the great field of men. It hadn't tired her too much either, but she would rest here anyways._

_Rest here and eat._

_Putting her paw upon the hare eat she tore it in two, its warm, red blood spattering the white of her coat and bark of the tree in front of her._

_The meat was less than she needed but it would do. The men would give her more if she waited long enough watching them eat._

_The wind changed and _she knew she was no longer alone._ The scent of man filled her nose. One much closer than the many she'd left, one that was coming closer.  
_

_For how slow and quiet he was being he could be hunting. Maybe even hunting her. She would have been angry and sought to hunt the man instead but something stopped her. Something about the man's scent.  
_

_She knew this smell. She was used to this smell. It was one she felt safe with.  
_

_The man was no threat. He was still coming from somewhere among the dark trees but it no longer bothered her. Her meal would be done by then._

_So she turned back to her meat and to continue eating.  
_

_And stopped again._

_The dead eyes of the hare stared up at her. It's small face and nose bothered her. The pink of its ears caused her to whine some. She’d killed many and more of these beasts but somehow she felt like this was the first time._

_She felt strange then. As if she’d rather care and nuzzle the hare than eat it. As if what she’d done was something wrong._

_The feeling left her when she licked below her snout, tasting the hare’s blood which remained there. Then her hunger rose again and the hare became a meal again, nothing more. She lowered herself to rest as she pulled as much flesh from its bones as she could. It was when she was licking some clean of the ribs she felt it._

_She was being watched._

_The man had neared while she was eating, close enough now she could hear his steps in the snow. Yet far enough still she could not see him so she knew he could not see her._

_So something else was watching her._

_There was a smell as well. A smell which set her fur on end._

_It was a man’s scent that filled her nose now. But it wasn’t the scent of the trusted man._

_This one was fresh but old, too old to live but it did live. The smell was everywhere now. She could smell dark, dank earth as well. Old things, things that did not smell of the sun, but of the darkness._

_The man sounds began after. Quiet, so quiet she could barely follow them. But she did. Her eyes, ears and nose all pointed her towards the same thing.  
_

_She rose up snarling, baring her teeth and backing away from the bone white tree. For all of it was coming from the tall thing. The tree which smelt of a land far colder than this. The tree that made man sounds, sounds still too quiet to know. The tree that threatened her.  
_

_She was scared._

_She wanted to run._ _Run and find him. He would protect her._

_But all of a sudden the panic and confusion changed everything._

_He wasn’t a her. He was not a she wolf. He knew this, he felt this. There was no she._

_The snap of a twig made him turn away the tree. For the man had come._

_The man they knew._

_In his hands he held a long sharp, branch. His face covered by fur until he pulled it back._

_She knew him._ _They knew him._

_He smelled of swamps and his eyes were strange. They saw too much. They went too far._

_“Sansa.” He growled. “Sansa.”_

_“Wake Sansa.”_

_“You must wake.”_

“Sansa it is time to wake.”

She opened her eyes and sat straight throwing away her furs. Sansa looked about wildly, half expecting to be outside, among the snow and trees.

Instead she was in her tent, on her cot with Myranda standing above her. Her friend watching her with a worried expression.

“Sansa are you well?” Myranda asked, reaching for her forehead. “You’re usually up and ready before I arrive.”

"Is it morning? Are you sure?"

Her tent was too thick to let light through yet through the flaps at the entrance she Myranda was right, daylight was upon them. For some reason Sansa had felt certain it would still be night and it was her friend who was confused.

 _It’s me that’s confused_ , she thought, _all because of that strange dream._

_Where I was outside and I was…was I scared?_

As Sansa tried to focus on what she’d dreamt of the memories began to drift away as if they'd never happened. That wouldn't usually bother her, most of the dreams people have are forgotten moments after they wake. Yet few left her as disoriented as she felt now and it was stranger still how little of the dream was coming back to her.

Only a feeling of being somewhere in the dark and of being scared.

And of strange green eyes.

“Perhaps I should fetch the healer….” Myranda said worriedly, pulling her hand back some. "You're acting out of sorts."

“No.” She reached out to cup Myranda’s hand, patting it to ease her mind. “I am well, I just slept poorly.”

She believed she had at least. What she knew for certain was this was just another morning on the march and Myranda had come to dress her as she always did. Sansa rose, shivering some as her shift did little to battle the chill within the tent. Myranda had a robe in hand waiting for her so she took as her friend still eyed her carefully.

“Truly Myranda, I feel fine. I wish I felt warmer though. I fear for how cold this day feels already.” She smiled as she shivered. “How did you sleep my lady?”

The question broke Myranda free of her worries, a wide grin pulling across her face.

“I had little rest your grace, but fear not for it was by my own choice.”

Myranda set to preparing Sansa for her day then. Brushing and styling her hair, seeing to a proper riding gown and what not as she also filled Sansa in on the scandalous details her night. Apparently she’d taken to a man among the army who had been all too willing to keep Myranda warm within his tent during the cold night.

Despite Sansa knowing full well how the two kept warm she had felt a twinge of jealousy at the tale. Somewhere out in the cold ahead of her army Jon bedded down alone, just as she did here. To be able to lay with him one night as they had that evening in the Twins was a hope she often fell asleep thinking of.

Until then she had to depend on the heavy furs of her cot for warmth. That or when Ghost would feel inclined to climb upon it and add his warmth to hers.

Like he’d done last night.

She realized then Ghost was nowhere to be seen in her tent. It was odd how she had not taken notice of that when she’d woken. The direwolf was usually a fixture at her side, save for when he went ahead of the march to run with the outriders shielding their advance.

Or when he hunted.

“I do believe if today is as cold as you expect tonight shall be even worse.” Myranda said as she pulled the last laces of her gown tightly. “It must be dreadful for those poor men on the march or riding out in the open winds. I think it is a good woman who keeps such stout men warm…”

“I’ve been told my smile keeps the men warm.” Sansa said innocently, teasing Myranda for it was her who said such a thing to her.

“That is true my queen, but it’s something else entirely to make their blood run hot. You should remember that for the next time you’re alone with your lover.”

“You are horrid Randa.” She said shaking her head.

Myranda had taken to implying more and more base things since Sansa had told her of the kiss.

_His kiss._

Her friend had been annoyed Sansa left out the very important detail of who, in fact, had kissed her. The lady cried foul often, trying to tease Sansa into revealing the truth by telling her tales meant to make her jealous of the lady's suitors. To perhaps reveal her own as a way of one upping Myranda.

Yet no matter how much Myranda tempted her the identity of Sansa's love was not for her to share.

_At least not yet.  
_

She offered instead every detail she could save anything that could give away Jon’s identity. Sansa had felt proud to say she’d been the one to take the kiss from him. Most of her kisses had been forced upon her by men she neither wanted nor loved so when the opportunity had come to offer one willingly she’d taken it gladly.

And it had been more than she imagined.

She remembered Jon’s hands upon her hips and how closely their bodies had been. How it had felt when their lips had brushed against one another just before, and how the slightest tilt of her head had made them feel as if they fit almost perfectly. If the slightest bit of space between them would open  one would move to feel it, leading to another movement, and then another.

It made her blush thinking of it.

As it had the first time she’d told Myranda of it and her friend had thought it just embarrassment from her teasing.

“You stole a kiss!” Myranda had laughed. “Imagine a queen having to steal a kiss from a man! You are too bold.”

It had been weeks since the kiss and still Myranda pestered her about it. Sometimes she thought it a welcome distraction from the worries of their march. They'd left Moat Cailin almost a moon ago yet poor weather and bad fortune had slowed her army's advance so that they were still quite a ways from Winterfell. Their scouts and maps put their position on the Kingsroad somewhere to the east of Torrhen’s Square.

And soon they would break camp to begin the slow march again which meant there were things to be done.

After Myranda had finished Sansa sent word for those responsible for the day's reports. She insisted on knowing the state of her army at all times, hearing what matters vexed her bannermen helped her learn what must be seen to for the well-being of her forces.

Ser Symond arrived first, the knight being responsible for the Vale men marching with her. It was a sad thing to notice how Symond’s spirits had dimmed greatly since the battle at the Moat.

“We lost two more horses in the night, we expect four more before the day’s over…” The knight shook his head. “Over a hundred since we started out and most in the last week or so. I believe more will survive but I fear how strong they will be if it comes to a fight Queen Sansa. We had not expected our mounts would face such harsh conditions and should the Boltons give battle…”

She’d thanked him for the report, as dispiriting as it was, and dismissed him with the useless command of doing all he could to ease the burden of the mounts. As if he would not already do so.

Maege and Ronnel Stout had arrived next, Myranda joining them, seemingly in a secretive conversation with the Northman. She’d left only after a final whisper in his ear which had him watching the lady’s every move as she left the tent.

Their reports had been more uplifting than Symond’s had been, Maege even scoffing when told of the knight’s words.

“I’m surprised we haven’t lost all their horse. And the southron is wrong to complain about the weather for it has been kinder to us than it could have been.” She gestured north then. “From what we’ve heard of those heading south a large storm has raged around Winterfell and to the north for weeks.”

“And what we lose in southern horse we’ve gained in Northmen your grace.” Ronnel said with a smile. “Every day men join our number. They might not be knights or famous warriors but they come with spears or mauls and with anger in their hearts. They want justice.”

“The north remembers.” Maege nodded. “The north remembers the Starks.”

It was glad news to hear but something troubled her about it nonetheless.

“I will accept all who wish to join my side for our march home but I’d ask…” She paused at how to word what she wanted done. “I’d ask any newcomers be watched, or at least questioned when they arrive…”

The two looked surprised at her request but she felt confident in it. Just because men joined their ranks did not necessarily mean they were as loyal as they acted. She'd seen it before afterall. Petyr had accept Ser Shadrich and the others easily into his service and was betrayed.

She would not be betrayed.

“I hope I am being too cautious, I'd rather that than anything." She continued. "You've both told me we've seen nary a sign of Bolton forces, let alone scouts. Not hindering our march I can understand, yet no one attempting to at least gather information on the size and strength of your enemy? To me that seems unwise, and I am not a man seasoned in battle.”

“You think he would said spies to join our march?” Maege asked, her brow furrowed at the thought.

“I think that precisely the type of thing Roose would do.” Another voice came from the tent entrance. 

Standing at the open flap was the last of those she’d summoned here this morning. His cloak was dusted lightly with snow and more fell from his hood as he stepped within, placing his simple spear against the side of the tent.

“The Queen has the right of this.” Howland said, removing his gloves and rubbing his hands together. “Questioning the newcomers would be wise but I would also suggest they be brought before Ghost as well.”

“The wolf?” Ronnel looked amused. “The beast never struck me as one who desired fealty.”

“Of fealty Ghost needs little. Yet I believe he treasures the safety of our queen here as dearly as we do.” He paused then, as if considering his next words. “And bringing any newcomers before such a beast would surely instill loyalty in them.”

Sansa had a queer feeling Howland was holding something back about why he wanted Ghost involved. Yet before any more discussion could be had, as if hearing his name, Ghost pushed his way within her tent. The direwolf shook the snow from his fur before lazily stretching out at her feet, as if most of the camp wasn’t readying for a march.

Something else crept into her mind. The thought of Ghost and Howland being together earlier.

 _Together in the dark_ , she thought, _where there was blood._

The thought made no sense so she explained it away as only a product of fitful sleep. She gave her assent quickly to the lord’s idea, Maege and Ronnel would go forth to see the march readied and when they next made camp the pair would see to Ghost’s introduction to their new recruits.

Howland remained after they departed, he was meant to update her on the status of their outriders and of the conditions facing the ride ahead as he did every morning.

Yet today she had different intentions towards the lord.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked, his green eyes meeting hers.

_Green eyes. They see you._

_‘Wake Sansa.’_

“I slept as well as can be expected my lord.” She said.

_Why am I thinking such strange things?_

They were barely half formed memories and she’d prefer ignore things that never happened. So she changed the topic, an attempt to ease them into the true matter she wished to discuss.

“That is not a spear for battle.” She pointed to the spear propped against the corner of the tent.

Howland glanced to the simple weapon and grinned, a rare enough thing for the man to do.

“I use such a spear only to hunt. I find hunting alone, just myself and the wild, eases my mind.” He paused, still grinning. “Did Lady Myranda say something to you?”

“No. Why?”

“The lady remarked to me on my way here on some matters…it appears she has heard interesting rumors about us crannogmen and our spears.”

Sansa shook her head and feigned exasperation.

“She is quite the lady, Myranda. Did your hunt yield any..."

She stopped. By then Howland’s words had shed their true meaning upon her and her blood ran cold.

“You left camp?" She asked. "By yourself?”

“It is how I prefer to hunt…”

“It is not how I prefer you to act!” She almost shouted. “It is a reckless thing to do! What if an enemy party came on you? What if you were hurt and wounded somewhere in the cold?”

Ghost had risen and gazed up her, as if worried at her strong tones. She pet the direwolf to put him at ease while Howland raised an eyebrow at her which angered her even more.

“Your grace…I have been hunting alone since before you were born. If I am to die I don’t believe it will be during a hunt.”

“No? Is that for certain? Is that your old friend again?” She scowled. “Will he speak to Jon’s parentage if you should fall? For no one else could!”

Despite the recent strained feelings between them Howland was her most treasured bannerman. He was a wise and capable man who appeared genuine in his care for her. Sometimes he said and did things like she thought father would’ve but she always felt ashamed of thinking so later. As if anyone could replace her father.

Yet it was the truths Howland carried that made him truly invaluable to her. For only he was the only means by which Sansa and Jon could be together. He was the only living person to have been at the Tower of Joy who could testify to Jon being a Targaryen. If some harm befell him then all Jon would have would be the word of those like Sansa and Maege who had only heard the tale from Howland.

A poor case indeed.

The whole situation one she'd been ashamed for not realizing sooner.

The danger she had sent Howland into during the attack on Moat Cailin had been foolish, borne of her anger at the man. At the time she saw Howland as frustrating her dream of Jon and her being together, possibly for his own sake. While his bravery on that day had proved his loyalty to her that she'd asked it of him had been a folly in itself.

He was the only way Jon could be ever emerge from the shadows and she could not put such a thing to chance again.

Which was why his actions during the night angered her all the more.

“If my queen no longer wishes me to hunt alone I shall not do so.” Howland bowed. “Would you have my report now?”

“I would not.” She said firmly before marching over to her dressing table where a bit of parchment and a quill lay beside some wax which could be used for a seal. “I would ask you to something which we have foolishly overlooked for too long.”

She picked up the parchment and held it out towards Howland.

“I would ask you to put your story of Jon’s true heritage on this document, so that truth could survive should you fall." She kept her tone as quiet as possible, lest her guards outside hear. “It is only because of the peril we live in constantly that I ask this. Only my father and you knew the truth of Jon and even with Lady Maege, Jon and I to attest to your story…well if some ill should befall you…our word would not give the tale the strength it needs.”

“I understand your grace, may we sit?” The man sighed heavily and gestured to the chairs near her tiny table. She was thankful Howland had accepted the task with such ease so she nodded, gladly taking a seat next to the lord.

“We shall make several copies, one for Maege, myself and for Jon when he...”

Howland held up his hand and shook his head.

“I said I understood, not that I would do such a thing.” He said simply.

While he reached out to scratch behind Ghost's ear Sansa stared at the crannogman in disbelief.

Then in anger.

 _He let you get your hopes up_ , she realized, _he plays games with you._

“You forget yourself!” She snapped.

“I don’t believe I do your grace.” Howland said unfazed. “You asked something of me, you did not command it of me. So I would not do this thing.”

She began to form the order in her head when he pressed on.

“What I told you of Jon’s parentage was something I vowed to Ned and Lyanna never to speak of. I only broke my word to spare his children from a folly which would have seen you displaced from what was rightfully yours…”

“I was there, you do not need to…”

“Please Sansa, hear me on this. Denying you is a hard thing for me to do but this truth is not one that you can ask of me. Nor command of me. Only Jon can. Should he ask me to attest to the truth I will do so, for it is his truth to do with as he pleases. And I would do as he wants no matter…” He paused to a run a hand down his face. “No matter my beliefs on the matter. You have the power to command this of me but know it will be an order I disobey."

_Disobey me?_

_He thinks me some little girl only playing at being a queen._

_He doesn't respect me._

"You think it an easy thing to disobey me my lord?" She asked with as cold a tone as she could muster. "I am my brother's sister. How did he deal with those who disobeyed him? You think to do such a thing comes with no price?"

"Of costs and prices I know much Sansa." He answered. "I knew the price I would pay when I vowed to safeguard Jon, the price Robert Baratheon would surely have me pay. And I know the price I would pay in disobeying my queen…” 

He paused then and let his meaning be known without saying. It came to her quickly and it only added to how upset she was. To how furious she felt.

 _He thinks I would kill him,_ she realized _, that I could kill him._

It was true Howland was ruining everything and putting so much at risk by refusing her but such a thought had never come into her mind. She'd said what she'd said about Robb only to intimidate him. This man had revealed the truth of Jon to her, freeing her to find her knight of songs. He was a dear friend of Eddard Stark and, besides Jon, was the only link she still had to her father. He was also responsible for her raising an army to retake the north and now, he was someone who thought she had it in her to hurt him. 

_A hare's dead eyes looking up at her._

_It's body torn in two._

Those thoughts came unbidden and she got a sick feeling in her stomach. A dread realization that she had already tried to hurt Howland once before.

 _He could've died at the Moat. I sent him into those bogs not because he needed to be there._.. _it was because I was mad at him._

 _Cersei would have done such a thing_ , she thought _, she would treat someone so cruelly._

"I am not Cersei Lannister." She said, as much to herself as to Howland. "I won't hurt you Howland...I don't want anyone to hurt you. I fear someone hurting you in truth, that was my point earlier."

"I did not think you wanted to hurt me." He managed a small smile. "I just wanted you to see the depth of my vow. I cannot break it again...unless Jon himself asks me to do so."

"And he will." Sansa rose to stand and Howland made to follow but she waved it off, preferring to look down upon him. "When he returns he will ask you, I know it. And what will you do?"

"I will speak the truth of my dear friend Lyanna."

_Would it be better to be a dear friend or a queen right now?_

"Fine." She decided, allowing her lord to rise then. "Then until you do, I invite you to join me at my side for the ride today. And for the day after, and the day after that."

"Your grace I would prefer to continue screening..."

"Your wants matter as little as mine apparently." Sansa, turned and took the quill upon the table and began furiously scribbling on the parchment. "I will have this message taken to your second, he can continue in your stead while you ride in a place of honor at my side."

Howland looked to argue but she finished and called for a messenger. Leaving the two of them staring at each other in silence. It boded it well for the long journey ahead.

“I see much of your father in you now." Howland said finally, his green eyes flashing in a flicker of lamplight. “It is no foul thing to act so passionately for love Sansa. You would not be a Stark if you did differently. Just know that...”

“I don’t need to hear…”

She didn’t get to finish her thought for Ghost had caught her eye, the direwolf’s eyes perking up and head jerking towards her tent flap. A moment later she could hear loud noises coming from outside the tent as well and these were not the noises of a camp packing up. They were the sounds of hoofs and men shouting.

Howland took up a position beside Ghost, picking up his hunting spear and readying himself for whatever came within.

Yet instead of an attack the shout of one of her guards came forth.

“Your grace! Your grace! Riders from the Moat!”

She exhaled loudly, her hand at her chest. Moat Cailin was their only link to what allies they had and news beyond that. Messages came to it from Greywater Watch and then riders would come should the word be of enough import.

_Gods I hope all is well._

“Give them entry!” She called back.

Soon after her guards escorted two exhausted looking men within. Their faces were flushed and wind burnt, their cloaks covered in snow. Their journey had either been very hard or hurried.

“Your grace…we bring news…from the Twins...” The man said before he began to cough terribly.

 _Uncle Brynden_ , she thought _, it would be good to send him a letter back._

The coughing man showed no signs of stopping so his companion continued on.

“We were asked to bring you word of the princess…”

“Princess?” She asked. “Which princess?”

The only princesses Sansa knew of were Myrcella Baratheon and the daughter of the Dornish prince.

“She is at the Twins…with her wolf.”

_Her wolf?_

_What princess would have a…oh gods._

Sansa didn’t think of her like that, she had never thought of her like that even after becoming a queen herself.

But if Robb had been king and Sansa now queen then the princess could only be her daughter or…

“My sister?”

 _Arya_.

 

* * *

 

**ARYA**

 

“Arya!” The Blackfish snapped, beginning to walk away. “Enough! I am tired of this!”

“You’re a bloody liar!”

The Blackfish stopped midstride and wheeled back to face her.

Just as she wanted.

He was red faced, almost shaking with anger, and she knew he would yell at her now. Whenever she made her great uncle this angry he would yell.

“You child! You are a worse pain in my arse than the bloody Lannisters themselves!”

The Frey septa hissed then. It was only the three of them in this corridor, Arya had chased her uncle down to argue with him. The septa had followed, without falling to her disappointment.

“My lord that is no way to speak to a child.” Septa Muriel corrected him without much conviction, giving Arya a dirty look. “Or a princess…”

“Stop calling me that! And I’m not a child either!” Arya shot back. This woman felt as if she could pester her like Septa Mordane had.

This shriveled up Frey was no Septa Mordane and Arya had barely tolerated her. She wouldn’t let herself get distracted though, turning her anger right back at her uncle.

“And it doesn’t matter what he says to me because it’s all lies!”

She braced herself as the old man took a step forward and looked ready to curse her out. That was fine by her, she had some good ones saved up. Instead of cursing though, her uncle sighed in a tired manner and ran his fingers through his long grey hair.

“I have never lied to you child.” He said as he knelt down to one knee in front of her, so that he looked right into her eyes. “You’re just strong willed and want what you want because it is what you want…no matter what reason dictates. Your grandfather is somewhere laughing at me right now. You would’ve reminded him of someone he argued with quiet often.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” She crossed her arms and glared.

Sometimes she liked it when the man told stories of the grandfather she never knew, even more so when he told the ones about her mother when she was her age. Yet she wouldn’t let him distract her with talk of their family. The only family she wanted to talk about was the one he was keeping her from.

“You said I would go home when it was safe.”

“And what has changed since our last conversation that has made things that much safer?”

“Almost a month!” She yelled. “I’ve been here almost a month! You said we just missed Sansa and Jon by a couple of weeks! We could’ve ridden to catch them and I’d be with them now!"

Coming so close to being reunited with her family still stung to think about. The last time she’d been at the Twins Robb and mother had been so close only for them to be killed before Arya could reach them. When the Blackfish told her Jon and Sansa had conquered the Twins she’d swore it be different this time. She’d ride back to the gates with her new uncle and her family would be there waiting for them.

She’d hug Sansa and they’d forget how stupid they’d been and wouldn’t fight ever again. Jon would lift her high, muss her hair and they wouldn’t cry because he was a knight now and she was stronger than that.

Then it had all been ruined.

For Jon and Sansa were gone already. They’d gone north to take back Winterfell and, instead of helping her get back to them, the Blackfish said she had to stay at Twins. So while her family was fighting she was stuck in this horrible castle with the lying old man.

"And they took Moat Cailin!" She added quickly. "So we know they're winning so just let me help!"

“Your sister would give me to that wolf of yours if I had let you ride up to join them as they fought bloody Roose Bolton.”

“That’s why we should be helping them! They need us!” She raged. “But you’re too old and craven!”

This time the septa hissed at her but the Blackfish surprised her.

He started laughing.

 _He’s supposed to be ashamed,_ she thought, _not laughing._

“It is no dread thing to fear girl.” He shook his head. “But I respect your sister more than I fear her, little wolf. And there’s no place I’d rather be than fighting by your her side. Family, duty, honor, those are my words. Your mother’s words once...”

“I know…”

“Be quiet and listen.” He said. “My family…our family has tasked with a duty I must honor and it is not in me to fail at it. And I’d like to think your time here hasn’t been totally miserable, I know having you here has improved mine.”

It bothered her how his words almost made sense. How Uncle Brynden made it hard to be angry with him at times. She refused to answer what he’d just said, crossing her arms and looking to the floor.

Her uncle sighed again as he rose.

“Where are you supposed to be now?”

“The North…”

“Arya.”

“The practice yard.”

“I thought so.” The Blackfish gestured for her to follow him down the corridor. “I’ll take you, it’s about time I watched you train for all the headaches the septa gives me for allowing it.”

“A princess should be learning other things rather than how to be beaten by young men.” The septa shook her head mournfully.

“Like learning how to beat the young men instead?” Her uncle shot Arya a quick grin.

Arya wasn’t in the mood but the look on the old woman’s face at her uncle’s comment made her smile.

She wanted to say he was wrong, that she’d been miserable the whole time but it be a lie. Uncle Brynden had driven away the Faith and offered her friends shelter here at the Twins. It had been tense for a while when he learned Anguy, Ned and Gendry were part of the Brotherhood, apparently he thought little of outlaws. Then there was the foolishness of Brienne’s loyalty but he’d done away with that too.

Nor was he too strict on her.

He may have forced the septa on Arya but he never punished her when she escaped the woman’s prattling. Even with how busy he was preparing for a new attack against the Lannisters her uncle made time to see her and her friend’s needs. He’d treated Brienne well and even given her the use of the training yard. Not long after Brienne had taken up seeing to Pod’s lessons again and Arya had begged to be included, which the Blackfish had also given his blessing to. He’d had even a special training sword forged for her, a slim blunted one half as heavy as the usual kind and much less dangerous to practice with than Needle.

“Call it Thimble.” He’d smiled as he’d handed it to her and she’d laughed at the name.

When they arrived at the yard she Brienne had laid Thimble upon a bench as she watched Pod sparring with Ned. The two young men were battering each other about with their training swords as Brienne barked at Pod over this and that.

Pod was doing well enough but she figured there was reason for that.

 _Ned must be holding back,_ she thought _, he’s too bloody nice._

Gendry was there too of course, practicing with the old warhammer he’d found in the castle’s armory. He’d never admit it but it was obvious how much better he was with it over a sword. His hits against the quintain rarely missed their mark and she wondered if he’d break the thing again.

“Go on now girl, let’s see what you can do.” Brynden smiled as he tapped her back. “Bloody a squire or two for an old man.”

Her uncle stayed off to the corner of the yard while she rushed forward to join, Brienne chiding her for her lateness. Pod and her were squared up because they were pretty evenly matched all things considering. He was bigger and did his best to practice whatever Brienne had just taught him while Arya was faster and cared more about winning than anything else.

It was a good match, and fun too. Usually it was pretty even between them but she did well against Pod today. He managed to knock her practice sword away once but she had the better of it overall. One match had her disarming the squire and another ended in her making him yield.

After that Brienne let her have a try at Ned.

“He’s less likely to be as terrified of the Blackfish watching as Podrick was.” Brienne said and a quick glance to Pod’s face burning made her realize the fool had been holding back.

_I’ll beat him silly for that next time._

Ned and her had never sparred before, according to Brienne his years of experience in a castle yard and real battle gave Ned skills far beyond her own.

She beamed that of all the days for this to happen it was the one when the Blackfish himself was watching. She spared a glance to make sure he still there and saw men had collected about her uncle, speaking with him and dividing his attention.

Yet when he saw her square off against Ned her uncle waved them all away.

Which only served to embarrass her for how poorly she started off.

Ned was even better than she expected, his stance perfect and his strikes as strong as they were quick. He throttled her about the yard, she tried to dance away but he was always on her.

Soon he had two matches on her and the third was going as badly as the others. When she tried to evade him one last time he anticipated it and blocked her way, knocking her off balance and causing her to fall to a knee.

“Arya, I’m sorry I did not mean…” Ned paused, looking ashamed and lowering his sword.

“Why? I’m not hurt.” She said, taking the opportunity to shoot back up and lay Thimble at his throat. “And I didn’t yield.”

Ned hadn’t even had time to raise his sword again, his purple eyes wide in surprise when he realized what she’d done. The group of men around them had seen it too and her uncle began to clap.

“The match is Arya’s.” Brienne announced, lowering Arya’s sword with her hand. “He underestimated you and thought you beaten. Never do that.”

 _I didn’t,_ she thought, _he’s the one that fouled up._

“I didn’t think she’d use trickery.” Ned blushed and she made a face at him.

“Fine talk from an outlaw.”

“She snaps as well as she fights.” Uncle Brynden chuckled as he joined them. “I assume I can only credit half of that to you my lady.”

“It would be wrong to do so ser. Arya was instructed in swordplay long before I ever met her and while it is not a style I am accustomed to she has adapted well to mine.”

“Too well for the outlaw lord here.” Her uncle smiled and placed a hand upon her shoulder, his squeeze firm but gentle. “I’m glad our guests got to see that, if they think your sister is half as strong as you it’ll win them over.”

“Who are they?” She asked.

Of the seven or so men who awaited her uncle’s return she only recognized Olyvar Frey and Patrek Mallister .

“Charltons, Haighs, Erenfords…Frey bannermen.” He said and when he noticed her surprise he carried on. “When we took the castle we took a few of their members hostage and even more since from raids or trickery as you saw on the road. We’re doing as the Lannisters did, they took hostages to force the Pipers and Vances to besiege Riverrun so we’re using ours to raise our an army.”

“An army of Freys?” Ned made a face.

“I can think of few uses for them besides having them killing each other or the Lannisters for us.” The Blackfish shrugged without taking his eyes from Arya. “Your sister’s plots have stirred quite the mess in the Riverlands. Black Walder attacked the Kingslayer’s force near Darry, savaged them pretty good from what we’re hearing. Actually it’s a story you lot might appreciate, heroism of squires and what not.”

Her uncle told the story well.

Apparently when the Kingslayer’s force was surprised by the Freys most of it had scattered in chaos and confusion. With the Freys and Lannisters at each other’s throat Little Lew Piper, as her uncle named him, took it upon himself to rally as many of captives together and fled.

The surviving Lannisters rode either south to Harrenhal or back to Riverrun so Piper sought the river instead. Between Hoster Blackwood and the other highborns among them they managed to convince a riverman to ferry them as close to Raventree Hall as possible. Lord Blackwood had said he was as happy to welcome the travel worn former hostages to his castle as he was to send the raven detailing all the events to the Twins.

“What happened to Ser Jaime?” Brienne sounded concerned.

Her uncle’s face darkened and his jaw set at Brienne’s question.

“We think the Kingslayer fled south or perhaps he’s dead. I’m not sure which I prefer.” He turned his attention to Arya again and his face softened. “What we do know is the Blackwoods, Pipers and Vances are now free to act and Vale army is marching on Darry as we speak. So I intend to do as your sister intended, to cause trouble. I’ll be leaving soon so Patrek Mallister will become castellan here…”

“You can’t leave me here!” She shouted, throwing down her training sword and pointing to the Frey men. “You’re letting traitors leave to fight but you’re keeping me here? It’s not fair, you’re…”

“Arya! Your uncle is doing what he thinks best and you will show him the respect a knight deserves.” Brienne’s words seemed as much a reproach of her as of the Blackfish towards the end. “That an uncle deserves.”

 _Traitor_.

“I thank you my lady but as stubborn as I am the girl has a point.” The Blackfish said thoughtfully. “With Sansa's victory at Moat Cailin and today's news I'm in such good spirits I'm tempted to let you ride straight on to Winterfell but until I receive a reply from the queen beckoning you to her side I can’t send you…

“Yes you can!”

“Let me finish!” The Blackfish snapped before he continued. “I can’t send you to join the march north but keeping you in this godsforsaken castle bothers me just as much as it bothers you. I’ve been thinking of sending you on to Greywater Watch, the journey from here to there is as secure as we can hope and it’s a good ways closer to word from the queen than here.”

Arya’s heart began to pound within her chest as his meaning dawned on her.

“You’ll let me go?”

“To the Reed’s castle, no further. If word comes from your sister it’ll come there first so you can be closer and safer for it.”

“Uncle Brynden thank you!” She cried and hugged him.

Truly she was happy and didn’t care who saw her hugging the old man she’d been happy to scream at a moment before.

“You’ll be well guarded and will heed your guards.” He said as he returned her hug.

As they embraced he made to address Brienne as well.

“Speaking of guards, my lady, I would understand if you’d prefer not to undertake this journey after doing so much…”

“I swore to see Lady Catelyn’s daughters home, I will see it done ser.” Brienne put a hand to her chest.

Pod began to say something but fumbled the words so he drooled instead. Brienne smacked his back and that shook the youth out of his excitement.

“And me! If you’d have me…”

“Who else would?” Arya joked, smiling at the squire. "And of course Pod, I wouldn't leave you here."

“I'm with you as well.” Gendry walked over with his war hammer resting upon his shoulder and sweat staining his brow. “We left the capital together with you on your way to Winterfell, it be good to finish the journey.”

Arya smiled even wider as her friends volunteered to join her. She caught Ned’s eye and he was grinning as well. He made to speak when her uncle grunted and crossed his arms.

“Don’t think it my lord. I will allow the lady, the squire and this bull of a knight to attend my niece but you and your archer friend will be coming with me.”

“Ser please!” Ned protested.

“No they're not!” Arya fumed, pushing away from Brynden. “They helped me too…”

“And helped themselves to gold and food meant for our armies during the war.” The Blackfish’s demeanor had changed entirely as he pointed at Gendry. “That one is the only whose proven himself willing to set aside his loyalty to the outlaws for your sake, by their own admission these two commanded their own band…”

"That kept the Faith away from us!" She couldn't believe how quickly things had turned.

“I spared their necks for your sake girl but I won’t free them.” He shook his head. “Not with the campaign I’m planning on launching. With what they know of us I cannot in good conscience free them and with what they know of the outlaws remaining in these lands they could be of use.”

Ned threw his practice sword down and stepped forward to glare right into the Blackfish's eyes.

“I would no more betray your secrets than those of the Brotherhood ser.” He said, his fists at his side. “If you keep me here I will not help you fight men I once called my brothers nor will I tell you anything…”

“Then you can ride in silence for all I care.” Brynden ignored Ned, looking over his head to her. “It’ll take a day to sort out the party of crannogmen I’d have escort you so you’ll be joining me for a farewell meal this evening. Please let the servants bathe you with little fight this time?”

She was torn between her anger at what was happening to Ned and Anguy and the joy to be leaving this place. Her uncle took her confused silence as acceptance and nodded to the others before turning and striding away. She saw him wave at Olyvar as he left the yard through a stone archway. A moment later some men-at-arms emerged from that same archway, heading their way as Olyvar came before Ned.

“Lord Edric, Ser Brynden has asked for you to retire to your chambers.” Olyvar did not even look to her as he spoke. “These men will escort you.”

“He knows the way to his chambers Frey.” She hissed at him. “And he’s not done practicing yet!”

“I’m afraid your uncle was firm in his order your grace.”

“They think I’ll try and flee.” Ned added, shaking his head before he jerked his at Olyvar suddenly. “Where is Anguy then? What have you done with him?”

“He’s already been taken to his chambers and was not harmed, I swear it.” Olyvar answered and Gendry swore.

Arya saw red.

“Back away!” She lifted Thimble between her and Olyvar’s men. “We won’t let you take him.”

She looked back at Gendry and Pod.

“Will we?”

“No!” Pod spoke for them as lifted his training sword with two hands. Gendry shifted his stance and held his warhammer at the ready as well.

“Stop this at once! Lower those weapons right now.” Brienne’s voice cut through everything. She came to stand between Olyvar’s group and their own, glaring at Arya and the others. “You too Arya.”

“I’m an outlaw as much as them two m’lady, it’s not right.” Gendry argued even as he lowered his hammer.

“Ser Brynden has his reasons I’m sure.” Brienne sounded upset as well but turned to Ned. “As did Anguy and you when you came to aid Arya. You wished to see her safely home.”

“And I still do.” Ned said. “I wanted to help her get home to Winterfell. I wanted to…”

“Would you threaten her return just so you could be a part of it?”

“No! I mean…I’d do anything…” Ned fidgeted awkwardly then. “We’d do anything for her.”

“Then I ask you not to balk at what her uncle has asked of you.” Brienne said firmly. “Perhaps we six could journey to Winterfell ourselves but, if I must be honest my lord, I’d gladly trade Anguy and yourself for a company of armed men.”

“Well I wouldn’t!” She said, not believing Brienne could act this way. “Anguy’s the finest archer in the realm, he can outshoot any they send with us! And Ned…well Ned is a good rider and…”

“Only one man…if you can call me that.” Ned shook his head and turned to Gendry and Pod. “She’s right. If this is what it takes then I’ll do it. You two do what I can’t, promise me that. That you’ll see her there.”

Ned offered his hand to Pod then and the squire stared at it a moment before shaking it. Then Ned turned to Gendry who still glared at Olyvar and the others.

“It’s not right. When it came down to it…after Beric…” Gendry lowered his head. “Anguy and you made the right choice. I know that now. But I’m the one going on while you two…”

“You made the right choice when it counted Gendry. You’re a good man and I trust you.” Ned offered his hand again. “Right the wrong we all made. We owe her that.”

Gendry’s eyes found hers then and she wished they’d stop hiding whatever happened within the Brotherhood. She’d asked a hundred times for them to just tell her what they thought they owed her. Instead the idiots always kept their traps shut about it.

“I’ll make sure of it.” Gendry said as he took Ned’s hand. “I’m sorry for not trusting you.”

“I understand.” Ned shrugged before turning to face her. “I know it’s not all that proper but I can have a moment with the princess.”

_A moment with me?_

Gendry’s face darkened while Brienne and Olyvar both seemed to struggle with the request.

“Oh gods just take five steps that way all of you!” She yelled.

When they all did so, Ned looked over his shoulder and faced her so that his back showed to the others.

“Forgive me princess.” Ned said in a pleading tone.

“Don’t call me that.” She shrugged. “Besides it’s not your fault they’re making you…”

That was when she came to him, wrapping the surprised squire in a hug. As his own arms came around her she leaned into his ear to whisper.

“If you want to escape say so now and we’ll make it happen.”

Ned jerked away awkwardly then, which she thought pretty stupid if they wanted to plan an escape without anyone overhearing.

“I would not risk your safety for my own wants.” Ned said, sounding very upset. “But I beg you to forgive me.”

“I just said…”

“No, not for this and not for anything I dare say but I beg you, please…” Ned’s purple eyes were as sad as ever. “Just say it once, say you forgive me.”

Ned was her friend. He was as good a person as she’d ever known and better than most from what she could tell. Arya had no idea what bothered him so but she’d never seen him so upset. She saw no reason not to give him what he wanted.

“I forgive you.” She said. “I forgive you Edric Dayne.”

Ned wiped at his one eye then but if any tears fell she did not see them. By now his escort had become impatient and had returned to their side.

“We must go my lord.” Olyvar broke in.

Arya scowled at him so he took a step back and raised in hands in apology. Brienne had come back as well, her eyes on the ground as if she was ashamed.

“I’d escort you as well Ned.” Brienne said, sounded as sad as the others looked. “If you’d have me.”

“Of course.” Ned nodded before he began to walk away with Olyvar’s men with Brienne at his side, he turned back and offered a small smile at her. “One day princess, we’ll meet again.”

She gave a wave and felt a fool for doing so.

_You should’ve said something idiot._

_You should argued with the Blackfish._

Arya hadn’t been this upset since her uncle she had told her about Jon and Sansa.  She knew she should want to throttle him for taking away her friends but the fight wasn’t in her.

So she just did as Pod and Gendry were doing. All three stared after their lost friend without saying a word. Arya wrestling with her own guilt and had no idea what to say. Gendry’s brow was furrowed in thought, his jaw clenched in anger.

It was Pod that finally broke the silence.

“That was fucked.” Pod muttered. “Well and truly fucked.

Arya laughed despite herself. She was angry and upset but the laughter wanted to come anyways. She tried to cover her mouth to keep it in but another burst free. Even Gendry smiled at the squire’s words and passed a hand over his face.

“What?” Pod looked between them shocked.

“You can barely string a sentence together and you do so for that.” Gendry and her exchanged a look and they both laughed. “Pod this is a sad moment.”

“Yeah you idiot.” She said between bouts of laughter. “We’ll miss him.”

“I know!” Pod’s face reddened in embarrassment as they kept laughing. “It is fucked! Isn’t it?”

Arya almost collapsed and Gendry dropped his warhammer as he clutched his sides. It took awhile for Gendry and her to recover themselves and by then poor Pod had strode off to put away the practice swords in a huff.

“I feel bad for him.” Gendry said as he wiped his eyes.

“He’ll get over it. It’s his own fool fault.” Arya glared at some stewards who were watching them and whispering amongst themselves. She stuck her tongue out as she brushed off her dirtied knees.

“I meant Ned.”

“Oh.” Arya felt the sadness coming back. The laughter had pushed it away but now it came back and her stomach hurt from it. “At least he’s not dead. And we got to say goodbye.”

“That’s better than we usually get.” Gendry agreed. “You’ll miss him though.”

“Of course.” She shot him a look as she bent to her work. “I’ll miss Anguy too. What of it?”

“Nothing. I just meant with him being and a lord and all and you a lady…well a princess really…”

“That what?” She glared up at him. “Brienne’s a lady. You’re a knight and Pod’s a squire. It’s got nothing to do with anything.”

“I’m just saying you two were highborns and the same age and close is all.” Gendry shrugged and turned as if to look for Pod. “It’s alright if you like him…”

_It’s alright if I like him?_

_What the hell is he on about?_

“What the hell are you on about?” She went up and pushed him. “Of course I like him! He’s our friend! Ned and I ride and spar together, same as everyone else.”

“I just know how highborns are…they marry other highborns. Hey!” Gendry shouted as she pushed him again, harder this time.

“Who is talking about getting married?” She shoved at the big idiot again, barely moving him despite her best effort. “Ned’s my friend! Same as Pod! Same as Anguy!”

“Stop it.” Gendry hissed as he backed away but she kept after him.

“Why are you always such a shit? I mean you’re the one keeping some big secret! Some big secret about me that only Ned knows about! Then you get mad at me for just talking with him? It’s not fair!” She punched him this time, her hand crying out in pain as it struck the armor. “You’re the one all worried about people getting married why don’t you go get married?”

“Arya stop, I didn’t mean…”

“No go on! You leave too! You did before! You left me for the Brotherhood!”

She was crying now and she kept striking out at him. The anger and tears all mixed together and she couldn’t understand where it was coming from.

“Go back to your Willow! Go have a hundred stupid kids with her! You’ll leave sooner or later anyways! Everyone leaves! Jon and Sansa did!”

He caught one of her hands so she swung the other and slapped him full across his stupid face.

“We’ll get close them! So close we can almost touch them and they’ll be gone! They’ll die!” She sobbed. “You’ll die too! I don’t want to see it so go on! Go with them! I don’t want to see you die too so just go on…”

Her free hand was in his grasp now too and she felt too weak to fight him anymore.

“I’m sorry I left.” Gendry held her hands gently. “But you found me again and I won’t mess that up again. I’m not going anywhere but with your lot. I go with you.”

“I’m bad luck…”

He reached out and pulled her chin to look right up into his eyes. Through her tears she saw his were sad too. Maybe even a little worried.

“Better than I deserve.” He said then. “Princess.”

“Shutup.” She said laughing at that, and wiping her eyes. “Just shutup.”

“No.” He gave her a small smile. “I can’t do that. Maybe if you order me to…”

“Princess!” A shout broke apart their moment.

“Princess Arya!” A guard shouted as a group of them entered the yard, followed by the stewards who’d been watching them. “Unhand the princess bastard!”

“You shut your mouth” She yelled at them as Gendry released her. “You shut your bloody mouth!”

The men stopped in their tracks as she moved to bar their path to Gendry.

“Princess we were told this man was harassing you and…” The guard kept his eyes locked on Gendry so she kicked dirt at him.

“He’s a knight!” She pointed to Gendry. “He’s a knight and an idiot but he’s my friend.”

“Arya it’s alright.”

“Shutup.” She kicked dirt at Gendry this time. “Everyone shutup! You lot, go away before I have my wolf in here and tear your bloody throats out!”

“Our apologies your grace. Truly we only meant…” The guard tried to apologize but one of his friends was already pulling him back and out of the yard.

The wolf threat had scared them, she’d seen that clear enough.

“You’ve got to stop pretending I’m like the other highborns you know.” She said when Gendry came beside her, she was still watching the stewards back away in fear. “You’ve got to leave off anything that doesn’t make you and I what we are.”

“The world isn’t like that…” Gendry started to argue but she’d had enough of that.

“The world’s a shit place so I don’t care.” She crossed her arms, and when the next thought came to her she couldn’t help but bite her lip. “Brienne, Pod, you and me, we’re all we’ve got Gendry, so stop trying to fuck it up.”

“You’re the one that told me to leave…”

“That was forever ago.” Arya cut off his protests, finally facing him. “It’s over now.”

Gendry pressed his fingers to his nose as if his head hurt suddenly. Brienne and her uncle did that a lot too, it was strange. When he opened his eyes he managed one of his stupid smiles.

“Whatever you say princess.”

She was about to hit him again when Pod returned, shuffling and staring at the ground.

“You still mad at us?” Gendry asked, snapping Pod out of his spell.

“What? No, I…uh…” The squire scratched his head awkwardly before gazing up at the castle. “I’m just wondering, do you think they’ll let us say goodbye to Anguy?”

“Let them try and stop us.” Arya shrugged as she took off running from the yard.

From the yells and sounds behind she knew her friends were following right behind her. For a moment she closed her eyes and pretended it was Winterfell she was running to. Her friends right there with her.

And Jon and Sansa waiting ahead.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eye before the storm. 
> 
> Prelude to the Battle of Winterfell.

**JON**

 

“There’s only three…thank the gods.”

Kyle’s words were welcome ones.

The man had better eyes than him and Jon still wasn’t sure how many of the shapes he saw ahead through the snows. The land all about them was painted white. Trees stood out here and there but only those within a certain distance. As thickly as the snow fell the Wolfswood could lay beyond and he might not know it.

 _Three riders_ , he thought, _better than a score._

_Or the entire Bolton army._

“How many of the horses able enough for a chase?” He asked and glanced about him at the nine people riding about him. “Mine will do for a short one if it comes to it.”

The horse Jon rode on was not the one he’d started off with, that poor beast had fed them on their third week. The horses that were left were weak and weary. The state of the horses was just one sign of how harsh their month long search had been. They’d lost half their number to battle and the cold, good men all in Jon’s eyes.

It a cruel twist of fate that while good men had died the one who answered him still lived.

“Five maybe.” Lyn replied putting his hand to Lady Forlorn. “Enough if need be.”

Jon thought him right as he watched the shapes ahead grow closer. It was likely they hadn’t been spotted yet, it would go a lot easier for them if it stayed that way a little while longer.

“We wait for them to notice us, let’s let them get as close as possible. Kyle, Lyn go in through the centre.” He said pointing ahead. “Anyone else who can, attack the right, I’ll take left.

He felt very tired as he reached for his sword. Cold and tired, sick of the constant riding and fear that came with it. The snow was everywhere, in his hair, in his beard which had grown far longer than he ever let it.

He didn’t care for it, if only because of the snow. Even if it did warm his face some.

 _I hope Sansa is somewhere warm_ , he thought, _warm and safe and far from killing._

“Jon, there’s another.” Kyle said then, squinting towards their enemy. “I think maybe a pack horse…or a mule.”

“Supplies would be good.” Lyn added.

Jon followed Kyle’s gaze and sure enough another shape was appearing amongst the first three. This one smaller than the others. Clearly it wasn’t a mounted rider.

Yet something was familiar about how it moved. It moved much too quickly for a mule.

A moment later Jon almost cried out in joy.

“Ghost!” He yelled, startling the others as he broke silence. “Ghost! Here!”

Sure enough the smaller shape began hurrying towards them, the direwolf emerging through the snows as it closed on him. He laughed and urged his horse on, meeting the wolf halfway and jumping down to meet his friend.

The direwolf leapt up and tackled him backwards into a snowdrift. As cold it was the warmth of Ghost’s tongue against his face and the feeling of wrapping his arms around his old friend made up for it.

“I've missed you.” He said as the wolf’s soft fur rubbed against his face. 

His dreams of running with the wolf had been rare enough on this long trip. When he’d had the luxury of sleeping a full night that is. They’d been cruel in a way. Ghost was well fed, warm and often beside a woman who constantly pulled his thoughts. So when Jon awoke cold, hungry and alone it had always been a disappointment.

Those feelings fell away at this reunion.

He didn't feel quite so alone any more.

“Ser Jon!” A voice called out above him. “That’s you right?”

He did his best to shove Ghost off him and climbed to his feet to find the three strangers had now joined his party in staring down at him. It was good to see the sigils of House Stark upon their tunics.

“It is you! I knew it be us to find you!” The lead man said. “We’d wondered why the wolf went this way…”

“Do you know where we are?” Jon asked, seizing his horse’s reins again. “Are you with the Queen’s army?”  

“Of course ser!” The man answered. “We’re just east on the Kingsroad, the army’s but a half a day’s ride behind us. We are the furthest advance.”

The man sounded proud but Jon noticed his gaze drifted uneasily to strangers among his men. A shabbily cloaked pair atop a horse whose reins were tied to the saddle of another of his riders.

“We have prisoners.” He said climbing back upon his horse. “We do not believe we were followed but there is an army out of Winterfell about.”

“Aye ser, the Manderlys. We captured some scouts of theirs…well we thought them scouts, said they’d been searching for us after all but strange thing was they wanted us to take them. Sent them on to the Queen.”

_Someone else searching for Sansa in all this._

_It feels good not be the only mad ones out here._

“You have to lead us to the army, we must speak with the Queen at once.” He said as Ghost began to head back the way he came, ushering the rest of them do the same.

Jon’s party had survived two weeks riding without losing a man. Their luck had turned when they had come upon a patrol of Bolton riders near Castle Cerywn. The fight had been chaotic and hurried, they’d only lost two men in it but some of their enemy had escaped.

That had been a mistake to allow. Not a day later a force twice their size had appeared in the distance. It chased them east for the better part of two days before they’d been forced to fight their pursuers. Jon had chosen to double back and hide on the other side of a ridge to ambush the Boltons, the only way he saw to counter their numbers. It had been a brutal fight, Jon and others attacking from the rear and cutting down four before any defense formed up.

That had been the worst day of a miserable stretch of time. A day they’d left five of theirs behind in cold graves. Ser Jon Redfort among them.

It had taken the better part of a week to make their way towards Winterfell after that. First they’d followed and finished off their surviving pursuers. Then they’d evaded any further patrols which became more and more frequent as Jon came closer to his home. Every attempt they made to get north of Winterfell and find Stannis was abandoned out of fear of Bolton riders or because of the foul weather. They once spent two days sheltering among some felled trees when the snow became too much.

In the end he’d decided to swing around Winterfell to the south and use the Wolfswood to shelter the way north again to seek Stannis.

Yet during their journey through the Stark lands they had been spotted again. The pair of riders fleeing and their party forced to give chase. Deep down he’d almost been happy to do so. For the pair had tried to flee them along a trail Jon remembered well.  These lands were quite familiar to him and it was an easy thing to figure out where the Boltons were headed.

The snow had been heavy yet he had no need of clear skies to safely guide his party forth towards the walls of Winterfell. The scouts never made it back to the castle to report what they’d seen. If not for the snows watchers from the castle walls would’ve clearly seen Jon and the others overtake their men. So winter had been their ally in that foul deed.

When it had been done he found himself staring up at the dark shape of his home. He knew they should be away as soon as they could but to be so close and undetected had bolstered his spirits greatly.

He’d wondered how much closer he could get. So while Jon had been distracted with such thoughts others had gotten the drop on them. From nowhere it seemed his party had been completely surrounded by a company of men and Jon thought he’d doomed them all. The ragged line of spears pressing forward had been more than enough men to end his long ride.

Yet they’d not attacked.

When got closer still Jon had seen the truth of the matter. The attackers were not men at all, only green boys heavily bundled in furs and holding spears anxiously.

That was when a giant of a man wearing a snow bear’s pelt came forward from amongst them.  When he made out the man's snow-white beard, ruddy face, and white-eye patch over a missing eye Jon put a name to the face in but a moment.

“Mors Umber?” He’d asked, not quite believing his eyes.

“Aye, that I am.” The Umber man had thumped his chest. “And who is this killing Boltons and taking our fun?”

He had yelled loudly when Jon told him who he was and to hear Sansa’s army marched to Winterfell even as they spoke. Apparently the man had been waging his own private war against the Boltons while he awaited the coming of Stannis.

When he’d told Mors that his nephew the Greatjon had been freed he’d nearly lost an arm the old man shook it so hard. Laughing the whole time Mors swore he’d throttle the Greatjon for having been captured in the first place.

“Well since you be freeing prisoners I’ll be giving you one and a gift!” Mors had laughed and signalled to a boy who ran off into the trees.

“A gift?”

“Aye you missed all the excitement. Yesterday we were digging traps for the whoresons in the castle when we spot two jumping from the walls!” Mors said. “Then a bloody army starts marching out so I snatched them up!”

It was then the Umber boys brought two figures towards them through the snow. They were bundled in furs as well but as they got closer he saw one to be a slight girl and the other an old hobbling man. Until Mors took care of the introductions Jon was hard pressed to see their importance.

“I can’t believe my luck, my nephew freed and I catch Arya Stark and the bloody turncloak himself!”

Jon’s heart had leapt at the mention of Arya. He had known better of course. He’d believed what Sansa had said about Bolton not truly having Arya. Yet for a moment, the briefest sweet moment, he’d hoped this was her. So when the girl’s hood was pulled back the disappointment was all the greater.

For the girl was not Arya.

Nor was she a stranger. 

“Jeyne? Jeyne Poole?”

“No! No I’m Arya!” Jeyne had begun screaming. “I’m Arya Stark! I love my husband! I hate my whore sister! I hate her!”

Jeyne had been almost like a madwoman her terror was so great. Nothing they said calmed her and it had taken a guard putting a hand over her mouth to quiet the poor girl.

That was when Jon regarded the other prisoner and Mors’s words came back to him. He had barely recognized who stood before him before his hand was on his sword. His fury carried him from his horse, into the snows to charge at the traitor.

“Theon! By the gods you’re dead!” He had been steps away from the ruin of a man he’d one known as Theon Greyjoy when Mors reached out to keep him at bay. “Let me through! He killed them! He killed the boys!”

Jon must have looked as mad as Jeyne had, so intense was his rage. The twisted thing in front of him had once been Robb’s trusted friend and adopted brother. He’d then betrayed them all so totally that the blood of Jon’s youngest brothers was now on his hands.

Mors had not released him though.

“Aye he’ll die for what he’s done.” Mors said gravely. “But not before the Greyjoy tells you what I’d have you hear.”

“Yes Jon Snow…I’m Theon…Theon Greyjoy…that’s my name. You have to know your name.”

The broken thing that looked more like a brutalized elderly man than the handsome youth Jon remembered. When Theon smiled it was a broken, hideous thing to see.  He also reeked.

“And you’ll be wanting to hear my stories.”

That was how they’d come to ride south again with Theon and Jeyne sharing a horse. Neither spoke at all during their travels which was fine by him. He’d no desire to hear anything more than what Theon had already told him and speaking to Jeyne was to invite a screaming fit.

While it felt like days the outriders had been right, the ride to Sansa’s army had been fairly short. Evening was upon them and the camp almost set by the time Jon and the others rode by where stakes were being set up. They were half frozen on their horses by then and Jon could not wait to give the order to dismount and be warmed by a fire.

_Or by her._

That was a far more base thought than Jon usually had of Sansa but he knew holding her would be as much warming as he would need.

Men hailed them as they rode through. They were in good spirits and with the arrival of Jon’s group they seemed all the better.

His own improved greatly when he drew close enough to recognize both Sansa’s tent and the knight standing without it. Willem took notice of Jon as he was dismounting and smiled broadly as the knight came forth laughing.

“You’re the ugliest camp follower I’ve ever seen but it is good to see you!” Willem yelled as he grasped Jon’s arms warmly. “Don’t take this the wrong way but your looks finally match your stench.”

“My poor luck I did not go snow blind and have to see your face waiting here for me.” He shook his friend’s shoulders before peering towards the tent. “I must speak with Sansa. Is she able?”

Willem nodded.

“She has just sent for that Manderly man again but I’m sure you will be a more welcome sight.”

“Can you see my men get near a fire and a meal as soon as possible? And have guards put on those two.” Jon pointed to Theon and Jeyne. “Treat the girl kindly.”

He should have separated them then but, despite the stink of the turncloak, the troubles it would cause Jeyne did not seem worth it.

As he walked through the tent flap the warmth and brightness within felt like a different world to him. Compared to the life he’d led the last month it only needed the smell of flowers in the air for it be as sweet as the Reach.

Yet when he saw her that comparison felt a poor substitute.

 _The Reach be damned_ , he thought, _she’s all I need._

Her back was to him and the first thing he saw was her long, flowing hair. Myranda looked to be brushing it as Sansa sat seated gazing at some parchment. Ghost had beaten him here of course, the wolf already laying down at her feet.

Myranda noticed him first, the woman gasping and placing a hand on Sansa’s shoulder.

“You ser, look dreadful.” The Royce lady said with a warm smile as Sansa turned to look at him.

_Gods her eyes…_

“Your grace.” He bowed despite how sore and stiff he felt. “I am sorry for coming unannounced.”

He was exhausted but hoped he did not sound so. He was cold and soaked, more snow melting upon him in the heat of her tent, but he felt warm and comfortable now.

Maybe even safe.

“Jon.” She said quietly, clutching at Myranda’s hand. “When did you…”

If there was question he was to answer he did not hear the rest of it. For Sansa was suddenly out of her chair and running to him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head against his chest. At one time he would’ve felt awkward and perhaps struggled against such.

That time had passed.

It was not in him to even think of doing so. Instead he held her fiercely and hoped Myranda felt it was just sibling joy.

He cared little one way or the other.

“I was so worried…” Her muffled whispers reached his ears. “It was so long without word…”

“It couldn’t be helped, trust me I’d rather be here.”

When Sansa finally released him he almost fought against it. She’d been smiling but it quickly turned to a look of concern.

“You ser are cold and wet!”

Her dress had darkened slightly from where their bodies had met and her cheeks red. 

“Something we’ll rectify! I’ll have a tent and clean clothes made ready for you ser!” Myranda walked forward and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “To kiss such a man is reward enough to brave the snows.”

Sansa’s look darkened asMyranda grinned at her. As she donned her cloak and left Sansa’s fingers wrapped around his.

“Sansa I…”

This time he was only slightly more ready for her kiss. Unlike the last one, which had been gentle and slow this time their lips moved quickly, seeking as much of each other as they could have.

He knew he had been more desperate for this kiss. Hungry for it even.

Weeks of fighting and riding in storms, bedding down each night fearful for what the morning would bring, it had been hell. Knowing he was doing it for her had kept him going. Believing they’d have a moment like this again, that he’d feel her again, it had been enough to drive away the worst of it.

And he did feel her, through his wet clothes, the curves of her body and heat of her drove him mad. His hands found her waist and hers his face. Her parted lips were teased by his tongue and he felt her tremble. He did it again and again before her tongue answered his beckoning.

Jon hadn’t even realized they were moving until he felt a jolt and realized they’d backed so far that Sansa had come up against her table. They still didn’t stop, Sansa reaching around to wrap her fingers in his hair to keep his face against hers. A part of him wanted to pull her up onto the table just so he could fee her legs at his sides. His grip on her hips tightened and he might have done it.

If not for the interruption.

He felt something forcing its way between their bodies and broke the kiss in surprise. It was Ghost of course, the direwolf nudging them apart, looking up at him as if it was but a game to play.

“Traitor!” Jon cursed.

Sansa laughed and petted his friend, while reaching with her other hand to straighten her dress.

“He only reminded us of our manners…” Sansa said, a small shy smile on her face. “Someone had to.”

 _She’s making a jest but she’s right_ , he thought, _a tent flap is not a barred door._

 _Myranda or Willem could’ve found them like that_ , _y_ _ou can’t be so reckless._

He backed away some, taking off his cloak which felt oppressively hot in the warmth of her tent. It felt absurd that such bothered him after praying for warmth for so long.

After he tossed the cloak to the ground he found Sansa rubbing at her face as she stared at him.

“What is it?”

“It’s…well…” She said with a hand to her cheek. “Do you like your beard so long?”

“Not really, I plan on having most of it off as soon as I get a chance.” He smiled then as he took her meaning. “Has my queen been discomforted?”

Sansa laughed, nodding.

“It was worth it but…my face feels like its rubbed raw.”

“Then off with the beard it is.” He nodded solemnly. “I offer my own blade for the occasion.”

He had meant it to be a jest but Sansa’s face fell at the words. He went to her and gently cupped her face to look into his eyes.

“Something’s wrong?”

“No, no…well depending on what you report but…” She shook her head. “A few days ago I inspected some new men who’d joined our march and Ghost…well he must have sensed something because he began growling and snapping at some...”

She turned her face from his as she reached down to pet Ghost again,

“They were four, all said they came from the Rills but Howland and Ronnel put them to the question and…” She paused then, as if the memory so foul. “They were spies sent by Roose Bolton. If they could they were meant to kill me. Or you.”

Jon felt a dark, cold hatred build in him.

“Where are they?”

“They’re outside…the others didn’t want to bury them. Ronnel had them strung up about a wagon as a warning…Maege says it gives the men something to hate with their own eyes.”

“Then Ghost did his duty.” He pet the wolf’s head in thanks. “As I hoped he would.”

 _Unlike you,_ he realized, _it’s time to tell her._

“I know you put your faith in me and I’m sorry.” He said and Sansa gave him a confused look. “I’m ashamed of it…to return before doing so but I could not find Stannis. I failed you.”

It was the truth of course.

Jon had led his men through suffering and some to their deaths death only for their goal to elude them. While he’d been able to learn a great deal and even bring back people of value to their cause his failure still hung heavily upon his shoulders.

Sansa’s hand upon his chest was no burden at all and it lingered there as she touched his cheek next.

“You are returned to me and no army has fallen upon us, I see that as completing what you set out for.” She said kindly, leaning upwards to kiss his lips gently. “It’s something I prayed for.”

“I lost men…too many men.” He lowered his head. “We will have to get word to Mychel…I couldn’t even bring his brother’s bones back with us.”

“That’s so awful.” She lifted his face up, kissing his cheek and then his brow. “So horrible but not your doing…”

 _She’s wrong_ , he thought, _some of it was._

“There was a boy…”

Ghost whined then, his eyes at the tent flap and Jon instinctively knew to pull apart from Sansa and back away.

A moment later Willem came in out of the snow with Howland not far behind.

“By the seven Wolf do you know who you brought in?” Willem asked, his eyes wide in excitement. “What the hell did he look like before?”

“Come in of course!” Sansa fumed, her hands feeling at her hair.

“My apologies your grace.” Howland said in a rare tone of anger, shooting a glance to Willem. “I had been told you were holding an audience…”

“I thought that’s what this was.” Willem shrugged. “Sorry Sansa, Bronze Yohn got rid of me for a reason I suppose.”

There was an awkward pause then. Howland’s eyes were at the floor while Jon did his best to avoid Willem’s.

 _Which is brilliant_ , he thought, _that won’t look suspect at all._

“Well now that you’re here stay.” Sansa waved the moment away. “Jon was just about to report on his journeys.”

“What was he doing before…”

Willem shut his mouth when all three of them glared at the knight. He held up his hands in mock surrender before giving Jon a sour look himself. 

_I still owe him a beating._

Instead of settling that score he went to Sansa’s table and waved for the others to join him. He’d spotted a map there, one outlining the lands surrounding Winterfell and placed his finger upon it.

“We did not find Stannis Baratheon but we are fairly certain he is north of Winterfell.” He said pointing to an area including a lake and a crofter’s village. “I knew we did not have much time so I was forced to send another in my stead. I have faith Mors Umber and his men can reach Stannis to warn him...”

“Mors Umber!” Sansa exclaimed.

“We came across him and a company of green boys just outside Winterfell. I was so close Sansa…”

It had been so hard to see their home and know it was forbidden to him still. A part of him had wanted to ride to the gates and demand the Boltons leave the home of Eddard Stark. As if his fury alone and the power of justice could drive their enemies out. He was thankful only a very small part of him was so foolish to think that way.

“And we will be again soon Jon, we both will.” Sansa smiled. “Pray continue.”

“He was digging traps and did for Aenys Frey when his army marched out.” He pointed at the map again. “Bolton sent two forces out in all. The Freys are heading straight at Stannis. The other went west, we think to cut off Stannis’s escape. It is led by the Manderlys and made up of other northerners Roose trusts little. Cerwyns and Hornwoods. They would not fight as one…”

“I know.” Sansa nodded. “He keeps most of his own strength behind at Winterfell making it still too strong to storm.”

That surprised him. Theon had said much the same but it took Jon a moment to figure out how Sansa might had learned such.

“You heard this from the Manderly scouts?” He asked. “Your outrider said you captured some.”

“Lost little mermen they were.” Willem laughed. “Oh so disappointed to be captured.”

Sansa smiled widely, it was one full of hope and promise.

“They’re more envoys than anything else.” Sansa whispered as if sharing a secret. “They would be for us Jon. The Manderlys and the others. Had not Lord Wyman been attacked…”

“By Hosteen Frey.”

It was her turn to be surprised that he knew so much. He thought to explain then but Howland continued on for the both of them.

“You’re right ser, the Manderly army is meant to swing around but not to cut off Stannis’s escape, they’re meant to cut off ours.” Howland furrowed his brow. “Roose is a clever monster. He would spare his own forces by having houses that could be for the Queen waste their strength trying to destroy her army.”

“They have no choice.” He admitted, Theon had told him much of the strain between the Boltons and Manderlys. “Lord Wyman remains at Winterfell. Ostensibly so his wounds can be tended but also as a hostage against his men. If we want those forces on our side Wyman Manderly must escape Winterfell. Or someone need help free him...”

Sansa caught his eye then but he quickly glanced down to the map again.

_Too soon you fool._

_It must be broached slowly._

Jon already had a plan in mind and it was one he knew she’d disdain so he quickly sought to distract her of it.

“The army sent out against us aren’t the only Northmen we need worry about. The Karstarks are set to betray Stannis when it comes to battle.” He watched as the surprise went through each of the others, including Howland. “That’s why I had Mors seek him out, to warn him before…”

“How do you know this Jon?” Sansa asked. “Did you take prisoners?”

“Mors did but he gave them over to us gladly.”

He told her of Jeyne Poole first and Sansa had been hard pressed to believe it was her old friend they’d found amongst the snows. He thought it a small comfort for her to know she was right about the mummer’s Arya only to learn it had been poor Jeyne given to Bolton’s bastard.

“She’s in a poor way Sansa, I can’t imagine what was done with her…”

“I will see to her myself and help with whatever care she needs.” Sansa said firmly, her face set. “But after we are done here. The best I can do for her now is ensuring she does not fall back into their clutches.”

_That they ever thought to give me a crown instead of her..._

_Utter madness._

“Stop with the suspense Wolf tell her about the other one!” Willem pushed him. “I mean I’m sorry for the girl and all but to come across…”

“Theon. We took Theon prisoner Sansa.” He said quickly, watching her eyes widen and hand go to her mouth. “He’s ours now. Ours to deal with.”

Theon was supposed to be dead. To believe that had been a small comfort compared to the loss of the boys but they’d had that at least. Sansa’s features quickly turned to anger and Ghost barred his teeth as her mood darkened. She looked almost ready to order the turncloak’s head off right this moment.

“He knows much of the Boltons, I’d have you hear what he has to say.” He tried to calm her. “Trust me, I’d not put this off without good reason.”

He told her what Theon had said of his experiences so far. Of what he’d witnessed during his time at Winterfell. Of how their enemies treated one another. Of the relationship between father and son.

“So there is little love between Roose and Ramsay?” Howland asked afterwards.

“Theon says Ramsay wants to fight. That most of the castle was kept ignorant of Sansa’s arrival in the North because Roose did not want to deal with Ramsay’s rage.” Apparently Ramsay Snow is a cruel and angry man who does not think highly of women...”

What Theon had actually said was Ramsay Snow had personally tortured, raped and flayed many of the women he’d taken captive during the Sack of Winterfell. Jon had known many of them and it had turned his stomach to hear such things. He could not bring himself to speak the truth to Sansa right now.

He’d spare her that a little while longer.

“He also takes great insult to being called a bastard.” Jon added. “Apparently it is a dread thing to remind him he was only just legitimized…”

“That all could be of use to us…but without Stannis we need the Manderlys…” Sansa began to pull on her hair as if in thought and with her distracted he thought to put forth his plan now.

“Theon also told me of how he gained entry to Winterfell and I think it could be done again.”

“You think to kill the Boltons in their sleep?” Willem smiled. “Hardly fair but I could see the appeal to it.”

“I doubt we’d get anyone close enough to try without being noticed.” Howland’s eyes were on Jon then. “No matter how well they know the castle. Roose is too wary to allow assassins...”

“The men to go wouldn’t be scaling the walls to kill anyone. They’d be going to help save someone.” He said as he took notice of Sansa. “To free an ally.”

She had taken a step back at his words and he knew he’d said too much now. She was too smart for her own good.

“We will discuss our strategies at council Jon.” She said sharply. “Willem please have Maege, Symond and the others assembled at once. Howland if you would see to our Manderly envoy I have more matters to discuss with the knight.”

Willem opened his mouth to speak but Howland grabbed his arm and dragged the knight away with him as he left the tent.

“Sansa this is a chance to gain a…”

“I know full well who you think to send into Winterfell!” She snapped, turning away from him. “You are so exhausted you are barely standing yet so eager to propose idiocy to me again…”

“I do what needs to be done. We don’t always have the option of doing what we want…”

“I know that.” She laid her hands upon her table, her fingers running over the parchment. “You just invite risk without even realizing what you stand to lose…before you even know…”

He dared to approach her then, putting his hands on her hips and lowering his chin to her neck. She shivered but made no effort to move away.

“I know very much what I stand to lose.” He whispered, enjoying the feel of her against him. “I know…”

“You know nothing Jon!” Sansa jerked away from him then, tears in her eyes.

 _I went too far_ , he realized _, presumed too much._

“I’m sorry Sansa…I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll speak about it at council.” He began to back away. “I need to clean up anyways…”

 _You need to stop ruining things_ , he thought, _you’re barely an hour and she’s crying._

The last thing he wanted was to make her cry and leaving was the better of the two foul choices he had. Yet as he tried to do so Sansa took a step towards him.

“No don’t go…you can’t…” She wiped at her eyes. “There’s something I have to tell you. A message came from the south…I should’ve told you when you first arrived…before what we did. I just saw you and didn’t think about what was right…”

_Oh gods._

“Did someone propose another marriage?” He asked felling his heart sink deeply. “Did you accept?”

It made sense, what others news could make what they’d done improper. He imagined the Blackfish arranging it with some southron lord. The knight had changed his attitude some towards Jon but the old man still had no idea of them. He’d probably think it a great service to find Sansa some lord with great armies at his back.

 _Someone in fine clothes and well_ _bred_ , he thought, _not filthy and shrouded in rags._

_And secrecy, lies and shame besides._

“What? No, of course not!” Sansa almost laughed through her tears and she came to him. “Jon this is good tidings. Better than we ever could have hoped for.”

As relieved as he felt to hear such he was also very confused. Before he could say anything else Sansa put a finger to his lips, silencing him. As close as they were now he saw the tears in her eyes weren’t sad ones. He knew Sansa well enough now to see she was happy.

“Maybe now you’ll think twice about volunteering for madness…”

“It’s not madness.” Was what he wanted to say, her finger muffled most of it and she ignored whatever she heard.

“I had riders from the Twins, they told me…” Her voice broke and her hands moved to take his. “They told me they found her Jon. They said she’s alive. That Arya’s alive.”

He backed away, numbly pulling free of her grasp.

 _Arya_ ’s a _live_. _Arya's alive._

He’d searched for her. He’d thought he’d lost her. That brave little thing that always loved him.

_She’s alive. You left her. You didn’t look for her._

“It’s a trick.” He said hoarsely. “A mummery…like before.”

Sansa shook her head and tried to reach for him again but he backed away. He couldn’t be touched, his mind was so full of thoughts and feelings he felt as if he was being ambushed.

“They’re trying to lead us south again…”

“No Jon, she’s alive. Uncle Brynden found her, some lady named Brienne of Tarth had her.” Sansa pointed back at her table. “The message said so. He said he saw Nymeria with his own eyes.”

He barely heard the part about Nymeria.

It was the other name his mind latched onto.

_Brienne of Tarth?_

He remembered the powerful lady warrior from their time in the Reach. She had ridden out with Robar to bring Jon back, to put him back on the honorable path. The last he’d seen her was after Renly’s murder, when she’d been about to leave.

When he could’ve gone with her.

_They wanted me to go with them. I could have found her._

_She wouldn’t haven’t been lost._

“Jon?” Sansa asked just as his legs buckled and he fell backwards.

She cried out but the fall did him no harm. It merely slowed his escape from all this, from what all this meant. He sat up and tried to push himself away.

_You left her in the capital. She was a child. She loved you. You left her._

Suddenly he was in Sansa’s arms and being pulled back and against her. The shame wrapped itself around him even tighter.

“She’s alive…she’s alive and I left her…” He said, weakly struggling against Sansa’s embrace, his body finally failing him. “Oh gods I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I should’ve looked harder…”

“Jon.” Sansa knelt and cradled his head to his chest. “Jon this is good news. She’s alive…she’s alive. We’ll bring her here and we’ll be together. This is good news…”

He reached out and pulled her to him and hugged her tightly again. His own tears coming then. For all the shame he felt and the mistakes he had to atone for he let Sansa’s words sink in.

The memory came back all at once. Of Arya in his arms at Winterfell, just after he’d given her Needle, and how happy she’d looked. How she’d smiled.

As Sansa held him and stroked his hair his mind began to clear some.

“Do you think she’ll hate me?” He asked. “Because I never came for her…”

She stiffened some at his words and was quiet for a time. After a moment or two she turned his face upwards to look at her and he saw her troubled.

“Arya could never hate you Jon.” Sansa spoke softly, running a finger down his face. “She loved you more than any of us…she loved her brother.”

It was a foul thing to think but he had always loved Arya in a way different than the others. That thought and Sansa’s words helped remind him that this moment wasn’t about his shame. It was about the best thing that had happened to him since he found Sansa.

Since he’d started fighting for Sansa. And now Arya was returned to them so now he could fight for her too.

As weak as he felt. As tired as he was and how pitiful he must have looked in Sansa’s arms Jon let that thought take hold. For they were so close to Winterfell, sp close to where he’d last held that girl he loved so.

And he wanted to fight.

 

* * *

 

 

**THEON**

 

_Don’t fight it, it’ll only hurt more._

_It always hurts._

Theon braced himself for the pain as they threw him down in a heap at her feet.

His battered and broken body shuddered at the impact, tiny lights flashing within his eyelids as agony tore through him.

Through it al he lamented that no matter who captured him they always threw him about.

_Do you expect better of them than yourself?_

_You threw yourself from a castle wall._

For half a moment he thought the absurd, gagging noise he heard was his own laughter. When he raised his head he realized the sound came from a lady standing nearby, one covering her nose and cringing away from him.

_Once you would’ve thought me quite handsome, I certainly did._

_I may have even bedded you. When I was still a man._

His lingering gaze at the lady, whose gown did all it could to show off her curves, brought an even more disgusted look upon her face.

“I apologize for the smell your grace, we had not time to bathe him.” One his keepers said. 

Theon pushed himself up a bit more with his bound hands, almost surprised when no boot forced him back down. Emboldened he thought to get a glimpse of his surroundings.

 And quickly wished he hadn’t. For directly in front of his face were the fangs of a beast he recognized quickly.

 _Ghost,_ he thought _, you used to be much smaller._

The direwolf’s teeth were bared at him in a silent snarl, the wolf appearing quite ready to tear into him at a moment’s notice. Its queer red eyes burning right into his own.

_He remembers you thought to kill him when he was a pup, him and his kin._

_Still better than what his master thinks I did to his._

“Rise turncloak.” A familiar voice commanded of him. “Rise before I let Ghost do what many here want to.”

It bothered him some to have to follow the commands of a Snow again.

As he shambled to his feet he was not surprised to see himself surrounded by all manner of people who hated him. Jon Snow was there of course, as dour as he’d always been, looking more a warrior in his leathers than the young bastard he’d grown up beside. Theon had been as happy as he was disappointed that it was Jon who found them with Mors Umber.

_To see a face from the old days had been sweet._

_Of course all Snow wanted to do was kill him._

From the faces of the others he gathered it was a popular enough opinion. Besides Jon he spotted Maege Mormont, Kyle Condon, even Ronnel Stout. He remembered them all. Once they’d all rode south to fight alongside Robb.

Now Robb was dead and none of his former comrades appeared happy to see Theon still among the living. The hate in their eyes drove his own elsewhere

That’s when he hazarded a glance to young woman standing behind Ghost, the one all the others gathered about.

 _She was a girl last I saw her_ , he thought, _time’s been kinder to her than me._

As unreadable as Sansa’s face was it was still pleasant to look upon. She had become a beauty like everyone always said she’d be. He even imagined a woman’s body was hidden beneath the heavy cloak of wolf’s fur she wore. Not that such mattered to him any more.

Something about her did draw his eye though.

For upon her head sat a circlet of bronze, a crown which rested almost perfectly in place.

_A crown for a queen._

As he noticed all this Sansa had taken note of the state of him.

“I said he was not be harmed.”

Theon reached up to rub away some of the blood from his busted lip. He’d almost forgotten the throbbing pain there, so mild compared to the usual agony he lived in.

“I’m sorry your grace.” The one who’d struck him said. “The fault is my own. “

 _Rodwell_ , he’d remembered, _a Winterfell man from the old days._

 _He would drink with me and still owed coin from a wager made at Riverrun._  

Whatever the man-at-arms had owed Theon had long been forgotten. There’d been no recollection of fond memories together when Rodwell and two others had burst into the tent he shared with Jeyne. Only Jeyne’s panicked screaming of Ramsay having found them and Rodwell’s forceful questioning.

“Tell me of my mother turncloak.” He’d spat in Theon’s face. “Tell me of Rega!”

He then chanced to remember Rodwell had a mother and sister who’d served in Winterfell and had been there when he’d taken the castle. Theon had tried to answer but the disuse of his voice and his poor state contributed to it being but a wheeze. One Rodwell had answered with his fist.

 _A love tap really,_ he thought, _a small thing to upset a queen over, poor man._

“I’m sorry your grace. I had to ask of my family...to know their fates.” Rodwell explained to Sansa, his head bowed in shame. “He would not tell me of them. He wouldn’t tell me if they yet lived.”

“Not true.” Theon’s voice was loud enough then to draw their attention. “I never said I wouldn’t tell you.”

He remembered the man’s mother and sister. He knew very well what had happened to them after Ramsay had come. One had not survived the march to the Dreadfort. The other had not survived Ramsay.

“I only said you’d rather not know.”

Rodwell’s homely face softened for a moment and Theon thought he heard someone curse. Rage clouded Rodwell’s eyes when the meaning of his words took hold, his lips curling up into a snarl as he lunged at Theon.

“Hold.” Jon Snow’s arm caught the man across the chest. “You’re better than this.”

 _My savior,_ he mused _, protecting me from another slap?_

_The Boltons could teach these men much and more of causing pain._

“Ser I don’t think I am!” Rodwell struggled against Jon until Sansa moved to put herself between Theon and his would be attacker.

“You are and must be” She spoke softly. “For I must command you to be. I’m sorry to ask it of you, I am, but his time is not now.”

The last part had been said in a tone Theon never remembered her having. One with an air of authority. She looked to him then, her face barely hiding her disgust.

“Not yet at least.”

_That is interesting._

When he’d heard Sansa had been crowned Queen in the North he had scarcely believed it. That Robb’s fugitive bannermen were so desperate had been a sad thing to hear. To his memory Sansa had been a silly girl, prettier than most, but with a head full of tales and little sense as far as he could tell.

He’d dreaded to think that one day Ramsay might hunt her through the snows. That he’d be forced to watch as she was raped and flayed.

Worse still to think of how Ramsay might force him to help.

Yet it appeared things had changed for them both. He’d broken from Ramsay’s hold and Sansa was no longer a little girl. That was plain enough as he watched Rodwell’s reaction to her command.

The man’s struggles against Jon’s hold ceased and the bastard released him. Sansa obviously commanded some authority for, despite Rodwell’s obvious desire to kill him, the man-at-arms did as he was bid. Rodwell backed away, moving to stand off to side while eyeing Theon still.

A single tear tracing a dark line down his cheek.

_You don’t know true pain._

_I hope you never do._

Theon’s eyes moved from Rodwell and fell upon a man he didn’t know. This short man had odd eyes and plain clothes. Yet he was no guard or warrior, from how he stood Theon thought he had the bearing of a lord.

And something about his eyes was very familiar.

“I can’t say your man doesn’t have the right idea.” Ser Kyle growled then from his place beside Maege and Ronnel. “This thing deserves worse.”

“Every moment he lives is a moment your poor brothers go unavenged.” Maege’s words were met by sounds of agreement from the others.

“I have not forgotten my brothers.” Sansa spoke calmly. “But they are dead and nothing I do can bring them back. Yet our home still stands and if I can take it back by using this foul creature I will. For Bran and Rickon I can do that…so I can spare his life sometime longer.”

“Your grace is generous.” He gave her a wide, ugly grin.

“Do not speak without thinking Theon Greyjoy. It will go as poorly for you as acting without thinking has.” The short man said then.

“Speaking is what he must do.” Jon added. “Theon knows much and more of how things are at Winterfell. He claimed he was privy to some of Roose Bolton’s plotting and how he was keeping order at Winterfell.”

“I do. That and more.” He said proudly, as much for what he knew as how often he’d heard his name. “Of how Lord Roose keeps order and how Lord Ramsay upsets it.”

“Speak plainly.” Maege ran her hand along the mace at her side. “Lest we assist you.”

Theon laughed.

Or made his best attempt at one.

“Useless…useless is how Lord Ramsay…Ramsay feels. He knows of your march here, Lord Roose kept word of it quiet for some time but whispers started anyways. Ramsay heard and he…” Theon shuddered then at the memory of the pain Ramsay had caused him in his rage. “He was furious. He wanted to ride out, to take their men, all their men and his hounds to hunt you down. To flay you…”

“If only he’d tried.” Howland said to the shock of others. “Had the Boltons taken the field it would spare us having to storm Winterfell’s walls.”

He gave a gasping, cackle of a laugh then. It hurt his ribs to do so.

“That is what Lord Roose said. He said only a mad dog would leave the safety of his den to chase after a wolf blindly. That or a man as dim as one.” Theon tongued the empty gaps of his teeth then.  “Called Ramsay a fool for risking the chance of Stannis and your lot overwhelming them. Ramsay didn’t like that…” 

“So Roose won’t give battle. Perhaps we allow Stannis to attempt a siege first?” A man baring a crest of many stars put in. “Allow him to weaken the Bolton’s defenses and then catch them both bloodied?”

“If Stannis survives to make such an attack.” Jon shook his head. “It’s just as likely he runs into the Freys and with Karstarks fixing to betray them I can’t say we should depend on Stannis for help ser.”

“There’s more you must hear.” Sansa interrupted and her gaze fell back on him. “Speak to what you heard between Roose and his son.”

It was not an easy thing to think on. Theon remembered from his place on the floor, trembling in agony from Ramsay’s rage at learning of Sansa’s march. Roose and his tormentor must have thought him quite lost to it to argue as they had in front of him. Roose even more misguided to have insulted Ramsay as he had and then turning his back to him. The lord may have missed how his bastard looked at him but Theon had seen what had flashed across Ramsay’s face.

A look he’d known all too well.

“Lord Roose is baiting his trap.” He said afterwards. “Your army is meant to come to Winterfell. To stand outside the walls and begin a siege. Then you’ll find an army of Manderlys and Cerwyns and what not behind you. And when all are nice and weakened then Lord Roose will give battle.”

He looked right into Sansa’s then, ignoring how she cringed as he did so.

“And he’ll kill you. Not himself…you’ll be lost in the snows he’ll say. He’ll tell the others he burned your bones but it’ll be Queen Cersei who gets your head…Ramsay asked for the rest…”

“By the gods.” Maege snarled as she turned to Jon Snow. “I don’t care which one of us does it, but Roose is a dead man.”

“Ramsay doesn’t like this plan does he?” Sansa pressed on. “Speak to what you heard him say.”

“Roose was gone of course but Ramsay didn’t want you killed right away. He didn’t like the idea of trapping you either.” He saw Jon Snow’s hands curl into fists, the bastard had not cared for this part of his tale. “He thinks it makes them look afraid of you and weak for letting the Manderlys attack first. Ramsay likes to hunt and it’s you he wants to hunt. He wants you alive so he can hunt you with his girls and name a new bitch Sansa…”

“Enough!” Jon interrupted, his hand at his sword. “We get the idea.”

“So father and bastard are unhappy with one another, what is that to us?” Ronnel asked then.

“A crack in a castle wall can be forced into a breech.” The short man answered. “A rift in our enemies could be forced into chaos. Roose and Ramsay’s squabbles aren’t the only problems that plague them.”

“And we have more than the turncloak’s word to prove it.” Sansa rounded to face the others, looking at each in turn. “Most of you know our men came across a party of outriders loyal to House Manderly. Among them came a man bearing most welcome news.”

She smiled then and Theon was glad to see that hadn't changed all that much.

“Lord Manderly bid him to find us. To seek me out. To tell me that the north remembers, and so does he. While his men must, for now, perform a mummery of entrapping us he wanted to assure me of something. That no matter appearances House Manderly and their strength would be for us, in any battle which may come their swords and spears will fight for me.”

Maege and the starry knight let out a cheer and several of the others acted just as impressed. Theon wasn’t.

 _Words are wind,_ he thought, _the fat old lord is half dead._

_And still holed up in Winterfell with the Boltons._

“The Manderly man has confirmed much and more of what Theon has said of other goings on at Winterfell.” The mystery lord’s words broke through the excited murmuring. “The Dustins and Ryswells are for Roose it is true. As good as that does him for they’re not the strength they could be. The Ryswell sons all wish to be heir and Lady Dustin married into the house…the Dustin men remember their loyalties to the Starks. As do the Cerwyns, Hornwoods and Tallharts.”

Maege appeared as troubled by this wishful thinking as he thought the rest should be. The lady giving voice to his own fears.

“More men is helpful your grace but against the walls of Winterfell and the Bolton strength within I fear it will only lead to more corpses.”

“Bravery and a true cause can be more than enough to get men over walls.” Kyle said then.

“And just as easily get those men buried beneath them.” The mystery lord responded. “Winterfell is not a castle to take by storm.”

“Lord Reed I understand…”

 _Reed_ , he seized on the name, _this be the bogdevils’ father._

_If they sought him out…if he knows anything…_

Theon eyed the lord carefully as he argued with Sansa’s other men. The crannogman’s gaze fell upon him and where he expected to see murderous rage he saw something quite different instead. 

A queer sadness. Something akin to pity.

_If you know the truth and Ramsay gets a hold of you there will be no pity._

_And if you’re hiding them they’ll be found._

Jon’s voice cut through his thoughts and the other’s arguments.

“Even if we had the Manderlys on side taking Winterfell would be near impossible, and we have no guarantees they will fight for us.” Jon added. “For Lord Wyman is still held hostage and they will not act while Roose’s blade is at their lord’s throat.”

“Perhaps we can use what the turncloak told us?” Maege offered. “Get word to the men inside Winterfell who may be loyal to the Starks yet and urge them to rise up and open the gates?”

Maege’s suggestion caused Theon to laugh again.

“Get word? Get word! Any man coming through the gates will be searched. Any raven that arrives sent to Roose before all others.” He expected a blow but when none came he continued. “And who’d believe it? The men there have been holed up with the Boltons for weeks. They trust nothing. They want no secrets for they know how the Boltons seek such out.”

The group shifted angrily about him and again he expected some sort of pain to be brought to be bear.

And again there was nothing but he wasn’t thankful for it.

 _Robb would not have hurt me_ , he thought, _Robb would’ve acted as they do._

_And look what Roose did to him._

“He makes sense.” Jon Snow said, crossing his arms and glaring at him. “Roose still has a strong army within the castle, unless it’s drawn out and defeated in the field we would be in for a long cold siege.”

“Roose won’t come out until the Manderly’s are on you…can’t fake a slaughter well enough for him…he’s got you…”

“And what would you have us do Theon?” Sansa asked. “Surrender? Would the killer of my youngest brothers have me bend the knee to the killer of my eldest?”

“They’d show you no mercy if you did.” He tongued his gums again. “Ramsay most of all, he’d rip you to pieces. They need you dead.”

Sansa surprised him by smiling.

“That’s what I thought.” She went to stand beside Jon then, Theon never remembered them being so close. “Ramsay Snow is vain, easy to anger and a monster besides, taunting him into battle would be an easy thing. But Roose? Everyone says he is cautious, too wary to give fight unless things are assured…”

“From what we know of the Red Wedding he didn’t act until he had the backing of Tywin Lannister and enough deniability to put the blame on the Freys.” Howland agreed. “He’s not a man to rush into things blindly…”

Sansa nodded before turning to face all the others.

“I have listened to what you all know of Roose Bolton, taken all your counsel to heart. I’ve come see Roose as a monster, a cold, calculating monster.” She paused then to lift her crown from her head to eye it carefully. “Yet he’s an ambitious monster as well. He only struck against Robb because he thought him weak.”

“Sansa, Robb was brave and capable...”

“I know Maege, I loved Robb but Roose saw weakness in him and he exploited it.” She glanced to Theon then. “And if he saw weakness in Robb what could he truly think of me? A girl trying to rally the north to return me to my home and rights. Look at what I’ve done so far, Roose has set a trap for me and I’m charging eagerly into it.”

“He’ll be disappointed of course.” Ronnel spoke up. “Now that we know…”

“No he won’t.” Sansa lifted her chin. “I fully intend to fall into this trap, even more vulnerable than Roose could have dreamed. He wants my army outside the walls to be bloodied and weakened so I shall be easier to deal with. But what if I arrive without my army?”

 _No don’t do it_ , he thought, _no you fool don’t go to them._

_You’ve no idea what they’ll do to you, no one told you those stories._

Sansa didn’t hear his thoughts and went right ahead outlining her own death.

“Roose Bolton wants me in his grasp so I shall put myself near enough to be grasped. They want to trap a wolf so I will give them one.”

The uproar at that caused Theon to flinch. All of Sansa’s bannermen struggling have their opposition heard over every other.

“My Queen! Forgive me but is too reckless!”

“Sansa there’s too many things that could go…”

“The whole army should be at your back!”

“Yes it should!” Sansa cut through it all. “Roose will see me weak and vulnerable, my army divided and me foolishly parading outside his walls. A proud girl with too few men about her.”

“Three thousand men and more your grace please!”

“No!” She snapped at Ser Kyle. “No I will use his trap to bait my own! We shall send the Manderly man back to Winterfell…”

“Sansa.” Jon broke in, far bolder than Theon remembered him being. “The Manderlys may be for us but we cannot trust them yet…this could all be a ploy…”

“I think not ser.” Lord Reed spoke as if he did not wish to. “The men sent to us are of standing in the lord’s household at White Harbor. Two are meant to act as hostages…"

“Neither of which are more important than Wyman Manderly!” Jon shouted, coming forward to bear down on the lord. “You know full well they won’t act until their lord is freed! If it comes to protecting him or Sansa who is to say what they’ll do!”

“Enough Jon.” Sansa pulled upon his arm, pulling him to face her. “You are right of course. The only hostage that matters is the one within Winterfell. I would not have thought of doing what I intend to had you not been planning on freeing Lord Wyman yourself…”

The bastard was stricken by those words, his face falling and his eyes almost had a hurt expression to them. Sansa turned away from Jon Snow and beheld Theon again.

“I also hope Ramsay Snow will help his father see I must be dealt with.” She gestured to Ronnel Stout then. “Those bodies of the spies, would it possible to strap them to mounts and loose them at the castle? To have messages placed on their bodies?”

“What? Well…yes it would take some doing but would not a raven be more fitting?”

“Theon has already said Roose hides things from the others. Let us see him hide a spectacle like that.” Sansa smiled grimly. “Foolish, confident girls like spectacles…”

_And Ramsay rapes such girls._

_Do something! You let Robb down you can’t let this happen to his sister!_

The crannog lord acted before he could, pushing by Jon Snow to kneel before Sansa. Theon saw Lord Reed had his scabbarded sword in his hands as he did so. The man kept his head bowed low as he offered his sword up with both hands to Sansa, who seemed at a loss for what the man was doing.

“My queen. Sansa. I have done my best to serve you faithfully, to see you home, and to see you safe. I cannot pretend to have done any of that…to call myself a friend to your father if I don’t try and stop this.” Howland held the blade up even higher. “I ask you to either reconsider this or take my sword and let me walk to Winterfell unarmed. For I have as much confidence in my surviving such a journey as your safety if you choose to do this.”

_His skin will be hanging on the walls as surely as hers._

“Mine as well Sansa.” Jon jerked at his sword belt before kneeling and doing the same as the crannogman. “Please you can’t…”

Maege and Ronnel dropped to their knees too, removing their weapons as well. As did Ser Kyle, the starry knight, and some of the others. Rodwell came up behind him and forced Theon to his knees as the man-at-arms went down as well.

He watched as Sansa looked down upon the collection of bowed heads and raised weapons. He saw the doubt in her eyes as her gaze fell to the crown she held in her own hands. He willed her to think better of what she was doing.

 _They’re trying to save you_ , he thought _, let them._

_Just let them._

“Look at me. All of you.” Sansa spoke finally.

The others all raised their heads to do so but none lowered their offered weapons.

“Maege, Howland…Jon.” She said softly. “You three once knelt before me, along with dear Galbart, and named me your queen. I placed my trust in you…in all my bannermen to help me retake what was lost to the Starks.”

Sansa paused as she raised her crown up to place back upon her head. Theon’s heart fell at the expression upon her face. It was no longer one of doubt.

It was one he’d seen before on Robb’s face.

“Yet you also placed your trust in me to rule. You named me your queen and as Queen in the North I have decreed what shall be done.” She reached out to push Jon’s and Lord Reed’s blades back to them. “So keep your blades, for they shall be needed on the morrow.”

He watched in fury as none of them argued further. They all looked ready to, none appearing happy, most even looking miserable, yet none argued.

So Theon did so instead.

“Sansa…do not do this.” Theon argued for them. “I thought I could be a ruler...I thought I could conquer Winterfell and look what happened…”

“We have no further need of the turncloak, take him away.” Sansa gestured to Rodwell.

“You have no idea what they’ll do! They’re probably ready for you!” He hacked and wheezed as Rodwell pulled him to his feet.

Other men joined the man in laying their hands on him, roughly jerking him back and dragging him towards the tent flap.

“Put him back under guard.” Sansa didn’t even bother to look at him as she beckoned her bannermen to rise. “No harm is to come to him before my say so.”

He caught Jon, Maege and several others shooting him a final look of disgust as they crowded in around Sansa. In Theon’s mind he saw how they’d all collected about Robb at Riverrun.

When they’d named him king and doomed him for it.

 

* * *

 

 

**MANCE**

 

_You were a king once._

_Look how far the mighty have fallen._

The wind whipped the snow about the walls and Mance’s cage rocked with the force of it.

_Remember the Wall._

_It was colder climbing that, this is a spring day compared to that._

He clutched the skins of the girls even tighter about him to fend off another gust of wind. Two days of hanging in this cage, with only a cloak of skins from the women who came to Winterfell with him for warmth. It was two days longer than Mance had expected to live when they’d been discovered.

_And I won’t see a third._

Long passed he’d lost feeling his arms and legs. That his nose and ears still felt enough to scream in pain was because of the skin of what had once been Frenya. He had wrapped the horrid thing about his head tightly, he tried not to think on how the woman had screamed so when it was being stripped from her.

Maybe near the end he’d take it off and enjoy the view for a while. From his cage, which hung above one of the many walkways connecting the inner and outer walls, Mance had a fantastic view of the lands beyond. It was no Wall as kept reminding himself but he’d rather die staring over Winterfell’s walls than the skinned flesh of spearwives.

He’d been tempted to open the skins for the last little while. Men’s boots had been sounding off below, running back and forth quite often recently. Something was going on but his need for warmth beat out his curiosity.

Once again footsteps echoed below him but these ones were not hurried, nor panicked. They were steady, even, perhaps even calm.

Then the horn sounded from somewhere in the distance. Then two more answered just as far and the footsteps had come to an abrupt stop as men along the walls shouted.. 

Now he was curious.

Slowly and shakily, with numb hands barely responding to his thoughts Mance pulled away the hood. The brightness of the white world beyond hurt his eyes and he was still struggling to adjust to it when another horn blast came.

More of the world became clear to him and he saw it was still snowing yet not so heavy as it once had. Now and then the storm would drop enough to block his sight for several feet but for now he could see well enough. He could see the walls and towers of Winterfell around him and before him, beyond the walls, he saw a great many riders.

Flying a banner he easily recognized.

 _They called the Stark heir the Young Wolf_.

 _Should be calling_ _the Stark girl the Proud Wolf._

The grey and white banners of House Stark weren’t the most visible in such weather but there were so many of them about the hundred or so riders they’d be hard to miss. Especially with them moving in a long, slow line around the castle like they were.

The horns came again.

_Oh and blowing horns are you as well?_

_You’re not just bold you’re disrespectful as well._

_These monsters won’t take kindly to that._

Mance hoped he wouldn’t have a chance to say all this in person to the Stark girl. She’d been a pretty little thing when he’d spotted her at King Robert’s feast. Having her up here in a cage beside his wouldn’t raise his spirits at all.

He spared a glance downwards and saw men watching the line of horses just like he did. All along the walls men appeared, watching and walking along so as to follow the company’s ride.

When the Stark column had passed by most of the watchers had gone with them. The height of the inner wall blocked his view of the ride after it rounded a corner so it seemed like the entertainment was over.

Until he spotted the man standing further down the walkway below. The man with the pink cloak.

“Lord Roose!” His voice tore forth from his disused throat. “Lord Roose!”

The lord turned around then and gazed up at the cage with what looked like bemusement.

“I am amazed you live.” The man’s voice was almost too quiet to hear. “I thought for sure your slow death would’ve taken place already.”

The horns came again and Mance actually smiled.

“I live…Stannis lives…the Starks live…you’re not very fortunate today my lord.”

Roose walked forward slowly, until he was just far enough that he had to crane his neck to behold Mance. His pale eyes flicking over the skins adorning Mance’s body as a gust of wind flapped at his own cloak and caused Mance to gasp in agony.

“My ancestors used to wear such things.” Roose said, idly pulling at his gloves. “I prefer a good wool cloak myself but those seem to suit you.”

“Actually…I enjoy…silk.” He said, his teeth chattering the entire time. “I wonder…what the Stark girl…likes? That pink wool…may look good on her.”

The horns sounded again and Roose eyes moved in the direction of the sound for a moment before resuming their cold gaze on him.

“I’ve heard you born to wildlings. Are you able to read and write?”

“Raised by the Watch…need to read orders…can you?”

Roose ignored his question but he swore the man almost smiled.

“Then you can write answers if we have need of them. I’ve decided to bring you down and warm you within the castle for a spell.” The horns came again. “Just long enough to have that tongue of yours out. I can’t abide insolence.”

He knew it was supposed to be a threat but it was almost a relief to hear.

 _It’s worth it,_ he thought, _to be out of this cold for just for a few moments._

“Father!” A voice below him roared.

Someone’s footsteps were sounding heavily from the castle entrance to the walls. Roose slowly moved his gaze downwards, his face still showing no emotion.

“Father!” Ramsay Snow shouted again as passed below Mance’s cage, storming onwards Roose. “That bitch is mocking you! Mocking us!”

“Lower your tone to me.” Roose said dismissively.

Mance would not dismiss this bastard. Not after what he’d seen him do to the girls. He’d seen hard men, cruel men, monsters that had once been men, but never something like Ramsay Snow.

The ugly man wore a cloak much like his father but had donned dark armor and held a red helm in his one arm. The horns blew again as son met father on the walkway.

“Lower my tone? Do you not hear that? Did you see her, parading about like we’re nothing?”

“I see a foolish child playing at a game she does not understand. It runs in her family.”

With that Ramsay held up what looked like some parchment in his hand, waving it in his father’s face.

“Half our men saw this! Saw what she called me! She has Reek! She has my bride!”

“And only a hundred men about her.” Roose answered. “She’s only just arrived, let her move about a bit more with impunity. Let her confidence grow.”

“Let her make fools of us!” Ramsay snarled and took a step forward, an action Roose met with the snap of his head and a harsh glare.

“Back away.”

“We need to…”

“Do not make me say it again.”

The parchment crumpled in Ramsay’s fist as he slowly did as his father commanded. Mance wondered what it could have said to make the bastard so brazen.

A blast of snow overtook them then. He lost all sign of the few guards along the walls and barely made out the shapes of Roose and Ramsay for a few moments.  When it lifted Roose lightly dusted at the snow which had collected about his shoulders.

And the horns came again.

“Has there been any sign of the Manderly wounded yet?” Roose asked. “I want heavy guard about the gate they enter and for the men I mean to lead out readied at the others…”

“Let their wounded bleed in the snows. It’s their own fault for being ambushed by Stannis in the first place.”

“And what if Lord Wyman perishes from his fever? It is wise to have at least some good will from his forces should such a fate come to pass.” Roose paused then to gesture about the walls. “And wiser still to have more hostages should our most valued one perish.”

“But you waste fighting men guarding the hobbled!” Ramsay said impatiently.

Roose appeared close to losing his patience as well. He wondered if the man would even remember to tear out his tongue if the bastard kept this up. 

“Better guarding this castle than stumbling about in the snows. Taking our horse is the best option. An army on foot is a slow thing to march forth from a castle. She would break and run as soon as we march out. Little girls are scared of big men on horses. We need her panicked, full of worry, fleeing back towards her ruined army as fast as she can. Our leisurely pace behind will allow us to drive her far and away from any who might cringe at her fate. We drive her out into the snow...and say winter did the rest for us.”

“We need to ride her down!” Ramsay argued.

“Then our new bannermen will hate us. Should she freeze or starve Northmen could accept winter as her killer. The new Lord of Winterfell killing her and flaying her corpse would lead us to rebellion, no matter how many hostages we have.” Roose shook his head. “This is why you hold the castle and I deal with the Starks…”

“So you can kneel and scrape for that cunt on the Iron Throne? The Stark’s skin should be mine!”

He wrapped his hands around the bars and pulled his face as close to them as possible. Not wanting to miss a moment of this.

Roose and Ramsay stared at each other in silence before the elder's eyes roamed up and down the bastard's body. Then he reached out and tapped a finger against Ramsay’s plate.

“There is no need for this. No need for a man who shall be warm and comfortable awaiting my return to be in armor.” Roose’s eyes narrowed on the bastard. “Why do you think you need it?

If the bastard answered he did not hear it as the winds slammed against him again. He felt as if his face was being torn apart by its harsh cold as the world was blanketed in snow once more.

 _Gods if only I had a knife_ , he thought, _I’d pick this lock and be on them both._

_Guards wouldn’t see anything until it was done._

He became aware then that the voices below had taken to shouting over the wind. When the snow died down he saw father and son but inches from each other.

“You heard me!” Ramsay said. “We won’t hide here any more! The whole army at my back and not just your riders! It’ll be a battle, a hunt! The Boltons of old hung the skins of Starks about their walls! They didn’t fear Mermen or Dustins…”

“You fool. I have wasted so much of my time…” Roose turned to head back towards the castle when Ramsay’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

“Father, don’t turn your back on me.”

“Remove your hand before I make it my own.” Roose made to continue but Ramsay held firm.

“Domeric turned his back on me. Acted like us being brothers should be enough for him.” Ramsay’s rasp just barely carried up to the cage then. “Follow him about, let him be heir and make all the decisions, be the loyal servant. He didn't see me for what I could be...”

“That boy’s mistake is the same you’re making now.” Roose reached up and pulled Ramsay’s gauntlet clad hand from his arm, wiping down the part he had touched after. “Not listening to me.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to do. You’re Warden of the North and I’m just the Lord of Winterfell until you die. Years of listening ahead…years of being led…like a dog. I don’t think Boltons are meant to be led.” The horns blew again. “You wouldn’t follow Robb Stark. Why should I follow...”

“You think to kill me.” Roose said in a calm manner, turning to face his son. The lord put his hand on his sword leisurely. “I thought you’d be smarter. Perhaps kill my wife and unborn child instead. Not challenge a man raised in a castle and instructed by a master-at-arms.”

The Lord of the Dreadfort pulled his sword then, holding the blade between them. The bastard did no such thing, his sword hanging untouched at his side, the man making no move against Roose’s defense.

All the monster did was smile.

“I will not kill you Ramsay but you will suffer for this. Perhaps a finger or two will suffice.” Roose’s sword shook some. “How many sword lessons did you have at the mill with Reek and your mother?”

“Father your hand is trembling.”

 Roose paused then, probably watching his sword move about just as Mance did. He didn’t think the lord to be a man so easily intimidated.

“And you’re bleeding…”

“What?” Roose looked about himself before reaching slowly up to where Ramsay had grabbed him, touching it gingerly.

“I didn’t think you’d feel it if I grabbed hard enough.” Ramsay held up his gauntlet, a small needle protruded from one of the fingers. “Domeric was castle trained as well…I found a way around that.”

The horns blew again.

Roose took a shaky step back and Mance felt his heart pumping despite how frozen stiff his body was.

“The men will not follow you…”

“They will when I’m the only Bolton left. I’ll give them your regards.”

“They will not follow a kinslayer!” Roose stumbled against the side of the walkway, his sword still pointed towards the bastard. “No matter your name…”

“Robb Stark’s men followed you after you killed him…oh wait…they didn’t know did they?” Ramsay laughed. “If no one thinks I killed you then all’s the better. Everyone still blames Reek for the Starks boys as well…”

Mance looked out to see only a handful of men on the outer walls. Most of them turned outward. Below the bridge more walked about but not many.

"They will follow me to avenge you, to avenge the murder of the great Roose Bolton by an agent of Stannis." Ramsay closed in Roose, a hand going to a dagger on his belt. "I think I'll blame the fat lord's death on Stannis too..."

“I should’ve had your mother and you killed when you were a babe.” Roose rose up with both hands on his sword.

Just then the snows came back again, turning the world to white. Mance fought to see what happened below him. Two shadows came together as one as the snow whipped around them. The large shadow moving here and there along the walkway, the wind screaming along the walls blocked everything out.

Save for one thing.

“You should’ve had her flayed!”

The horns blew again.

And the snow was gone and slowly Mance saw that there only shadow below him still. That shadow slowly taking the shape of Ramsay. He had finally drawn his sword and was now looking up at him. Then he disappeared under the cage and Mance heard his footsteps running back towards the castle.

A moment later the cage jerked and then it was falling. He was falling.

It crashed into the walkway, the door flying open at the impact and his poor, beaten, frozen body was sent rolling over the hard stone. He felt as if his arm had broken and as he pushed himself to his feet he heard a clanging sound. Like metal upon stone.

When he looked to see where Ramsay was he saw only a darkened archway. And no sign of Roose.

Until he went and looked over the side of the walkway that was. There, lying far below, he found Roose Bolton. The fall alone would've killed the man but it was plain enough he'd met his end before that hard landing. The lord’s bloody body was splayed out upon his pink cloak, bright against the snow below.

The horns blew again.

“Halt!” A man shouted and he saw three men running towards the walkway from the outer wall.

“I don’t think so!” He threw off the skins and stumbled towards the archway.

Before two more men in Bolton cloaks appeared within it. They drew their swords and advanced on him.

“Look its Lord Roose!” One of the men behind him shouted.

“He killed the lord!”

“How the hell did I do that?” He yelled back, holding up his empty hands and stepping away from the angrier looking of the men.

That’s when his foot stepped on something.

And he saw the bloody dagger beneath his foot.

 _Well then,_ he thought, _that’s going to be hard to explain._

“Don’t move or we’ll run you through!” The one guard growled, his eyes on the dagger. “Lord Ramsay will be wanting to do that himself when he finds out what you done!”

Raising his hands up even further Mance did his best to look helpless.

“I volunteer to take the black?”

And the horns blew again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deceit, bravery, foolishness and savagery.
> 
> Otherwise known as the Battle for Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yous go to A_Cold_Wind_Blows for doing the seconds on this.
> 
> For how many mistakes that get by me I surely need someone with a thousand eyes and one.

**SANSA**

 

“I don’t know about the Boltons but the horns are driving me mad.”

Ronnel’s complaint was almost lost as another chorus of war horns blared through the snowfall.

“Either we blow the horns or we get closer.” She said shivering.

Ronnel made a face at that while to her opposite side Howland cleared his throat loudly. She’d already forced them to accept riding closer twice before, ordering them to do so again might spur a rebellion.

“Then the horns must blow.” Ronnel gritted his teeth.

Sansa had lost count herself of how many times they’d sounded off. It had been more than an hour since they’d started, Howland swore by that. How he knew, when the grey sky above offered no hint of sun, was beyond her.

Another blast came and this time it was her horse that voiced its displeasure. The poor beast was cold and the horns probably did it little good.

Nor was her horse alone in its foul mood. Several others were snorting and pawing at the ground uneasily throughout the long line of riders, stretched out to either side of her.

These were Sansa’s escort before the walls of Winterfell. Her noble hundred.

Each man among them had come before her, begging the right to throw themselves into harm’s way for her safety. They all sought to protect her against an attack even as she did her best to invite one.

For Sansa was bait.

 _I’m here for the taking_ , she thought, _now all Roose must do is try and take me._

_Or his monster of a son, either will do well for what must happen._

The thought reminded her of times in the Great Hall when she’d see her father’s men dangle bits of meat before a hungry dog. How the men would have fun at the expense of the snapping beasts.

_And sometimes those men got bit for their efforts._

She comforted herself by watching Ghost doing his part much closer to the castle than the rest. The direwolf was taunting the Boltons in his own way, pacing back and forth over and over again. He looked ready to do some biting of his own and Sansa hoped to give him that chance.

On her terms of course.

 _We can’t win on their terms_ , she thought _, this is the only way to convince them otherwise._

_Come forth Lord Bolton and end my reign in one fell swoop._

_Come for your prize Ramsay Snow. Come collect your wolf pelt._

She’d closed her eyes while praying for such but when she opened them she still saw no movement from the castle.

No outriders or sorties, despite all the noise and the carelessness she displayed within sight of the walls. She wondered then if her escort was too large. Howland has assured them watchers would take note of the quality rather than quantity of her men. Few wore any armor and all rode northern mounts rather than the southron heavy horse.

Symond had wanted Sansa to take at least some of his armored cavalry but she’d declined.

Her heavy horse were better needed elsewhere.

Sansa glanced to the snow covered trees far away to the other side of the castle. As dark and silent as Winterfell was the Wolfswood appeared dead. The snows were light enough for her to be seen by their enemies but she imagined little of that forest could be glimpsed.

In that, the weather had been kind to them.

“The Manderlys should be moving into position soon.” Howland said then. “I hope Ser Kyle will be ready just in case…”

“I have faith in my knights Howland.” She interrupted. “All my knights.”

The Manderly army meant to be attacking her foot were not the mermen she was concerned with right now. Nor were the company of White Harbor men who should soon be approaching from the other side of the castle her first concern.

The ones she worried about were within that castle, the men on which such an important part of their strategy depended.

_If they cannot do what they must the rescuers will have no chance._

_No matter what he said._

_No chance._

The horns blew again and she pulled her cloak tighter.

“I should have been more insulting in the letter.” She spoke her thoughts aloud. “Foul language perhaps…”

Howland pulled his hood back and ran a gloved hand through his short hair.

“You wanted Roose and Ramsay both to be tempted by it. I believe you did well. You sounded very much like an innocent maiden trying her best to threaten. To curse may have ruined the effect. And for the evil of Ramsay Snow I doubt foul language would bother him much.”

“And you had the turncloak almost pissing his breeches.” Ronnel smiled before catching her eye and blushing some. “Forgive my own language my queen.”

“I can do so for you Ronnel, the horns have driven you mad remember?”

Howland actually laughed then and a good number of the other did so as well.

Yet her mind went back to the letter she’d penned herself. No matter how much she trusted in Jon’s ability to do what he must, or the hope she had that the Manderlys would keep faith, this plan’s true strength lay with Ramsay Snow.

_I have your wife Lord Snow. A mummer’s wolf. A woman in need of a trueborn husband._

_I have Theon Greyjoy who laughs to speak of how he betrayed you too._

_I offer mercy to the false lords of Winterfell. Surrender before my army comes._

_When you seek me to bend your knee, seek the woman in the gown of blue._

Theon had been terrified as she’d read the letter aloud to him. At the time she thought that was a good sign. From what she knew of Ramsay Snow she might as well as spit in his face and offer him a pretty dress to wear.

It might have felt good to do so. She knew it had felt good to upset Theon. 

He was a shell of man, missing fingers, teeth and possibly even his wits. She had been disgusted to look upon him. Once he had been comely enough yet she’d never cared for him like Robb had. Even before all of their troubles he had always been smirking at her, almost improperly. In a way she may have preferred that smirk to the disgusting, mangled grin he offered at strange moments. After he’d told them what he’d known, most of the others wanted him taken and killed right away. Howland had been the one to argue against that.

“Soon there will be enough killing to be done.” He’d said. “Perhaps some justice. Either way I believe Theon Greyjoy may still have some use left to us before his time comes.”

“Gods Howland…your children were at Winterfell too.” Maege had said. “I know how badly I wanted my vengeance for Dacey…”

Another surprise had come when Jon interceded on Theon’s behalf as well.

“I think Lord Reed has the right of this. The turncloak may still have his uses.” He’d seemed pained to say it but his eyes had been on Howland the whole time. “May Theon’s end come when the Starks are returned to Winterfell. Let justice be done in the very castle he betrayed to their enemies.”

Having them both speak in favor of sparing Theon had been the only thing to sway her mind. Once again the others were forced to consent to another decision of hers they may not have supported.

Oddly enough, she had mostly agreed with the counsel of her other bannermen and had questioned her own decision afterwards.

Until Jon had told her his mind in private.

“His children Sansa, it’s his children Howland cares about. Not Theon.” He’d said as they held each other. “Remember they were at Winterfell with the boys when Theon came. We know what happened to Bran and Rickon, we have their murderer. But the fates of the Reeds were never known. Theon may be able to tell Howland what happened to them…to offer him that peace.”

She’d felt selfish to have never even considered that. As troublesome as the lord could be, Sansa could not deny Howland such a thing.

Not knowing Arya’s fate had been cruel to endure. It had been hard enough dealing with that. She could only imagine thinking two of your loved ones dead only to be unsure of whether it was true or not.

To have that hope.

So she’d spared Theon. The turncloak remained at her camp awaiting his fate. They’d set to bathing him as she left, though with water as cold as ice.

That thought warmed her some against the wind.

Better than her gown did.

“I was a fool to let Myranda dress me so.” She whispered to Howland. “I knew better at the Moat, I can’t believe I let her talk me into this.”

The gown she wore was not for long rides on cold, windblown battlefields. It had been her mother’s, one of those they’d rescued from the Twins. As bright a blue as the flowers Jon had forged her first crown with.

“She was very convincing your grace.” Howland offered her a rare smile. “None of these men would hesitate to fall in battle for you whether you wore that gown or a sack. Yet it does serve your purpose. Roose won’t respect you for it, and you wanted to stand out after all.”

“As long as I look foolish then.” She did her best to smile back but the horns blasted away her attempt.

She hadn’t meant to but she started at the sound this time. That caused her horse to do so as well, the beast suddenly bucking up and down beneath her. It took several moments to calm the poor animal and it had left her heart pounding and Howland looking troubled.

“Too long!” She said angrily. “It’s taking too long. We shall ride closer and…”

“There’s no need Sansa.” Howland said firmly.

_The last thing I need is another argument._

“There is very much a need.” She hissed back to his shaking head. “We can’t…”

“He will come.” Howland spoke so softly it barely carried over the wind. “Trust me.”

Whenever  Howland talked like this she felt torn between wanting to believe and hoping he was wrong. Another prediction he’d made back at the Twins had never come to pass so there was always a chance lord could be wrong.

Yet this time she hoped he wasn’t.

“Your old friend?” She whispered as she leaned towards him. “He’s told you such?”

“He did. Some time before Jon returned to us.”

That bothered her.

“If you knew this would work why did argue against my coming here then? What if I’d changed my mind?”

Howland sighed and gave her a look very much like father had when she’d come to him complaining of Arya’s misdeeds.

“What I’m shown is not always a clear tale Sansa. Sometimes it’s riddles. Other times nightmares.” He swallowed then. “This time it was a mixture.”

The horns blew again.

“What were you told?”

“I heard a harp.” He closed his eyes. “It played a song I’d heard before…one that heralded the coming of a great joy and horrible sadness.”

_This does not bolster my hopes._

“The playing came from Winterfell but not the Winterfell we see before us. This one was shrouded in blood. I saw a red man stumble and fall upon a blade he’d been sharpening. I saw a great army come marching out for the gates, leaving bloody footprints in their wake.”

He paused and gazed at her gown sadly.

“And in their path a blue winter rose amid the snow…those men coming onwards, their boots crashing down towards this beautiful thing, I feared that surely it would be trampled…”

Sansa could hear her own breathing as Howland trailed off, his eyes moving to the castle again. She waited for him to continue.

Then waited some more.

 Yet all she heard was the blowing of the horns.

“Howland what happened next?” She asked as the sound dropped off.

“If only I knew.” He said. “For I awoke before I could see anything else. So yes I believed this plan could work, yet the true cost was hidden from me. Now do you see why I could not just idly accept you taking such a risk?”

“Plenty of people are at risk Howland.” Sansa said, disappointed the ending had not been what she’d hoped. “Do I run from what is needed of me while others risk so much? Robb was not that kind of ruler, I won’t allow his successor to be. I will do what needs to be done.”

_Just like the others._

_Just like Jon._

At that she gazed out towards the trees and snowdrifts that covered the western approach to Winterfell. Out there in blowing snows, far from her riders, farther still from the forest and very much alone in the wilderness, was a small party of her most loyal men.

Jon among them.

 _They could worry all they want of my life,_ she thought, _few enough worry for his._

Howland made a sound then. The lord was running a hand down his face and shaking his head. He almost looked to be laughing.

“Sometimes to lead is to act without being sure of a thing. To take risks for the sake of those who put their faith in you.” Howland smiled. “Your father’s words. I dare say he’d be upset to see you living by them. As upset as he would be proud.”

She was touched and somewhat embarrassed. For she couldn’t remember ever hearing her father say such a thing. Or if she had she’d not been paying attention.

 _I hope he’s proud of me_ , she thought, _I want him to be._

She was about to say so when Ronnel grunted.

“Our watchers your grace, they’re coming.”

The man pointed ahead and sure enough she saw a party of four riders riding hard towards their position from the western side of the castle. When they’d arrived they’d stationed men amongst the ruins of Winter Town to watch the gate her riders couldn’t see.

The man leading the party looked like no outrider she’d ever seen.

And she pitied his horse.

“They’re trying to surprise us! Idiots!” Mors Umber roared as came before her.

She’d been shocked to find the Greatjon’s uncle once again outside Winterfell’s walls considering the task Jon had sent him on. He’d laughed and told them he hadn’t needed to leave. A strange tale had followed that, of Mors coming upon some emissaries from the Night’s Watch and Braavos searching for Stannis themselves. He’d pointed them in the direction and sent word of the Karstark betrayal with them.

This time he delivered word of treachery himself.

“Couple hundred horse coming out of the far gate!” Mors smiled to say it. “My guess is they’re trying to ride around and flank us.”

“Are you sure?” She asked.

“Of course I’m sure.” Mors scoffed before turning to Howland. “Can’t stay here much longer.”

“No we cannot…”

“No!"

She felt panicked. Not because of how many were sent against them but for how few. As the horns blasted again, perhaps for the thousandth time,  she cursed them for not bringing more men marching from the castle.

"It’s too few!” She cried. “We have to draw more out!”

“Your grace if we stay and succeed in doing so, it will be our deaths.” Ronnel rode even closer to her. “Our whole plan depends on having a route by which to flee…”

“It depends on much more than that!” She snapped. “Others are depending on us to do more!”

The argument was ended by a loud, drawn out sound. Yet this time it was not the sound of horns they heard.

The interruption came from Ghost.

Ghost was facing Winterfell and as she watched the wolf threw his head back and howled again. The sound mingling in with the wind and she thought it sounded as if a whole pack had joined him.

Yet what answered Ghost’s howl was no wolf.

It was a horn and not one of their own. Nor were the others that followed. For they all came from Winterfell itself.

“Are they stupid?” Ronnel asked, spurring his mount ahead. “If they mean to trap us why are they bloody announcing it?”

The horns blew again, as did the distant groaning sound of heavy chains clanking. Somewhere within the castle something very heavy was moving. Sansa’s hand went to her chest as the meaning of the familiar sound dawned upon her.

“Because it’s not a trap.” Howland reached to check his sword. “It’s a hunt.”

Before she could answer that other men cried out. From the ruins of the Winter Town a great many riders appeared, charging towards them before even more appeared from the opposite side of the castle.

As terrifying as this great attack was her eyes moved back to the castle hopefully.

And the gate ahead did not disappoint her this time, for it had clearly been raised.

Now a great column of men flying the Bolton banner came marching forth, and more were appearing from the other gates as well.

All coming straight at them.

Ghost howled again as the Bolton forces advanced. As he finished the wolf seemed to take one last lingering look into the snows before rushing back towards their line.

“Your grace we must go!” Ronnel shouted.

This time she didn’t argue.

“We go!” She agreed. “But we are coming back!”

_Hear me Jon._

_We are coming back._

 

* * *

 

**JON**

 

“It’s time we go.” Willem muttered. “More then bloody time.”

Jon nodded as he looked back at the rest of the freezing party.

“Stay low. Move with the winds. I’ll see you all on the battlements.”

With that, six men suddenly rose from where they’d been crouching in the brush. It had taken them the better part of a morning to travel halfway from the woods to Winterfell. Despite wrapping themselves in white cloth and pelts to better conceal themselves amongst the snow, they’d advanced cautiously.

In truth there had been little hurry. When they arrived at the shallow ditch midway to the castle it had only been to wait. To gather about each other for warmth and wait for Sansa’s diversion to succeed.

Or fail.

They would’ve gone in either case. Their goal was that important.

The whole time Jon had been more worried for Sansa than he was the success of her plan. When the gates had gone up and the Boltons had marched out his worries were not truly eased. For he could only sit and watch as her company, a thin distant shadow in the distance, had not fled at first sign of the enemy.

His terror and anger rose every moment Sansa had lingered in the face of the Bolton charge. The whole time he'd been silently urging her to flee so when she finally did he found his jaw sore from clenching his teeth so tightly. He saw little else of her escape save the Bolton riders following after.

Then the long, slow march of Roose Bolton’s army followed in behind. It was a hard thing to know they marched off to a battle which could either secure or doom Sansa’s reign.

Even harder to continue waiting in the cold while the sky began to darken with the coming of night. The signal had not arrived until then.

Two long, drawn out horn blasts from the Wolfswood.

Heralding the coming of a party of wounded men.

Signaling Jon to do what he must.

The six men moved as silently as they could over the snowy fields towards the darkened outer wall. To do so wearing the large bear-paw shoes of the northern mountain clans was difficult but necessary, without them he would have sunk waist deep into the drifts. No matter how much the wind chilled him he was glad of the noise it made, it helped them all the more.

By the time they reached the wall darkness had descended on the land and their invasion began.

Willem and Hal saw to preparing the grappling hooks as the others pressed themselves as close to the wall as they could. They stripped off the bear-paws in anticipation of the travels ahead, as Jon eyed the walls high above them. If there were men along them he could not see any.

 _We go anyways_ , he thought, _just like Theon did._

Willem and Hal waited until the wind struck again to start spinning the hooks in their hands. When the screaming wail of the winter winds echoed loudly along the sides of the castle the pair made their throws.

Jon’s breath caught as he dreaded a loud noise followed by falling hooks.

Such could be their undoing.

Instead the old gods were with them. He heard little over the howling wind and neither hook fell back. Willem yanked the ropes and both held firm.

“Good throw little man.” Jon whispered.

“Figured we’ve been miserable on ground long enough.” Willem shook his head, as he looked up. “Let’s try being miserable up there.”

“This will be very cold. And very difficult.” Hal said.

“You don’t say?”

Hal ignored Willem and began to rip away his white cloak and other coverings, the rest following suit. Beneath they wore dark colors to better blend into the dark of the walls and night around them. With no cloak about Jon's shoulders he thought Hal was likely to be right.

_And us likely to freeze._

Jon went first, his muscles screaming after being at rest for so long and now being asked so much. The wind and snow were so bad he hoped none would slip and fall. Robbing the Boltons of a chance to kill them was one thing, but if a man cried out it would doom them all.

The journey up took forever. It almost felt like he was climbing the Wall itself. For every moment he worried at falling he spent another fearing someone above shouting or raising the alarm.

_Like Sansa would do when she caught Robb and you sneaking up on her with snow in your hands._

He smiled at the memory as he climbed another foot.

_Or Arya when she’d find someone at the hiding game in the godswood._

Another foot went by as the wind blasted him.

_Robb leading our charges against snowmen._

_Bran as he rode upon your shoulders and pretended he was flying._

_Rickon when you’d hide behind a cloth again and again._

It went on like that until, his shoulders aching and his face feeling quite numb, he reached the upper edge of the wall.

Jon paused then, listening closely. He heard nothing but the wind now, no scraping of boots against stone or the voices of men. No sign of guards. He looked down and to his side and saw the others coming up as well. When Willem drew up next to him and the others all came up behind, Jon steeled himself.

Willem and Jon could barely see each other but he saw the knight nod.

At that Jon reached up and, in as quick a movement as his tired arms could manage, he pulled himself over the wall. He didn’t bother to land on his feet and just rolled upon the snow covered stone walkway as best he could. He rose up to a crouch just as Willem tumbled next to him. They had climbed to a place near the godswood not far from the Hunter’s gate.

Jon tried to spot any guards nearby as the others followed them over the crenels. He saw few enough men on this part of the outer wall. Torches were scattered the entire way along the walkways but the light was weak. He saw there were men at the far end of this stretch of the wall but they looked to be moving off in the other direction. A glance towards the higher inner walls and nearby tower showed no men at all.

_Most of the guards probably seek warmth in the guard towers._

_The others might be watching the coming of our friends._

They moved quick and low, hiding their movements behind merlons as best they could. The party drew to a halt when they came to a bridge linking the outer and inner walls. The archway which lay ahead acted as a gateway to gaining the inner wall and then making their way down to the lower levels of the castle. The Manderly envoy who had returned to Winterfell with false word of Sansa’s march was meant to have others waiting for Jon’s party.

Their allies were to be meet them after they heard the sounding of the two horn blasts.

Meant to meet at this place.

And someone was certainly within.

A torch burned somewhere inside the archway and Jon could see the shadow of a man standing within but saw little else besides. That weighed on him greatly. A small army of Boltons could be awaiting them on the other side, hiding within the walls and he’d still only be able to see that one man. Yet his men holding where they did would lead to being spotted soon enough. They would be damned either way so he set on the course they’d already decided upon.

He looked back at Willem and held up his hand. He’d go in alone.

 _It all depends on this,_ he thought. _If our friends are there we have a chance._

_If not, at least I’ll die having been in my home one last time._

With that Jon rose and ran into the entrance.

The man within wore a heavy cloak and when he whipped around Jon saw him to be a grizzled, older man of an age with the Blackfish. He also saw the flayed man of House Bolton clear upon the stranger’s chest as he raised a sword towards Jon’s intrusion.

Jon’s hands were raised, his body exposed and the Bolton seemed poised to cut him down when he remembered the signal.

“Merman.” He said quickly, hoping that would not be his last word.

It wasn’t.

“Wolf.” The man answered.

The man lowered his sword and grunted approvingly as two others stepped out from the shadows behind him. In the weak light within Jon just barely made out two bodies slumped against the wall to the side. Both bore red, bloody lines across their throats.

The lead man then threw back his Bolton cloak to display a small badge depicting the Manderly merman. Relief filled Jon as he eagerly reached out and shook the man’s offered hand.

“I’m Wade Docksworth.” The man’s grip was strong. “Say your name so I can marvel at who made that climb.”

“Ser Jon of Winterfell.” He said and the man looked surprised.

“You’re Lord Stark’s son aren’t you?”

He nodded and the man raised an eyebrow.

“Well that makes sense I suppose. We best be quick about it.” The older man said jerking his thumb back at the bodies. “These two will be missed and the guards sleeping in the tower you passed by will be noticed soon enough.”

Jon thought that wise and went back to the entrance and waved the others within. When all had gathered inside and away from the open the Manderlys tossed down two sacks at their feet.

“Here, you lot put these on.” Wade said. “Manderly or Stark doesn’t matter when you dress like monsters.”

Within the sacks they found more cloaks like the ones Wade and his men wore as well as some helms. Willem smiled when he was handed one.

“Us Royce men can make anything look good but this will be a challenge.”

As the man chuckled at his own joke Jon hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in bringing his friend. In truth every man in their party save Willem had lived in Winterfell before the war. It was a necessity for them all to know the castle for Jon’s plan to work. Yet Willem had never been to Winterfell and including the knight put him at risk needlessly when he could be of better use elsewhere.

 _Sansa insisted_ , he remembered, _she sets knights to guard you, forgetting that you are one yourself._

“Hurry now. I don’t know how long them tower guards will sleep for.” Wade urged them on.

“Sleeping?”

“Poison can make for noise. Drowsiness gets the job done and they just look drunk.” Wade shrugged. “We lost a bet to those guards that the Bastard wouldn’t march. Imagine how upset we were losing our wine to them. These were waiting on their payments when we did for them.”

“How many men marched out?” A now helmed Willem asked.

The White Harbor men smiled.

“Almost all. There be a few hundred men left, a good lot of them archers.” Wade chuckled then. “And Roose Bolton is dead.”

“He’s dead?” Jon asked, not quite believing it.

Wade nodded.

“Apparently Stannis had wildling spies about and one did for him…most of us don’t believe it though. We think it’s the bastard’s work.”

_One crime the bastard won’t be held to account for by me._

As soon as they were all disguised to Wade’s satisfaction the newest group of Bolton recruits began their journey into the heart of the castle. They walked along poorly lit passages and down some stairs only passing two men at most. When they moved out into one of Winterfell’s courtyards he was shocked at how few men were about. He saw some here and there but most stood around braziers or looked to be moving towards the North Gate.

“We don’t have much time…” Wade said quietly. “Won’t take the Boltons long to know the men coming in aren’t wounded. Whoever you got outside those walls better be fast, those gates won’t stay open forever.”

“They don’t need to.” He whispered back. “Don’t worry, we’ve done something like this before. It’s how we took the Twins.”

Wade whipped his head around in surprise but Jon paid him little mind.

He was too distraught to see the destruction that had been wrought to Winterfell since he’d last been here. He saw marks of fire on all the buildings and his burned hand itched to grab his sword and began the battle now. To avenge his home and family against the men who’d helped both to their ruin.

Yet he maintained his composure for their goal was not far now.

Even in the darkness, the Guest House looked in as poor a shape as the rest of the castle. The stones were blackened from fire and the roof look recently repaired.

_As long as the cellar did not collapse it will work._

_It has to._

“Shit.”

Wade’s curse was directed at a group of Bolton men exiting the stables heading towards the Great Keep. They were talking loudly and their two groups looked to pass one another. Jon kept his eyes trained on the ground, hoping they’d pay them no mind.

 _We’re just a group of men-at-arms,_ he thought _, all heading to wherever everyone else is._

“That’ll be Lord Too Fat’s wounded.” Someone laughed. “Should’ve let them freeze to death out there.”

“Or starve! All the Manderlys could stand to starve a little.”

“Who says they won’t? Lord Ramsay said they could come to Winterfell he never said…”

Their voices trailed off as they passed by and Wade spat after they’d gone.

“Bastard’s Boys” The grizzled man whispered to him but they did not break pace.

A short time later they’d reached the door of the Guest House. Wade knocked upon it quickly and soon enough the heavy door was pulled open and their party entered. Within two Manderly retreated back towards a table they’d clearly been sitting and enjoying a meal around.

“It’s just us.” Wade growled, pulling back his hood. As the rest filtered in he slammed the door shut behind them. “How is he?”

“As bad as before.” One answered before shaking his head. “And the two ladies have just arrived…”

“What?” Wade almost shouted in anger. “Why the bloody hell is that bitch here?”

“She’s looking to move from the keep to here! Checking the rooms! She brought the Lady Jonella too.”

“Would you want to stay in the keep with the bastard Wade?”

“No I wouldn’t!” Wade stormed to face down the man who’d questioned him. “I would like to be in White Harbor with our lord which you lot just made more difficult by letting bloody Lady Dustin and Cerwyn in! This is by far the shortest command I’ve ever seen someone bugger up!”

“Is it just the two ladies?” Jon broke in, his mind racing at what this could mean. “Are they escorted?”

When the two men hesitated to answer Wade thumped one hard in the arm.

“This be Ser Jon, he’s going to rescuing our lord so speak up!”

They quickly answered that the ladies were only attended by two stewards. He also learned besides the five Manderly men here there were two upstairs with Lord Wyman and another about somewhere in the castle.

Also that there was a maester upstairs as well.

“Shit is there anybody you people don’t have in here?” Willem slapped his forehead.

“If the ladies and the maester can be dealt with quickly it won’t matter.” Jon said pushing by the Manderly men to a wreck of a door at the far end of the long room.

Wrenching it open he grabbed a torch off the wall and held it within. A narrow set of stairs led down towards a cellar and he smiled to see it hadn’t collapsed.

“Rodwell, Quent.” He waved the two men forward. “You know what to do, make sure the way is clear.”

“I hate the dark ser.” Rodwell said as he took the torch before Quent and he descended the stairs.

“What’s so good about a cellar?” Wade asked.

“Nothing, it’s what’s below it that helps us.” He answered before turning to his three remaining men. “Go above and take charge of the ladies. No screaming, no noise. Gag them if you must. We’re taking them as well.”

“Ladies along for the journey eh?” Willem asked smiling. “Excellent, nothing better than a cramped dark place with ladies.”

_Willem's never looked upon Jonella Cerywn and Barbrey Dustin is colder than this weather._

He left that unsaid as the others went off to do their work. Wade finally lost his patience with him then.

“Tell us what we’re bloody doing!”

“We’re hiding.” He said simply. “There’s no way we can sneak your lord out of the castle but we can make it look like he did.”

From there he explained that as large as Winterfell was above ground it was even larger below. Tunnels built long ago during harsher winters crossed between many of the buildings. Most had been abandoned and unused for generations and the one below the Guest House was of that kind.

“It’s open!” Rodwell appeared at the top of the stairs, covered in dirt and dust. “Cramped and some of the supports have fallen but I think we can get to where we need be.”

“Hide?” Wade laughed without humor. “That’s your great plan? What’s to stop them from checking the tunnels?”

“Why would they?” He shot back. “You didn’t know of them. I doubt the Boltons do. Besides they’ll be looking for an escape first before anything. That’s why we left our ropes on the walls, they’ll think we fled.”

“Wade.” A guard spoke up. “How is Lord Wyman ever going to get down there?”

“By walking?” He ventured and saw Wade’s face darken.

Willem and the others reappeared then as they came down the stairwell leading to the upper floors. All three had their swords drawn, with four prisoners in tow. One of the ladies was plump and homely yet seemed calm enough. The other was tall and handsome despite her age yet gave him cause to worry. For her face was clouded in anger.

Willem looked even angrier as he kept his hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

“She spat on me.” Willem growled. “Women don’t spit on me unless I give them coin to...”

“Later.” He said. “Lady Dustin, Lady Cerwyn, I am Ser Jon of Winterfell, in service to the Queen in the North.”

Jon bowed towards the two ladies as Wade whispered something to the other Manderlys and they disappeared up the stairs.

“I apologize for this but I must take you under the Queen’s protection for the next few…”

Lady Barbrey interrupted with a series of muffled shouts and what looked to be her best attempts at biting through Willem’s gloves. It did him little harm but he was greatly annoyed.

“Again, women don’t bite me unless…”

“You’re Jon Snow. You serve Queen Sansa?” Lady Jonella asked meekly. “Is she coming? Are the Starks returning?”

Jon smiled at her, the woman was a kind soul as far as he could remember and the treatment she received due to her age and looks hadn’t dampened it.

“I am and they are my lady. If you would just follow Rodwell he’ll see you to safety.”

With a grimace Willem continued onwards towards the cellar with Lady Dustin still offering muffled protests and the others following after. Wade came up and laid a hand upon his shoulder then.

“Ser…your plan is bold but my lord is very ill.” Wade paused and sighed before continuing. “I worry he cannot walk on his own.”

 _Oh gods_ , he thought, _I knew he was hurt but to be so poorly off…_

He heard some muffled yelling from back towards the cellar but it was quickly silenced. A moment later Willem and Hal returned, the knight smiling.

“Bound up the angry lady and those servants. She objected to being gagged as well.”

“Rodwell and the other two have moved them within the tunnel.” Hal added. “We only need Lord Wyman.”

“They don’t think he can walk.” Jon signed, desperately trying to think of a way around that.

“Lord can’t walk?” Willem asked before shrugging. “So we carry him.”

With that the Wade joined Hal and Jon in staring at Willem with astonishment.

“The lord is fat.” Hal explained. “Very fat. It would be…difficult to carry him.”

“He can’t be that fat…”

Some time later Jon’s worries lifted and Willem learned how wrong he was.

It appeared that as fat as Wyman Manderly was, he was determined to make this journey. Sounds almost akin to a struggle brought their attention back to the upper stairs. There, moving ponderously down them was the Lord of White Harbor. The man had almost lost his head in a Frey attack but the cut flesh about his throat had been stitched up well, no matter how ugly it looked. The scar it would leave was the least of the lord’s health concerns.

The fever that had taken ahold of him was apparent. The man was a redfaced, sweaty mess to behold as his three men helped him down the stairs. The fourth was escorting the maester but both were trapped behind the procession ahead of them.

“Where do they take me? To White Harbor?” The lord squinted and wheezed. “My son never saw home again.”

 _He’s mad with fever_ , he thought, gods _the strength of him to even be moving…_

“My son…my poor boy…”

Whatever Wyman’s thoughts were they caused him to begin to weep then, clutching as the face of one of his men trying to soothe him.

“No my lord to safety. To the tunnels, Lord Eddard’s bastard…um…Ser Jon has come to take us to the crypts.”

The lord’s weeping paused and he lurched back so that his men were thrown back against the stairs in their attempt to hold him. The fat man pinning two of them behind him. Jon and the others ran forward and pulled with all their strength to raise him up again. When his sweat stained face came near to Jon’s he smiled.

“Eddard…the crypts Eddard…safe in the crypts…safe from the bastards…the lords were there…”

 _Poor man_ , he thought, _he’s good for trying but this will take forever._

Just then a pounding came upon the Guest House door. The beating quick and almost panicked. A voice calling from without.

“Grandfather! Grandfather it’s me!”

Wade cursed and ran to pull the bar from the door and a moment later a boy rushed within, snow blowing in after. His face was red from cold and his eyes wide in surprise as he stared at Jon and the others.

“Erik what is it?” Wade asked.

“They didn’t let them in!” Young Erik yelled. “I was at the North Gate like you said and I heard that Steelshanks tell the others they couldn’t come in! They let them in the first wall all right and good but won’t let them in the second! Said Lord Ramsay let them in the castle but never said how far he would!”

Jon felt as if he someone had struck him the blow was so harsh. The Manderlys were meant to get within the castle and hold the gate for the small army awaiting their signal in the woods beyond. Maege, Ser Symond, Ser Lyn and the rest of Sansa’s horse were waiting right now to charge forth and take the gates.

He had barely time to think of what they could do when the news darkened further.

“And they’re coming!”

“Who is coming?” Wade grabbed the boy’s shoulders.

“The Bastard’s Boys! Them and many more grandfather! They all have swords and spears and they weren’t far behind!”

Jon shot a look and saw that the men holding Wyman had not moved an inch during all this.

“Get him to the tunnels! We don’t have much time!”

“You heard him!” Wade yelled as well, running to the door and barring it again. “Help me block it up!”

As the Manderly men did their best to usher their lord across the long room he stumbled and fell again. While the men struggled to get Wyman to his feet again Jon and the others ran about grabbing everything they could to throw in front of the doorway. The table, the chairs, a barrel, all were piled about blocking the door but Jon worried of how little there was in the room with much weight to it.

A number of Manderly shields were too light for the deed so Jon and others set to use them in case of a fight.

Then they heard the thud against the door.

“Open up in the name of Lord Ramsay!” A voice called. “We need to speak to Lord Too Fat!”

Laughter erupted at that and Jon ran to look through a gap in one of the boarded up windows. He saw close to three score men without. Many held torches yet all were armed as the boy had said.

Turning back he saw Wyman had almost reached the cellar stairs.

“Open up!” The pounding came again.

“Erik, go and take over for Alyn in helping the maester into the cellars.” Wade said then, gesturing to the paled man still in the grip of one of his guards. “Alyn, we’ll be needing you.”

The pounding came even harder now. Someone was throwing their shoulder into the door, causing the makeshift barricade to shake. 

“That won’t hold.” Hal said, drawing up next to Jon as Willem came up around the other side frowning.

“There’s no way they’ll get him into the tunnel before that lot get in here.”

He saw the truth of that clear enough as he looked to the cellar. Lord Wyman and his escort had made it to its stairs but were struggling terribly as they attempted the narrow steps below.

The thudding grew louder and the door shook so violently he imagined that without the barricade it would have already been forced inwards. His plan depended on getting everyone into the tunnel and closing its hatch long before any came looking. If these men charged in they would certainly check the cellars in their search.

_If they couldn’t find Wyman…_

_They’re here for him, they’re wanting to get to him._

“We distract them.” He decided. “Us five. The others get to the tunnels, we make it look like the lord is still above and we still defend him.”

The door began to splinter at one part.

_Five of us._

_Five of us against so many._

“We buy them the time he needs.”

The other men all nodded, Wade spitting as well before glancing back towards the cellar door. The maester was now doing all he could to aid Wyman’s descent, likely in fear of what was to happen when that door broke.

Which meant he hadn’t needed much guarding after all. That explained why young Erik now stood at the top of the stairs, his sword drawn.

“Go on boy.” Wade turned his eyes back to the doorway. “You shut that door tight.”

“And close the tunnel hatch behind you.” Jon added.

“Please grandfather! I can fight…" 

“Aye you can.” The old man smiled. “But you live instead. For that daughter of mine I love so. You live.”

With that Wade drew his sword and so did Jon. Willem drew one of his with Hal and Alyn following after.

A sharp thud signaled the first of the axe strikes. Then another.

And another.

Erik had gone. The cellar door closed but light still flickering through its cracks. That meant they weren’t in the tunnel yet.

The door broke almost in half then, a Bolton man struggling to pull his axe out for another blow.

“Look at it this way Wolf.” Willem smiled as he raised up his shield. “At least we got to fight for the Queen after all.”

 _I will always fight for her_ , he thought, _I just hope she lives for me._

_No matter if I do the same._

He reached out and clattered his shield against Willem’s and then Hal’s.

Then the door burst forward and the barricade was charged.

Then it was blood and men dying.

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

“Protect the Queen!”

Howland’s cry was almost lost in the shouts and sounds of battle all around her.

The crannogman lashed out with sword, cutting through a Bolton rider to his right. Yet even as that man fell away another joined the attack upon the lord, who met the man’s mace with his shield. They began to grapple then and both Howland and his enemy fell from her sight.

It was the same all around her.

Man after man fell to her enemies, their advance relentless. Bolton riders continued to charge through the cordon of her noble hundred and some had even worked their way around to encircle them.

Leaving Sansa in the middle of a battle with nowhere to flee.

Everywhere she looked she saw death. The forces loyal to Bolton and Stark clashed in a long, bloody line even as the last light of day left their battlefield here along the Kingsroad.

Darkness was coming.

And with it came more Boltons.

Another charge of enemy riders had broken through so now Sansa was in the thick of the fighting. The men who’d begged rights to act as her personal guard were dying left and right as slashing swords and stabbing spears came on, closer and closer.

Until it was right beside her.

“No!” Sansa screamed as a Bolton man with only one eye skewered Torrhen through his middle.

Blood sprayed across her as Torrhen’s killer wrenched his blade free. She could feel its warm wetness upon her face as the man turned to come at her next.

“Bitch!” He roared as her rode towards her unopposed. “I see you Stark bitch!”

She pulled desperately at her reins and her horse reared up, kicking. The hooves went right at her attacker’s head.

And missed.

The man roared as his sword cut up and into her horse’s middle. The poor animal screamed as it faltered and she pulled her leg free of the stirrup before the horse came crashing down upon the ground.

She landed hard on the snow. Her shoulder and side screamed in agony as the impact drove the sense for her. For half a moment she was a little girl who’d just fallen off her pony.

Sure father and mother would run to help her.

Yet no help came. The world was but screams and the heavy thudding of horse hooves near her.

She tried to raise herself up to her knees and almost by accident saw the horse’s approach out of the corner of her eye. Where the strength came from she didn’t know, but Sansa flung herself to one side as the beast trampled the space she’d been in. Now on her back in the snow she saw the rider above her was the same one-eyed killer from before.

Come to finish her.

“My weight in gold if I bring you to him!” The man laughed as he spun his horse around to face her. “Wolf bitch!”

She kicked at the snow trying to escape but was stopped when she crawled into a body sprawled out behind her.

Her eyes darted about in the snow. For one of her men.

For her saviour.

_He came for me out of the snows._

_He always comes for me._

Yet every one of her men she saw was already fighting. Or dead.

The only person coming was her killer. The one-eyed man made to ride her down, his horse beating towards her. As he raised his bloody sword she raised her own hands up to protect herself. Shutting her eyes so she could be spared watching her own death. The beating of the horses hooves became louder and louder.

They were almost on top of her.

Then they were by her.

And no blow came. Only the slightest breeze washed over her.

Sansa opened her eyes and whipped her head around to see a riderless horse panicking as it dragged about a mangled body from its reins. Her would be killer was tangled up, his skull smacking against the cold ground as the blood from his torn throat left a dark path in the horse’s wake.

Her saviour rushed by her to continue his attack.

A bloodied Ghost snapped at the horse, scaring mount and rider back off into the throng of battle.

 _I didn’t even know he was there,_ she thought, _he’s so quiet._

_He didn’t even give the man a chance to cry out._

She watched as Ghost launched himself at a man trying to lower a spear at her. As Ghost leapt into the air the wolf’s jaws closed about the man’s leg and when he came down the leg came with him.

The rest of the man did not.

She ran to a dead horse then, seeking what protection its great body offered her. Her heart was pounding against her chest and she was breathing heavily creating great white clouds before her face. She hadn’t been had so terrified since the Moon Door.

It was a terrible change from how things had been a short time ago.

When she’d been filled with hope and confidence.

 _We were winning_ , she thought, _we were winning._

The Boltons had chased them until it seemed like both armies’ mounts would drop dead from exhaustion. It had been a hard thing to watch as some of the horses among her company did just that. Their retreat pressed on even as they left a good number of men falling behind, men who were ridden down and killed when the Boltons came upon them.

She’d cried for those men. The tears stinging her face in the cold wind.

It had gone like that for too long, too many of her men dying and too many of the enemy closing in. The Boltons were quickly closing the gap between their spears and Sansa herself. Her death becoming more and more likely as time went on.

That was until her noble hundred rode straight into an another army.

An army which welcomed her return with the banging of weapons against shields.

Ser Kyle had their men waiting where she had wanted and not nearly as far as the Boltons expected them to be. As Sansa’s men parted to allow her company to enter its ranks the Boltons had halted their pursuit. Their leaders obviously at a loss to explain how her army yet stood.

It would not be the only surprise awaiting them.

The feeling of giving chase to their enemy had been a good one. No matter who was at the head of the Bolton forces they clearly saw her own now greatly outnumbered theirs. So they fell back slowly, riding back towards Winterfell.

Much slower than they could have.

Or probably should have.

“They’ve tired their horses and will not wish to tire them further.” Howland had said. “They know their foot follows closely behind. When they come together, they’ll have greater numbers, more horse and attempt a charge to break our lines.”

 _A good plan_ , she’d thought, _if they haven’t figured out why my army still stands._

_Where oh where are their allies?_

The slow pursuit back the way they’d come went on for just over an hour before the Boltons were reunited with their foot.

And their missing allies.

The Manderlys and the other houses had done as Lord Bolton commanded. They’d marched west and swung south to find the Stark army. That morning in fact the mixed force had come upon her camp when she was already on her way to Winterfell.

Yet instead of attacking, they continued on in their great circle. Marching forth to surprise another army instead. It was this army of Northmen, who had been threatened and forced into serving Lord Roose, which now stood between the Boltons and Winterfell.

While the Manderlys launched their attack from the north Sansa’s army continued their attack from the south. The Boltons had been caught in the middle, as trapped as Robb’s army had been beneath the tents at the Twins.

She’d watched with glee as her former pursuers fled into the middle of the Bolton ranks as the first lines of her spearmen met their foes.

Flaming arrows were lit on both sides and soon began to fly from all three armies. Horns sounded, men charged and battle raged. The Boltons were outnumbered yet formed powerful shield walls, fighting hard despite their poor position.

Ser Kyle led their center ranks to try and break those shield walls while Sansa insisted her company lead the reserve to fill the gap. The men around her had deserved such an honor and she knew many of would be eager to fight. Besides, she was well behind them and the front far enough that no arrows reached her.

Somehow, in the midst of this battle, she’d let her mind drift to wondering how Maege and the others fared. Sansa's army and the Manderlys lacked a great many of their horse as most had been sent to shelter with Maege in the Wolfswood. A surprise meant to storm through Winterfell’s gates when the Manderlys succeeded in opening them.

Those riders would go forth to liberate the castle as Jon and the others hid Lord Wyman beneath it.

 _He’ll be alive and well of course_ , she thought, _angry to have missed such a battle._

Yet the battle was exactly what she was missing.

In her distracted state she had not once wondered why the Boltons weren’t using their superiority in mounted strength until it was too late.

Until they released hell upon her men.

Despite their army breaking around them the Bolton riders had focused upon a target in among her own ranks.

Namely herself.

Suddenly the hundreds who’d been chasing her before formed a wedge and charged through Ser Kyle’s men to attack her here in the centre. So beneath the darkening sky, when she’d thought her victory most assured, Sansa had come the closest to her greatest defeat.

As she hid behind the dead horse she kept her eyes glued on Ghost, the only guard she had left to her.

The attack still raged as Ghost circled her, snarling and snapping at any enemy who drew near. Her eyes desperately sought to find familiar faces among the fighters encircling them. It was dark enough now that the world was a blur to her, save for what torches there were and what the arrows had set to flame. When Sansa saw the shadow of the man running towards her she looked to Ghost and saw him already attacking a new rider. With no one to help her she made to flee, running from the horse’s body and stumbling over another, twisting her ankle badly.

She almost wretched to see it was Torrhen she had tripped over. Then she saw the blade in his hand.

In a flash she’d reached down and pulled it from his cold grasp. Sansa rose upon her screaming ankle, lifting the heavy blade up with both hands to point at the man coming towards her. She’d never been so afraid.

 _I don’t know how to use a sword_.

_Please just run into it, please._

“Sansa!” The shadow yelled in a familiar voice. “Sansa it’s me!”

The blade almost fell out of her hands as Howland rushed to her, his free arm embracing her while the other kept his own blade at the ready.

“Howland…” She sobbed grabbing onto him with all her strength. “I thought you were gone! Don’t leave! Please!”

“To me!” He yelled loudly. “To the Queen!”

They were still in danger yet she felt safer with Howland here. That feeling grew as more familiar faces appeared in her defense. 

A man tried to level a crossbow at them desperately but Mors took his arm off at the elbow before he could do so. Another of her men speared an enemy horse through the neck and the man had not escaped as quickly as she had. The sound of his bones breaking as the horse rolled over him in its death was sickening.

She only felt comforted when she realized more and more of her men appeared around her. As their numbers grew she peered over Howland’s shoulder and saw fewer Boltons among her ranks.

“They are broken Sansa.” He said then. “We’re pushing them back.”

 _Push them farther_ , she thought, _push them to the edge of the world and more._

Horns were blowing all around and a great shout came from the front of her lines. Her army surged forward then, men running to keep pace with their advance as it plunged headlong into the foe. She took notice that any Bolton rider not already fighting or dead sought to escape their place among the battle.

“Sansa, I’m sorry.” Howland backed away from her, his eyes face full of worry. “Are you hurt? When they got by me I feared…I thought I’d let another child…”

“I’m well Howland.” She lied. Her shoulder hurt terribly and her ankle ached so much she was sure it was sprained. “Of your hurts? I saw your fall and I know how such feels now.”

He gave her a weak smile.

Before he could answer Ronnel and Mors rode forward and joined them, the Stout man holding the reins to a riderless horse along with his own.

“Your grace!” Ronnel leapt from his horse and came to her side. “My gods you’re bleeding.”

“It is not my blood.” She answered, feeling somewhat ashamed.

_It belongs to someone who bled for me._

“And that’s not your sword either!” Mors called down, a thoughtful expression on his face as he gazed upon the blade in her hands.

She’d forgotten she held it in truth. Blushing some she went and gently laid it upon Torrhen’s chest before taking his lifeless arms and moving them to embrace his weapon.

“I am sorry.” She whispered to the poor man. “More than you’ll know.”

Leaving him felt horrible but even from where she stood Sansa saw countless more just like him. Even Ghost limped slightly as he came to join her in surveying her corner of the battle.

 _They will have to be counted_ , she thought, _I must know the cost of this._

_I can’t forget the cost of this._

“Queen Sansa, if I may?” Howland offered his hand to her.

Together both he and Ronnel helped her back upon her new mount. From where Sansa sat she could see much more of how the battle still unfolded.

Or rather how it was ending.

The scattered torches moving across the field showed Bolton men breaking in all directions. With their escape north and south blocked almost all fled west to the woods or east towards the snow swept fields beyond. She watched as mounted men rode down some of those who fled like sport. As awful as that seemed the Bolton men who ran were still more fortunate than those trapped between the advance of her two forces. Both armies had encircled what foe remained and, as their deadly circle tightened its embrace, archers rained fiery arrows down upon the hundreds packed within.

_The battle is over but the killing will last some time longer._

_And more may await us at Winterfell._

“When we are able...” She did her best to maintain her composure. “When everything is well in hand, we must reorganize as quickly as possible.”

The men had been watching the slaughter ahead but turned back at her words, looking upon her as if she was mad.

“Winterfell awaits us still.” Sansa continued, reaching up to try and wipe some of the sticky blood from her face. “Have Ser Kyle see to our foot, he did splendidly with this…”

“Splendidly?” Mors repeated but she ignored him.

“Ronnel, gather what is left of our riders and see who the Manderlys, Hornwoods…well all the others can spare. We must be away, within the hour.”

“Within the hour?” Ronnel looked skeptical until Howland rejoined them on a newfound mount of his own, leading four more riders from her guard.

“We have a castle to take or do you both look forward to another night sleeping in the open wind?” Howland asked, struggling with the new horse some. “The Queen has given a command. See to it.”

Ronnel straightened and bowed at that before riding off after the rest of her company. Mors grumbled something before riding off and leaving Sansa between Howland and Ghost. 

The wind kicked up then and snow started falling once more. It appeared the short reprieve they’d had from the weather was now at an end. She glanced back to Torrhen and noted sadly how the snow did not melt upon his face.

 _It’ll bury him before we can_ , she thought, _it’ll bury them all._

_Then it will be like none of this ever happened, as if none of the horrors here mattered._

“Our horses are exhausted.” Howland said quietly. “It will be some time before we can arrive at Winterfell…”

“It has been years since I’ve been inside Winterfell.” Sansa turned to gaze north, to the dark horizon beyond. “I must believe it will wait some hours more.”

She did pray for that. Then she prayed that no one would ever forget what was done here today. That the horrors here would matter.

And that Jon could wait some hours more.

 

* * *

 

 

**JON**

 

The sweat and smoke stung his eyes so that he barely saw the next blow coming.

He jerked to the side as the axe buried itself in the felled beam behind him. The thick wooden support was aflame yet held firmly onto the axe of his enemy. 

The man had overextended and his back half was open so Jon cut down quickly with his sword. The blade sliced deep into the back of the man’s knee and he screamed as he fell.

Jon wrenched the sword back but spared only a kick to the man’s back, sending him sprawling into the burning rubble of the hallway. The fire would have to do for the Bolton as Jon already faced another opponent who had made his way by Hal. 

They had retreated as far as the third level of the Guest House. It was only because of how hard pressed they were below that they’d dared attempt such, for much of the Guest House now was burning around them.

When exactly the Boltons had thought to start throwing torches through the windows and onto the roof he didn’t know. What he did know was that the actions of his foes were as careless as any Jon had ever seen in his short 16 namedays. For a great many of their men were still within trying to kill them as the others outside started the flames. 

One almost succeeded as he slashed a blade across Hal’s middle.

“No!” Jon roared as he charged forth and drove his sword through the man’s gut.

Their eyes met and he saw the absolute fear mixed with pain within his enemy’s eyes. He twisted the sword then and violently pulled it loose as the men fell backward down the stair, into three more of his comrades trying to struggle their way over the bodies already there. 

“Hal!” He turned to the guardsman, the man clutching his stomach as blood stained his hand and dribbled down his mouth. “Hal, it’s nothing! We’ll get you a healer soon!”

“Not many healers come to burning buildings lad.” Hal coughed more blood as he pushed away from the wall, his sword in hand. “Don’t worry Jon, I’m not leaving them all to you.” 

He coughed as well, more from the smoke than anything. He would’ve had them flee but every time they tried the Boltons were on them. Either coming up the stairs or from the rooms they’d raised ladders to behind them. 

That none had attacked from behind in awhile meant either their enemy had decided to stop climbing into the burning building or Willem and Alyn were holding them off.

_Or they’ve stopped sending men in and the others are dead._

He hated which option felt more likely.

When the Boltons had broken through the door the fight that followed had been a brutal one. 

They’d only held that position for as long as the barricades stemmed the tide of men coming through. He’d killed two himself in that time, the others doing as well if not better and none had fallen among their number. After he’d thrown another man back from the barricade he’d spared a look towards the cellar door. The flimsy thing stood as it had when he’d first arrived, with no light shining through.

The others had made it to the tunnels. He’d felt some relief at that but shortly after the Boltons had made it through the barricades. 

“Fall back!” He’d yelled as the room began to fill with more enemies than they could handle. “To the stairs!” 

They’d retreated to the narrow stairway, their attackers following after. The lack of space and high ground gave them the advantage. They fought in twos at first, Jon and Willem in the front while Hal and the others braced their backs against the push of the enemy. 

Then others would charge forth and take their place. The stairs below slicked with blood and filled with bodies so their enemy pushed them back very slowly for the first while.

It couldn’t last though. 

Nor had it.

They tired, more men came forth, and the smell of fire and smoke wafting in from other parts of the house had begun to reach them. Then the sound of pounding from somewhere above heralded the worst.

“They’re breaking in on the upper floors!” Willem yelled. “Bloody ladders, I’m guessing.”

“Go and throw them back then!” Wade had growled as Jon and Hal fought below. “Alyn you go with him, we’ll hold here.”

They wouldn’t. There was no way they could. They’d already been pushed up two floors. 

A great shout had gone up when they’d merely continued retreating up the stairs rather than attempt to hold Lord Wyman’s level. The Boltons had offered them a small reprieve then, most going on to search the lord's now empty room. Their full might pressed on again soon after making that discovery. He gathered they assumed Wyman Manderly on the top floor now. By that time parts of the second floor were well aflame and the roof as well, ash and embers falling upon them from above as the battle continued.

He’d sent one man falling backwards with his shield when he saw the crossbow. There’d been no time to warn Wade before the bolt struck him straight in the neck. The old man had pitched forward into the waiting blades of their enemy, Hal and him could only watch as the men gleefully hacked upon Wade’s body.

Now they were finally at the top level, the roof burning overhead, the floor burning and smoking below the two of them likely moments from death. 

He wiped the sweat and gore from his brow and watched through the smoke as three Bolton men reached the top of the stair ahead.

 _This will be it_ , he thought, _there’s no chance anymore._

Jon’s shield was lost to an axe and he held a Bolton one shakily. He was fairly certain some of the fingers on his left hand had broken from a mace. A spear had cut deeply through his leathers and into his side but he hoped it only glancing. 

Hal was struggling to stand and doing his best to hold in his insides while they prepared for their charge. The roof above them groaned in despair as bits of burning wood and thatch fell down around them.

_I wish I knew why these bastards were so eager to keep fighting in an inferno._

_I wish I knew the others were safe, that this was worth it._

“We are at an end Jon…” Hal struggled to say through the blood as the enemy closed. “Thank you for this.

“For getting you killed?” He asked, hissing as something burning landed about his neck. “Gods Hal I’m sorry for making you all do this.”

“No one made me…do anything. You found the Queen…you brought me home.” The man grunted and managed to smile some, his teeth bloodstained within. “I die in my home…for the Starks…thank you Jon…”

“Wolf!”

Jon jerked his head back to see someone staggering against the wall near the end of the corridor. As flames licked up the wall near him Willem’s bloodied face shone clear enough to see. 

“You’re still alive!” His friend called out, almost happily. “Good for you!” 

The man looked horrible. His nose was broken and a long cut jut down from his forehead across his left eye. He was also leaning against the wall in a way that made Jon worry.

“Willem we need you!” He shouted turning back to face their coming foes. “One last time…”

Groaning came from above them as parts of the flaming roof began to fall amongst the men ahead. Then the wreckage fell among them. Something heavy struck his head and he staggered some, feeling wetness leaking down his forward.

“Hey you fools get back!” Willem yelled. “Get back before…”

The loud crashing above them drowned out the rest of Willem’s yell and Jon’s eye caught Hal’s eye then. The man moved quicker than he’d ever seen him, his bloodied hand leaving his gut to swing back and into Jon. Hal was a strong man, stronger than many others he’d known.

It was that strength that sent him falling back and away. 

Leaving Hal’s side even as the fiery beam collapsed between them and a good part of the roof with it. A heavy piece of wood crashed about his legs and he screamed in pain.

He was still kicking free of it when a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back and free of it. 

“Wolf we have to…”

“Hal! Hal!” Jon yelled jumping to his feet as quickly as he could, burning pieces still falling around them.

Ahead the fiery mess of debris blocked his view of Hal but he ran forward and kicked at it.

“Hal! I’m coming!” 

He cut at a beam with his sword. It cut through men well enough but the burning wood would not give way.

“Jon we can’t stay here!” Willem’s hand was on his shoulder but he wrenched free.

“He’s alive!” He yelled chopping down again. “We can get to him! We can save him! Hal!”

_I brought him here. I can’t leave him._

_He saved me. He can’t die for me._

_Not for me._

He was still fighting the battle against the fire when something slammed into the side of his head. The world became a flaming blur, his eyes no longer focusing as they should. Nor were his feet and he felt like he was falling.

Yet he never landed.

“I’m sorry Jon…I made a promise.” A faraway voice said.

His arm was thrown over something and he was being hefted up and dragged somewhere. His feet had more sense than him, they knew to struggle along as he was carried froward.

Smoke filled his nose and he was coughing, the world was still a blur and something was in his eye. It was thick and sticky. Other things were falling on him and he stumbled but someone held him up.

A loud banging filled his ears, the sound of splintering word following after. Cold air washed over him and he breathed deeply, taking in a good amount of smoke as well. He was still hacking horribly as he was pulled up and onto something narrow in the cold air.

“I don’t know about you.” The voice said again. “But I’m not burning to death.”

Then they fell forward. 

Jon kept falling, the wind whipping about him and he felt as if he spun about in the cold air.

Then he plunged into deep, hot water.

So hot it almost burned.

His eyes shot open and he was shrouded in darkness, his cries coming out as bubbles around him. His senses came back quickly then and he saw a bright, flaming world above him. He swam up towards it, fighting to reach the air he so desperately needed.

When he broke the surface he felt his lungs burn as he gasped loudly, sucking in all the air he could before he went under again. He pulled himself up once more and this time he stayed above the water.

“I didn’t know…you could swim…” Willem gasped not far from him, the man beginning to swim towards the edge of the pool of water they were in.

He realized where they were quickly enough and joined his friend in swimming to land as well. As they crawled up the edge of the pool onto the snow-covered land, Jon turned his head to gaze up at the burning building far to the other side of the pool.

The wall of the godswood separated this ancient place from the rest of the castle and the Guest House had been built right up against it. Beneath that wall and the windows of the building they’d just escaped were three of the ponds that made up Winterfell’s hot springs. One of which had just saved their lives.

“How did you know about the ponds?” He asked, turning to look about the dark, snow covered godswood around them.

“Ponds? That’s what that was?” Willem coughed up some water.  “Seven hells…I just gave it a shot is all. We were dead in there if we didn’t at least try.”

Something caught Jon’s attention then. For his entire life the godswood had been a peaceful place where he could seek sanctuary from the world. Yet nothing about it seemed peaceful now. 

Echoing through it from the walls and other parts of the castle was the sounds of men shouting and screaming. He could also hear distinct clashing of weapons and looking up towards the walls he thought he saw flaming arrows flicking down from the walls towards the North Gate and even within the godswood.

Worse still, he saw dark shapes moving through the godswood, a great many of them in fact. 

“Wolf do you see…”

“Maybe they saw us fall.” He whispered backed, reaching down for his sword and finding it gone. “I’ve no sword.”

Willem laughed before tossing his own to Jon and rising to his feet to draw the second one upon his hip.

“I told you, I’ll never lose a fight for a lack of swords.”

He picked up the weapon and stood himself as someone gave a shout and a large group of the shadows began wending their ways through the trees towards them. He figured standing where they were, backs against the burning Guest House, that Willem and he were pretty well silhouetted for any seeking them in the godswood.

Four cloaked men dropped to their knees among some pines and raised crossbows at them.

“Surrender or know an ugly death!” A woman’s voice called towards them.

“What kind of a threat was that?” Willem shook water from his hair before calling back. “I have known an ugly life!” 

A moment passed before a familiar voice rang out.

“Ser Willem?” 

“Is that you mother?” Willem shouted raising his sword up. 

“Be quiet!” He snapped, for he knew that voice well. “Lady Maege is that you?”

“Jon!” Maege cried out as she strode out from behind some trees with a great many men following behind. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the crypts!”

“You’re supposed to be trapped without the walls.” 

“Aye that we were.” Maege shook her head. “Wasn’t like the Twins at all. When they didn’t let the Manderlys in we feigned an attack against the south gate. The Manderlys waited until the guards were good and distracted to attack. They held that outer wall gate at the north side open and gave us time to get here. It took too bloody long what with having to drag those blasted rams Morton was so bent on bringing…”

“Gods Maege.” He cursed. “How bad was it getting in?”

At that a horn sounded some along the walls at the far end of godswood and he thought he saw fighting towards the far corner of the battlements. 

“Not nearly as bad as staying in.” Maege said. “We hold the North Gate but little else. I was coming through here to attack the Hunter’s Gate but we’re in a bad way Jon, I lost a good third of my men getting in here and if the others don’t come…”

A man ran through the snows to them there, pointing back the way he’d come.

“My lady, the Boltons are regrouping at the other entrance to the godswood! They’re trying to push through to retake the gate!” 

“Alright, form up!” Maege yelled to her men before turning to the pair. “I’ll have one of my boys get you back to where we’re keeping the wounded…”

“You just said you’re short of men.” He said holding up his sword and glancing at Willem who shrugged. “We’d not leave you with any less.”

“Are you certain?” She was looking at them with a critical eye before glancing up at the Guest House. “Gods Jon what happened in there…”

“A good man named Wade Docksworth died fighting for his lord in there.” He said numbly.

“Alyn, another good man, he died for his lord there too.” Willem said, as he moved stiffly to join Maege’s men before glancing back to Jon. “And Hal…”

“Hallis Mollen, a good man… a Stark man until the end and beyond that… he died in there.” He gazed at the Guest House as it continued to burn. 

_He died in there for you. He died in there because of you._

“They died so we could retake this castle.” He said turning away from the fire and gripping his sword tightly. “It’s something I’d see done for them.”

“A few more dead Boltons will honor our dead as they deserve.” Willem put his hand upon his shoulder. “Maybe more than a few.”

Maege nodded and the group of men all gathered together to move forward through the trees. Towards the growing number of men preparing to launch an attack of their own.

The light from the fire behind him lit it up enough of the darkness that Jon saw the path over the roots and rocks clearly.

His last battle guiding him to the next.

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

“Oh no…no…”

Sansa almost broke then at the sight that greeted them as they came upon Winterfell.

Dawn was close upon them as her army finally arrived back at this place they had left the day before. Ahead the South Gate stood, still closed to their approach. Yet what tore her heart to see was the flayed man still flying over its tower.

She saw a good number of dead men and horses collected about that gate as well and her despair escaped in the tiniest of moans. 

“Have hope your grace.” Howland said softly. “This was not unexpected. It is the North Gate we must keep our hopes alive for.” 

It was hard to have hope as she saw the dark black smoke rising from her home. Harder to accept was how long it had taken for them to return. Their mounts had been near to collapse most of the journey and the snows had not helped. They’d had to stop and rest several times during their return.

Every delay had kept them from Winterfell. Every moment resting the horses could mean another of her men dead.

“We ride on to the East Gate!” Howland commanded while she wallowed in her guilt. 

As they closed upon it she saw the towers there still flew the Bolton banner as well and she prepared herself for the worst.

“Your grace! The gate is open!” Ronnel yelled. “It’s open to us!”

Her heart leapt to see he was right. Yet whether it was truly open to them seemed unlikely. As they neared arrows began to fly at them from a tower just south of the gate. They were still outside their range from as close as they were she could see men fighting around the tower. 

“This gate needs to be set to rights.” Mors growled to Howland. “I’d take some men to see it done.”

Howland looked to her and she gave a slight nod. The East Gate was not the one she wished to liberate. It was not the closest to the crypts.

“Go ahead Mors.” Howland said. “Take what Dustin, Cerwyn and Hornwood men are with us. We shall ride to the North Gate, if it is blocked to us we shall return here.” 

“Aye. Listen up all you whoresons who saw fit to march here with Bolton!” Mors roared. “Let’s make sure our enemy doesn’t live to see the dawn!” 

The man bellowed as loud as his nephew. Sansa shook her head but would concern herself with the man’s lack of manners later. For now he was acting bravely and leading a column towards the gate as arrows flew down at them.

The situation as they rounded the castle and came to the North Gate was quite different. The direwolf banner flew high on the towers here and a score of spearmen stood guard before it. When they saw her riding amongst her men with Ghost at the head they stepped aside and bowed. 

While she saw no fighting going on here, the evidence of battle was everywhere. A good number of the dead had been dragged aside to make way for her coming but scores of dead horses and a burnt out battering ram were seen as they rode by. The gate ahead had been broken through and as she rode within everything hit her at once.

This had been her home and dead men lay everywhere, wearing badges and sigils from both sides. From what she saw within the gate entrance courtyard, the castle itself looked half a ruin. There were char marks everywhere and the towers rising above the walls looked only slightly better than the ones she had seen at Moat Cailin. 

Her eyes watered but she forced herself against weeping. 

 _Think of ice_ , she thought, _cold, hard ice._

_You are home, this not a time to cry, it is a time to show strength. So think of ice._

As it had been outside the castle, she soon realized Winterfell was still a battleground. Fighting was still raging out in different spots about the castle and she could hear shouts and the way to the inner castle rang with the sounds of battle.

“Your grace!”

Maege appeared from a guardhouse and made her way towards her. The woman stood tall yet her arm was bandaged and a large bruise was forming across her cheek. 

“Your grace, I’m sorry the castle is not yours yet.”

“No apologies are needed from my brave lady, are you well?”

“This?” She glanced to her arm. “I’d lose the whole bloody arm if it meant the castle was ours all the sooner.”

“Where do you need men Maege?” Howland asked as he climbed from his horse to gently touch her good arm.

“I thought I just saw Mors come through the East Gate so that might do for the holdouts in the Great Keep. Your men best cut through the Godswood to help take the Hunter’s Gate.” She scowled. “Bloody thing has been handed back and forth all night.”

Ronnel was quickly moving about, rallying her men for a sortie through the godswood and she prayed they could do what needed to be done. 

 _This needs to end quickly_ , she thought, _we could still suffer an attack before the rest of the army arrives._

They’d learned from prisoners that Roose Bolton had died before his army ever marched against her. So it had been the Bastard’s army they had smashed yet Ramsay had not been found amongst the dead as far as they knew. Howland believed the man could try to reform what men were left to him and seek to reinforce the castle. Beyond that there was still a Frey army somewhere out there, chasing Stannis through the snows with a force just as strong as the Boltons had been. 

Besides those worries another one needed to be given voice.

“Of our men who scaled the walls?” She asked. “Has Lord Wyman been rescued?”

“Yes your grace, we sent men down into the crypts as soon as we took that part of the castle. Wyman, the ladies Cerwyn and Dustin were there, as well as all the others who were able to get into the tunnels.” Maege said sadly.

_Able to get into the tunnels?_

“I don’t understand…all the rescuers were to seek safety in the tunnels…”

Maege shook her head and pointed to the cloud of smoke rising from somewhere deeper within the castle.

“The Boltons came for Wyman Manderly during the escape. A distraction was needed and Hallis Mollen, Willem and Jon were among them. They fought on while the others got to safety...I think for over an hour and I can’t believe…” Maege said with an of awe. “The Boltons burnt the Guest House trying to get to Wyman. Jon and Willem only escaped by chance…”

_They escaped! He escaped!_

Her joy at the news was short-lived when she realized who Maege hadn’t mentioned. 

That Hal had travelled so far to die on the eve of them retaking their home forced a tear from her despite her efforts. Maege dug about in her cloak and pulled forth a rag which Sansa took gladly to dab at her eyes.

“He died a hero your grace. Many others as well.”

 _That doesn’t make me feel better_ , she thought, _maybe once but not anymore._

“Are Jon and Willem about?” She asked and Maege shifted uncomfortably.

“Willem is…he’s with the wounded. He took a bolt through the foot and already had enough injuries for me to have him kept in the healer’s care. Long enough for boiling wine to go in that foot so trust me, he’s done fighting for today. Ser Jon…well he was with the others about the Great Keep last I saw…”

_Cold, hard ice._

_Thick as a castle wall and cold to the touch._

Such was how Sansa kept her worries about her fool love in check for the time being. It was clear there was little she could do until the battle was finished so she sought out the wounded in the glass gardens to offer what help she could. The garden's glass windows had been shattered but the godswood looked mercifully untouched save for the blood stained patches of snow pockmarking the ground. 

She intended to seek out the heart tree later to pray for the dead. It would have to be today, she couldn’t allow it to wait. Offering that small tribute to all those who’d fallen for her was the least she could do.

For Hal, Torrhen and all the others. 

An hour went by before Howland found her at Willem’s side, offering the knight some water. She ignored his requests for wine instead.

“The Hunter’s Gate is ours.” Howland announced upon his arrival. “What Bolton men were at the South Gate have fled out of it. Mors Umber took some riders after them…” 

His meaning was not lost. 

 _Their escape would be short-lived. A desperate act made by desperate men_ _._

“There is one area holding out though.” He continued. “They hold the Great Hall and a captain named Steelshanks wishes for terms.”

“Would more of our men die in taking it?” She asked.

“Yes, he would bleed us.” 

That settled the matter for her. 

“Then let me go and offer terms.”

Enough had died today, if she could spare more of her men such a fate then she would.

As they walked through the godswood memories rushed back to her. 

Her father taking her into the hot springs as a child, her laughing and splashing. Lady chasing her about the trees and her laughing at the pup’s efforts. Jeyne and her telling grand tales of what their husbands would be like.

 _Neither of us has had much luck with husbands_ , she thought, _not yet at least._

As they left the godswood and entered the courtyard she saw men laying dead everywhere. Snow still fell on their bodies, some were almost covered while others barely so. The fighting had only just ended here.

Dead hounds, vicious looking things, lay feathered with arrows or hacked by other weapons. Ghost was feeding on one and looked up with a bloody mouth as she walked by. When Sansa saw her mother’s sept she grew wroth. Even from the distance she could see it ruined. Her mother had loved the sept her father had built for her and now it lay a scarred shell of its former self. 

It was hard to control her temper as they came to the Great Hall.

A line of Sansa’s own men were formed around it with spears, swords, axes, and all matter of weapon at the ready. From behind that line she could see Bolton archers in the doorways of the hall and knew more men would be inside waiting to kill hers.

“What was the man’s name?” She asked. “Their leader?”

“Steelshanks Walton.”

She bade him come out, shouting that he be called forth, promising safe conduct to talk. Moments later a brutal looking man with a bloody cloak walked from the Great Hall towards their line.

When he came to tower before her he did not look the least bit defeated, and he gazed down at her in a dismissive way. 

Then his eyes suddenly moved to her side and narrowed.

For Jon had come beside her, his face was cut and bruised and the rest of him looked little better. Ghost then ambled up next to him and that broke her of that spell. 

 _Later_ , she thought, _later for him._

_Later for us._

She would not let herself be distracted when lives were at stake.

“You would do well to lay down your arms.” Sansa said, adjusting her crown slightly. 

The Steelshanks man shrugged and jerked a hand at the men about them. 

“If we do that, we die anyways. Unless I hear different I’d die killing.”

“A good point.” She said. “Lay down your arms, swear fealty to me and any man who took no part in planning of the Red Wedding or Ramsay Snow’s evils shall be spared.”

Some of those closest to her grumbled at that but she ignored it. She could not kill every man who had served House Bolton. Sansa would not become a monster like Roose Bolton or Walder Frey. She’d see justice done but would show mercy to the small folk who just marched as their lord bid them.

“Fair offer but who are you to offer it?”

“She is Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard, sister of King Robb. The Queen in the North.” Jon said loudly. A cheer went up at his words from the men ringing the Great Hall and on the walls looking down. 

“She is also your only chance at life.” Howland added.

Steelshanks seemed to consider that for a moment, before nodding and dropping to a knee before her.

“I had no part in the Red Wedding. Escorted the Kingslayer to Kings Landing when it happened.” He said. “Lord Bolton is dead. I swear fealty to you Queen in the North, for my head.”

She gave Steelshanks leave to deliver their terms to the others but to send men innocent of the Red Wedding out first. He went back inside the hall and soon after three score men, almost half wounded, marched out with their hands being empty. Then Steelshanks had come out again ahead with about ten or so men following behind. 

When he saw her looking he nodded.

Ronnel and Symond stepped forward, backed with their own men, and surrounded those led out by Steelshanks.

“We were told mercy!”

“Aye Steelshanks! He said we’d be spared!”

She shot the man a look and he shrugged. There was no honor in what he’d done but she would not lose sleep because these men were tricked.

“That is not what I bid him to tell you. Blame him and yourselves for your fate. Take them to the kennel, it shall serve for now.”

The men yelled and swore yet the hilts of swords and mailed fists quieted them on their march. Two and twenty men stood before her, all looking nervously at the ring of swords and spears pointed towards them. 

She told them they’d be kept under guard until she thought of a use for them. They would not be harmed unless they broke faith with her. Afterwards the defeated men came, one by one, and knelt before her swearing fealty. She believed maybe half of them might mean it and she was not such a fool to expect more. 

As they shuffled away yelling and cheers went up. 

“The Stark in Winterfell!” The men began chanting and it soon echoed along the walls and courtyards until it seemed every man had taken up the cry.

She closed her eyes and took it all in.

For the Battle for Winterfell had ended and she was home. 

_Home. After all these years._

_We’re both home again._

She almost couldn’t believe it and sought Jon to share the moment with. Yet he was no longer beside her.

Instead she saw he was walking away, with his shoulders slumped and his head lowered. From his path she thought he went towards the godswood.

Howland proposed sending riders to check on the state of her army and making sure guards would be posted at all of the gates. They had only just taken the castle, they would not lose it easily.

She told him that when the army arrived there would be a celebration and a feast would be held to honor this great victory and the good men who’d died making it happen. Howland bowed and set off to do as she asked.

Leaving Sansa to join Ghost in seeking the knight they so missed. The man she wanted.

The cheers echoed off the walls as Sansa walked towards the godswood. She was tired, so tired. The thought of how much work would need to be done to restore the castle and her lands to rights exhausted her more.

Yet she thought Jon looked far worse than she felt.

She found him where she thought she would. Where father always went after a executing a deserter or another criminal. Or just when he wished to think.

Jon sat below the heart tree with his sword in hand. He wasn’t sitting on father’s rock though, he sat upon the ground beside it.

_He used to sit there where father would clean Ice._

_The boys would all sit about that spot. Now it’s only him._

Yet he wasn’t alone for long. 

Ghost went to lay against father’s rock before putting his head upon Jon’s lap. If he noticed the company Jon didn’t show it, he just continued on numbly wiping at his own blade and staring off at nothing.

Sansa said nothing as she joined him as well. She merely smoothed her skirts and sat down next to him, grasping his arm and leaning against his body. 

Her head came to rest upon his shoulder, and still she said nothing. He went on cleaning the blade as the snow still fell lightly about them.

Not too far away she could see the smoldering hulk of the Guest House, the sight causing her face to press even further against Jon's shoulder. The steady movements of his hand upon the blade oddly soothing.

Then she felt his chin upon the top of her head. The tear fell upon her face not long after. 

Sansa didn’t have to look up to know what it was. Snow could never feel so warm.

Her tears came then as well but she just let them. 

So they sat there, staring into the trees and letting the pain flow out of them.

They were home.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Winterfell has ended but others face battles of their own. 
> 
> Facing demons buried deep within or hidden from them.
> 
> One of the darkest chapters I've had to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again much thanks to A_Cold_Wind_Blows for beta'ing this for me.

**ARYA**

_The hunt was nearing its end and her mouthed frothed to think it._

_She moved silently between the trees where the snow was softest._ _Her movements gave little warning to her prey as she closed in. It stood just outside the copse of trees. It was smaller than she was but almost as tall._

_The elk dug at the snow with its hoof, searching for the greens beneath._

_It was young. Its horns small. She could hear its heartbeat she was so close. Crouching, she tensed her muscles for the spurt of strength they’d need. The elk bent to eat what its efforts had uncovered._

_She lunged out of the trees. Four bounds closer and the elk started to run. Within another two the snow from its flight kicked up into her face. Then she threw herself against its side and her jaws were around the neck and blood was in her mouth. She felt it struggle in its last moments._

_It was perfect._

_The white snow around them bright red with her kill._

Then she was staring at a grey stone ceiling, covered in cobwebs and dust.

Arya sat up straight in her bed, panicking because this wasn’t her tent. For half a moment she clutched at her blankets and looked around wildly, thinking she was back in Harrenhal.

It took a long moment for her to remember she wasn’t.

 _You’re in a different ruin altogether_ , she remembered _, as safe as you are_ _stupid._

Harrenhal and its bad memories were to the south while this fortress was far north .

Moat Cailin was in the North.

And so was she.

Her first night at Moat Cailin hadn’t been so bad. Arya’s chambers were near the top of the Gatehouse Tower and apparently the biggest the fortress had to offer. That wasn’t saying much but she’d never needed a big room to begin with, she’d grown used to smaller sleeping spaces as of late. In fact, if Brienne wasn’t sharing it with her, Arya probably would’ve felt very lonely.

Brienne took the floor and Arya the bed, the lady unwilling to change that arrangement no matter how much they argued. When Arya rolled on the bed to look down she saw Brienne wasn’t there. The blanket and rushes that made up the lady’s bed lay empty and there was no sign of her anywhere in the room.

 _Oathkeeper is gone_ , she noted, _so are her boots and cloak._

_And she didn’t wake me._

All of that felt strange. Brienne never left in the morning without waking her first and saying where she was going.

Not for the whole ride up the Neck.

They had only arrived at Moat Cailin the day before. It had been a long trip but their party of twenty or so riders moved at a steady, quick pace and only ever stopped to sleep. Despite what her uncle had planned they never ended up at Greywater Watch after all.

They’d been a day or two from the moving castle when a small group of Reed men had met them on the road.

It hadn’t gone very well at first. The crannogmen’s horses had almost thrown their riders when Nymeria had circled about them growling. It took Arya awhile to get the direwolf to back away and calm some. The crannogmen had ended up tossing the direwolf a couple of birds they’d had strapped about their saddles.

Fresh kills could usually calm Nymeria but sometimes it came down to Arya taking care of the problem.

Either she’d go to Nymeria’s side or close her eyes and let herself drift away, thinking of herself as the wolf the whole time. She’d pretend she could see through Nymeria’s eyes until she thought she could. Arya always relaxed quickly doing it and, strangely enough, Nymeria would too.

The free meal had worked though and while Nymeria had begun feasting on the birds the crannogmen told them the good news. The Blackfish’s men had found Sansa and told her where she was. Not only did Sansa know she lived but her sister had said for them to come straight on to Moat Cailin.

The riders had brought a letter for her and she’d waited to be alone in their tent to read it.

_‘Arya, thank you._

_Thank you for being alive, thank you for finding us. I couldn’t find you, I’m sorry. I need you here with me, I want my sister with me. We’ll never fight again._

_Jon is not with me but I hope to see him soon. We’re trying to take Winterfell back. He loves you. I love you._

_Sansa.’_

She kept the letter to herself. It was for her only, she decided. As were the tears that came after reading it. Sansa’s words were kinder than she ever remembered and they meant more than she’d expected.

Yet it had been hard to hear Jon wasn’t with Sansa. They were supposed to be together, both of them alive and safe. It was all a part of her plan. She would find them and Jon would hug her and ruffle her hair, call her little sister and everything would be fine.

Knowing they were apart had worried her.

The others helped get her through some of that. Pod and her fell into a good rhythm sparing with one another while Brienne watched and offered them pointers. Even Gendry had been less of a stubborn arse and had let her help him with his riding.

Some of the crannogmen escorting her through the Neck had helped distract her as well.

One day they came across a dead lizard lion along the trail with some crossbow bolts through it. She’d never seen one before and wanted a closer look. A young man named Marlen had warned against it before drawing his bow. Then he’d feathered the ground around the carcass with a few arrows. They had all watched as two pale snakes slithered from the dead leaves and grass she’d thought to walk on.

“You would have died a slow death.” Marlen said. “Bows are good for keeping death a good ways away.”

She’d noticed most of the crannogmen were armed with either bows or their frogging spears. Afterwards Marlen had talked of his bow with her, of the ways it was different than others and she’d made a decision.

“I want to learn how to shoot.” She’d said while clutching his bow. “I need to keep death away too. Can you teach me how to shoot?” 

Marlen had laughed but not in a harsh way.

“Teaching a princess what I know would be a good story to tell my kin but it’s not my place to say yes or no your grace, best ask the lady.”

She’d waited until Brienne lay down beside her in their tent to ask permission and the lady had looked troubled.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea Arya. I have taken to training you in swordplay but only because your uncle permitted it. This decision is better left to someone responsible for you…your sister perhaps…”

“Sansa isn’t responsible for me!” She’d argued. “She’s my sister not my mother. Besides Uncle Brynden trusted you to take me north, if he let you do that, I think it would be okay for you to let me use a bow.”

When the lady had sighed she knew she’d won.

“If you so wish it Arya.” Brienne had said before hushing her attempt at thanks. “Know this, most warriors look down at archers and crossbowman alike. They assume all bowmen cowards and ready to break. They’ll think the same of you…”

“I wouldn’t run!” Arya had lied.

It was a lie because she had run twice already. From the men attacking Syrio Forel and when the Lannisters attacked Yoren’s group. But a lot had happened since then and she wouldn’t run again.

She knew she wouldn’t.

“It is not always wrong to run Arya. Should it ever come to you running and living or standing your ground and dying…I would hope you run to live.” Brienne had laid a hand on her shoulder then. “I think your mother would want that.”

Arya had shaken her head against that. Brienne was brave and strong, everything she wanted to be. Her mother was dead and gone.

“You wouldn’t run.” She turned away, pulling her blanket up about her face. “I’ll be like you, I’ll fight.”

Even though that hadn’t the best night for Brienne, her lady had still woken her the next morning. Her archery lessons had started that day as well, Brienne watching the whole while.

So that made her disappearance this morning all the stranger.

_She doesn’t just leave without saying anything._

_Something must be wrong._

Arya decided to find her then, figuring Brienne was probably somewhere else in the tower. So she jumped up from the bed and dressed quickly. She scorned the few gowns the septa had forced her to pack and put on breeches instead. With a leather vest over her shirt and Needle strapped on her waist she thought she looked a better squire than most she’d seen.

 _This is how a warrior dresses,_ she thought, _I dare them to call me princess now_.

With a smile she ran towards the door and as she swung it open she stopped dead in her tracks. Someone was standing just outside the door and surprised her so that she cried out.

Pod cried out too as he jumped back and away from the door. The squire had his sword belt on and his hand on the hilt in as if on instinct. She was almost impressed how quick he moved.

“Gods Pod you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing?”

“Sorry princess…” Pod stammered. “Ser...I mean m'lady asked me…asked us to…”

“Stop calling me princess idiot! I’m just Arya!”

“Let him be.” Gendry’s voice came from just the other side of the door.

She took a step out and saw him leaning against the wall of the drab corridor. He had a short sword tied about his belt and sported a disapproving look at her.

“If he doesn’t style you properly now he may forget to when others are about and get a beating for not knowing his courtesies.”

“I wouldn’t let anyone beat him!” Arya snapped. It annoyed her how he acted as if she wanted all this treatment. “I’d beat him for calling me princess!”

Gendry actually laughed at that so she scowled at him.

“Why are you two out here? Where’s Brienne?”

“Korjen summoned her.” Gendry shrugged. “The lady woke us and asked that we keep watch on you until she returned. She said you should wait for her to do so.”

She barely heard the rest of his words.

_Keep a watch on me? I can keep a watch on myself!_

_If she wanted me to stay here she could’ve just asked!_

Her anger was up and she growled in frustration before turning around and heading back into her chambers. Inside she threw on her thick grey cloak and gloves before storming out of the room between her two would be guards.

“Arya…Arya! Hey!” Gendry called out. “Where are you going?”

“The lady said…”

She stopped only long enough to put her hands on her hips and glare back at them.

“Have you ever been to a fortress built by the First Men?”

Gendry and Pod shared a confused looked before both shook their heads.

“Well I’d see more of it than I have, and if either you want to stop me go ahead and try.”

Pod scratched his head and looked to protest but her eyes were on Gendry. If either would give trouble she knew it would be him. Their eyes met and he seemed ready to argue her on it before his shoulders slumped.

“The princess wants to go exploring Pod, I’m not one to argue with royalty.” He sighed before smacking Pod on the shoulder. “Better grab your cloak. If you’d get mine I’d be thankful.”

Pod didn’t look happy but he walked quickly by her and down the stairs towards their room. She thought that rude since they had to take those stairs anyways to the rest of the keep and he could’ve waited so they could walk together.

Instead Pod took off in a hurry by himself.

“Brienne would expect to find us at your chambers.” Gendry said as they walked down together.

“Then she’ll be disappointed. Have you eaten?”

“I never thought I’d need to eat again after last night...”

Korjen, the Reed captain who held this fortress, had held a small celebration to honor their arrival at the Moat the night before. In a large tent set up between the towers men played music on whatever instruments they’d brought and they’d all ate their full.

She wasn’t happy they had made her sit at the head of the table while Pod and Gendry had to sit far to the other end. Brienne had been beside her of course and Korjen had been to the other side. No matter how annoyed she was at his seating arrangements he seemed nice enough.

“A toast to the arrival of our princess!” Korjen had raised his cup in the air. “Her travels are worthy of a song I’ll leave better men to write!”

Others had cheered and it was then Korjen had told them he’d be giving Brienne and her his chambers during their stay.

“Your brother the king used that room. Your sister the queen used it as well. No one is going to say I kept a princess out of a room that was rightly hers.”

She’d hated how he kept calling her that stupid title but other than that Korjen was good company. He told jokes, admired Needle’s craftsmanship and told a tale of how he brought Jon and Sansa from the Vale.

The celebration had been fun overall, most of the men cheering her family and smiling the whole time. Gendry drank deeply of his wine and Pod had done his best to keep up.

Brienne was the lone one who didn’t look to be having any fun. She rarely spoke except to Arya, spending most of the meal staring down at the table. 

That didn’t both her as much as how others at the feast were staring at her friend. She caught some of the men looking at Brienne and laughing amongst themselves. Their eyes hadn’t been kind and their gaze lingered on her scar.

The way the men acted troubled her even now as Gendry and she came to the bottom of the stairs. Pod rejoined them not long after, his face red and sweaty from running but she laughed when he tossed Gendry’s cloak right in his face.

Two men spearmen stood at the tower doors and one said something quietly to the other as they approached.

_Do not call me princess. Just don’t do it this one._

“Princess Arya…”

“I'm going  to look around the Moat.” She said quickly without slowing her pace. “We’ll be back later.”

“We should send for some men to go with you.”

“We’ll see to her.” Gendry answered for her. "Lady Brienne entrusted us with such a duty."

One of the men laughed at that and Arya narrowed her eyes at him. The smile on his face faded quickly while the other man looked worried.

“So you command, but please stay to the areas around the towers. The snow can play tricks outside the walls and holes appear where you wouldn’t expect.”

After that the men parted and opened the doors for them.

The weather outside was not so bad, the sky was grey as usual but no snow fell and the wind was mild. The defenders were using the lull in the weather to do a great many things they hadn’t been able to for days. Throughout the fortress men milled about the towers and tents, practicing with bows or tending to horses.

The snows had been mild enough in the Neck but Moat Cailin had been by the edge of autumn storms not too long ago. Snow covered much of the old curtain wall, the black stone jutting through sheets of white so that there was only a hint that something lay below the large snow drift. The two towers ahead were moss tinged, and with snow stuck upon them they looked like upturned logs after a storm.

The one tower had a great lean to it and she knew it to be the Drunkards Tower.

Korjen said each tower prepared different meals, and that one would be for breaking the morning fast. Enough men were gathered around it that she was sure they’d find food there.

Arya hesitated to head over though, whenever she tried to do normal things now people made a fuss. So she figured out a way around that.

“Gendry, the food’s there.” She said. “Bring some for Pod and me and we’ll meet you over where you can see the wall through the snow.”

She pointed at the mound of stone that looked more a rubble pile than a wall. She figured after they ate they could climb over it to see the fortress from the other side.

“Am I your servant now?” He asked, sounding irritated.

“No I’m just afraid Pod would drop it…”

“Hey! It was one time and you tripped me!”

“And I can’t go because there will be a fuss and I’d rather just eat with you two without people bothering us!”

Gendry raised an eyebrow at that before nodding. She knew he disliked attention too.

As he made his way over to the tower Pod and Arya crossed what passed for a courtyard between the towers. Men bowed as they recognized her and even though she hated it she nodded back.

 _The can bow to Sansa all they want,_ she thought, _she’s the bloody queen not me._

_Her being queen shouldn’t make me a princess any more than it makes Jon a prince._

“How big was this castle again?” Pod asked as he climbed onto a large stone.

“I think my maester said its walls were as tall as Winterfell’s so I guess near the same as King’s Landing and had scores of towers like these.”

Arya wasn’t sure. She hadn’t paid as close attention to those lessons as she should’ve. The ruins of a wall and three old towers hardly looked like the fortress she was describing. The expression on Pod’s face showed he was skeptical about that too.

She shrugged.

“Harrenhal is a lot like this and it used to be the greatest castle in Westeros.”

“I’ve heard stories about this place is all. Whole armies couldn’t get north because of how strong it was.” Pod had a look of awe then. “I wonder how your sister did.”

“It wasn’t just her! I mean her army did it and Uncle Brynden said Jon was with her too.”

She didn’t know why Pod’s words had annoyed her so much. Sansa had written nice things and she wanted to see her sister again badly. Yet the way everyone kept talking about Sansa like she was so perfect and this great and powerful queen had started to wear on her.

“Winterfell’s next.” Arya added. “Their army marched there next and they’ll win a battle there too. I hope so at least.”

Pod might not have heard the last part because he was staring down at his gut while it rumbled. He almost yelled out in excitement when he saw Gendry was crossing towards them. He held a tankard of ale and a loaf of bread in one arm and a bowl of something steaming in his hand.

“Crannog stew?” She asked mournfully. He nodded and she retched.

“It’s warm and the bread is fresh, in Kings Landing this be a feast.” He said as Pod hopped down to take the bowl.

Arya took the ale and Gendry ripped off a piece of bread and looked closely at the wreck of a wall.

“I don’t think King’s Landing would look half as good after thousands of years. The First Men did good work.”

“Did you see Brienne?” She asked chewing on some bread. “Or Korjen?”

He shook his head and took a spoonful of the stew. It wasn’t in his mouth more than a moment before Gendry made a face and grabbed for the ale to wash the taste out. Pod snickered at that before doing pretty much the same thing when it was his turn. Other than that they ate in silence and, despite the cold, this was how Arya preferred to take her meals.

The only thing missing was Brienne, and Arya still saw no sign of her among the people moving about the fortress.

After they’d finished the meal Pod had begun to climb overtop the stones to the other side. Arya had almost forgotten she’d wanted to explore and quickly chased after him with Gendry grumbling behind.

“If men had to do this during a battle the archers would do for them.” Gendry said grimly as he looked back to the tower overlooking them.

The climb over on this side of the wall was easy enough but going down the other was a steeper, slower journey.

The view just outside the Moat was of a drab, snow covered marsh stretching far into the distance . Pools of grey water pockmarked what little land could be seen and she scorned thinking of trying to travel it. They stuck to a narrow strip of ground hugging the edges of the wall, circling it and taking in this last bit of the Neck.

It was an ugly place but Arya was glad she’d had time to explore it. When they had ridden by here with King Robert, her father said the Queen had forbidden them to stop so Arya hadn’t had a chance to look about then.

The thought of her father was warm but the one of Cersei Lannister chilled her again.

They had been walking towards the north side of the fortress when Pod came to a pile of rubble blocking their path. He climbed over it and disappeared to the other side.

Then he cried out.

At first Arya thought he’d fallen into one of the holes the guard had warned them about but when Gendry and her found him, standing on the other side, he looked perfectly fine.

“What’s wrong? You scared…um.…Gendry. You scared Gendry.” She said quickly and heard the arse grunt at that.

Pod didn’t answer her, instead he kept staring ahead of them and raised his hand to point.

That’s when she saw them.

Ahead of them lay a great many bodies. The marsh before them was littered with the pale shapes, almost all covered with snow and frost. There were limbs and heads poking through the snow where it was deeper and some of the bodies were piled so that they formed small hills of corpses.

Many had given way to rot but the cold had preserved some. The faces she saw either faced upwards to the sky or towards them.

While she stared at them they couldn’t do the same. Not with the black empty holes they had instead of eyes, the crows had seen to that.

“There’s hundreds of them…” Gendry said then. “What happened here?”

Arya stepped towards the closest of the bodies and used her foot to clean snow off the man’s upper arm. Sewn upon his cloak was a pink flayed man. She spat to see it.

“Boltons.” She hissed. “These men betrayed my brother. Helped the Freys kill him and my mother.”

“Then these are the men your sister… her army killed when they came here.” Pod said and looked to be taking count of them. “Why didn’t anyone bury them?”

“They don’t deserve it.” She answered quickly. “Or maybe Korjen means to burn them later. I don’t care.”

She truly didn’t. These men had helped kill her brother and mother. Others like them were somewhere north fighting what family she had left.

“Maybe some have earned this but can all of them deserve such..." Gendry said with a touch of anger. “I bet some were just farmers. Stable boys. Blacksmiths. Doing what their lord told them and just because their lords did wrong they…”

With that Gendry’s face darkened even more and she followed his gaze. Ahead, at the foot of a corpse mound, sat a dead boy. He truly did look like he was sitting with his back propped up against the other bodies. He looked to be just about an age with her but it was hard to tell with how rotted he was and with no eyes in his head.

“It be decent to burn them.” Gendry said quietly. “That much at least.”

With that he began to walk away, continuing on their path without sparing a glance back towards the bodies. Pod started to as well but stopped and waited for her.

She’d spared a last look and her eyes had fallen to a nearby pool of water. Within it she saw a corpse only just submerged beneath the surface. His rotted face staring up at her. His mouth open, as if moaning but no sound came forth.

 _They deserved it_ , she thought, _they’re our enemies and they betrayed us._

As much as she thought she believed that, Gendry had made her wonder if that man had been a blacksmith. A farmer’s son.

 A baker’s boy.

“Arya, may we leave?” Pod asked and turned to see Gendry had stopped and was waiting for her as well.

She didn’t want to stay so they left.

They explored a little more after that but the mood had changed. Gendry was quiet and so was Pod which made him almost a mute. They made it to the northern entrance to the Moat and the guards there waved them in. They had to walk through a small camp to get back to the towers so she threw her hood over her head to avoid being recognized. It was a bother she didn’t want to deal with.

Pod came across an old man regaling some of the newcomers of the tale of the battle that had happened. He told the story well so they’d stopped to listen and she learned a lot. How her brother had been among those fighting from the south and her sister so close to the battle that the archers aimed at the fire of her hair.

Pod listened in awe at the part when the Vale cavalry arrived but she’d been stuck on the parts with Jon and Sansa. She liked to think the tales were true, it made the foulness she’d just seen outside loosen its grip on her thoughts.

Afterwards they had been crossing by a row of tents and she’d fallen behind to watch as some men practiced their bows. She’d hoped to see Marlen and perhaps get another archery lesson when loud voices started coming from ahead.

Gendry’s voice among them.

She found Gendry almost face to face with a larger man with two others behind him. Pod was there as well and he was red faced with anger, yet he looked calm compared to Gendry.

“The Starks use wolves boy, not random strays.” The large stranger laughed. “Our princess deserves better than some mongrel pack following her about.”

“That big bitch looks like she’d win a few fights though eh?” Another nudged his friend. “Don’t think I ever seen such an ugly thing. Dogs would be the only ones to have her now.”

“Only ‘cuz they wouldn’t have to look at ‘er”

At that the crowd of men circling around Gendry and Pod started laughing. Her friends weren’t laughing and Arya’s mood was starting to match theirs.

“That’s a lady you’re speaking of.” Gendry said angrily.

“No, that’s the Beauty we’re speaking of.” The large man sneered. “Don’t be getting jealous now, we all know you’re the Beauty’s man. Teaches you how to handle your sword eh?”

Gendry’s fists clenched as a skinny man to Gendry’s right started shaking his head and chuckling.

“You’ve got it backwards Tom! You have to! This one be the pretty lady and that scarred thing the man.”

“Then he’s the one getting it backwards!”

The laughter echoed all around Arya as she moved closer, stepping around the gathering crowd on her way to reach Gendry.

“What would you lot know of what it is to be a man?” Gendry spat at their feet. “Brave and fearless lot to be mocking a lady as brave as Lady Brienne when she’s not around.”

The large man’s face darkened at that but Gendry pressed on.

“Can’t say it’s not smart though, she could beat any one of you cowardly fucks into the ground blindfolded if she felt like it.”

“Say that again boy and you’ll be treated as a man.” The man moved so close their chests touched. “Say that again.”

Gendry glared back before glancing to the two men who were circling about his sides. If he was worried he didn’t show it. Instead he did a rare enough thing.

He smiled.

“Brienne is a true warrior, a great lady and one of the finest people I’ve ever met.” He said as his eyes locked on the idiot’s again. “And she’d have more a challenge from a cold privy than from any of you.”

“Gendry! Look…”

Pod’s warning wasn’t enough and the fist caught Gendry straight across the chin. He stumbled some as large man pulled his fist back again and caught Gendry high in the cheek. Pod ran forward to grab the man’s other arm but the tall one grabbed his cloak and rammed a knee up into his side.

Pod collapsed coughing onto the ground as the man lashed out again, backhanding the squire. Pod went to all fours and his attacker held up his spear in mock celebration. That was until Pod kicked upwards and into his crotch.

“Little shit!” The man wheezed as he lashed out with his fist this time, catching Pod across his ear.

Even as her friend cried out in pain and Gendry fought with two others men around them were laughing. They all acted like this was great sport and none moved to stop it.

Arya’s hand went to Needle as Gendry slammed himself into the larger attacker, throwing them both into the snow and mud. Fists flew back and forth as each tried to come out atop the other.

Needle was out now and she was rushing forward when the tall spearman beating Pod saw her coming and called out.

“There’s a blade!”

With that he slashed the butt end of his spear at her. Needle flashed as she blocked the blow to her legs. Arya spun around the spear to end up with her sword pointed at its owner. He swore and backed up, spinning the spear about and making to drive the point at her as he did so.

_Quick as a cat._

Arya stepped backwards at an angle just as the spear stabbed through her cloak and brought Needle down in a flash. The man howled as he wrenched back his left hand less a finger.

“Fucking little savage!” A voice growled from behind her.

She didn’t move in time and a powerful blow landed against her side. Pain flashed through her and her knees went hard to the ground. A man stood above her with a club and moved to raise it again.

Then Pod was between them, his sword drawn and he caught the first blow well. The second was more powerful and came on sideways, almost knocking him from his feet. After that the man drew a small blade as well and Pod backed away. 

The pain in her side was distant as Arya leapt up and kicked hard at the side of the men’s knee. She felt something bend within and he went down hard. His curses lost in the sound of men were shouting all around them. She drove the pommel of her sword into his face and his nose exploded in blood as he fell backwards. 

_This is why you don’t run._

_This what it is to be a warrior._

She turned towards the spearman who was still favoring his hand when powerful arms wrapped around her. Then she was being lifted up and into the air, struggling and biting at the hold.

“Arya! It is I!” Brienne shouted into her ear.

When she realized who held her she stopped struggling. She saw Marlen and other men pulling Gendry and his foe for apart while Pod stood with his sword still raised as more men approached through the crowd with swords of their own.

“What treason is this?” Korjen roared as he broke out from among the newcomers.

“No treason Korjen! Just a fight!” The large one spat out the words as well as his blood.

“Just a fight? With spears and swords against your princess?” Korjen struck the man soundly, sending him back down into the mud.

“Princess?” The spearman without a finger asked.

Her hood had fallen away now so when he saw her his pained expression turned to one of horror. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands before his face pleading.

“Oh gods, oh gods please I meant nothing! Truly I didn’t know!”

“We had no idea Korjen! The Beauty’s boy and I had words! We knew not!” The large man said as he climbed to his knees.

The man Arya had bloodied raised himself slightly but made no effort to get off his knees. Brienne had lowered Arya to the ground by then and turned her around to look at her. The lady was looking about her face and body, with a concerned expression on her face.

“You drew arms against the sister of our queen…” Korjen’s hand was at the hilt of his sword.

“They drew blades first!”

“They are her guards fool!”

“No…not them.” The man without a finger said his eyes downcast. “The princess…”

A murmur started among the men standing around them. Men confirming what the spearman had said but she didn’t care. 

“Is this true Arya?” Brienne asked as she looked to Needle, blood staining parts of the blade.

“Gendry needed help and nobody was stopping them…”

Some scattered laughter came then but Korjen’s heading whipping in its direction silenced the laughter quickly

“Did you draw a blade?” Brienne asked again.

“Of course I did they were...”

Korjen stepped towards her and ran a hand over his face.

“Princess I must know, did you announce yourself? Order them to stop?”

“No.” Arya said truthfully.

 _Of course I didn’t,_ she thought _, I helped my friends fight._

Korjen nodded as his hand dropped away from his sword. He looked at the mess around them and the growing number of spectators before sighing.

“Lady Brienne, I’d ask you to see to your charges. I will have these men disciplined.”

“As you would but not harshly.” Brienne was looking down at her as if she was disappointed. “It sounds as if they meant nowhere near the harm that came from it.”

“You didn’t hear what they were saying…”

“I would have you away from here your grace.” Brienne snapped before putting a hand on her back and urging her on as they walked away.

The lady gestured to the others so that Pod and Gendry followed behind. The crowd that had gathered moved aside to let them pass. Pod was poking at his lip but Gendry was muddy, wet and bloody. She tried to meet his eyes to see if he was okay but he kept his head lowered and she saw his fists were still clenched.

She could understand why. Brienne had asked for the men who attacked him not to be treated harshly even after they had started it. Brienne chose that moment to turn her head and speak to Gendry.

“Ser, I would have you know you acquitted yourself well out there, and most would have seen that, so don’t let Arya’s words affect you too much…”

_My words? What about my words?_

Gendry grunted and kept his eyes lowered.

“I’d not have you catch a chill so we’ll have water warmed so you may bathe.” Brienne continued on. “Podrick please gather some clean clothes for him and attend him there.”

Gendry just grunted again and changed direction. Pod followed and that’s when she realized Brienne was not leading her back to her chambers.

They came to an area of the wall near the Children’s Tower where an oddly shaped alcove still stood. When they passed within it Arya was surprised to see a tall and ancient looking weirwood within. The face carved upon it was so old cracks formed through it like wrinkles.

Arya looked to Brienne and the woman handed her a cloth.

“Your mother told me much of your family. Lord Stark would clean his sword in his godswood, before a weirwood.” The Brienne motioned at Arya’s bloodied sword. “We are in your land, we should act as such.”

She didn’t argue with that, instead she smoothed her cloak behind her and sat against the weirwood. As she wiped the blood from her sword Brienne stood nearby and neither spoke.

Until Arya’s thoughts bid her to do so.

“Why did you ask Korjen to go soft on those men?” Arya asked angrily. “They attacked Gendry and said horrible things about you.”

“If I fought every man who said horrible things about me I would never have time to sleep.” Brienne said simply. “Arya, you were raised a lady like me. Taught the same lessons by a maester as well. Tell me, what is the punishment for striking someone of royal blood?”

The question confused her at first until she realized who was supposed to be a royal. Then she remembered Darry and what happened to Mycah and Lady. When she dropped her gaze and said nothing Brienne continued.

“I do not think you wished for those men to die or lose anything more than a finger. Korjen will see they regret their actions but they are men who fight for your family, would you truly want worse for them?”

She didn’t answer, instead reaching down to grab some snow. She let it melt some in her hand she then gently let the water drip down along the blade. Then she returned to cleaning and Brienne sighed at her refusal to answer.

“Arya, I am telling you all this so you may see how wrong you were to act....”

At that Arya rose from the tree and faced Brienne.

“They attacked my friends! How is it wrong that I fight for them?”

“Gendry fought the other man with fists, not blades. Was it much different when Pod became involved?”

“No but…”

“Then you drew a blade.” Brienne shook her head. “I would have you defend yourself but that was the wrong thing to do. It made the situation worse and could have ended in a ghastly way if I hadn’t arrived when I did.”

“I was supposed to let them be hurt?” She asked. “I was supposed to stand back and let them get hurt? Because I’m so precious and valuable? Because I’m a princess?”

“It is different for those who wear a crown, you could have ordered them…”

“Bugger the crown!” Arya yelled. “I don’t want one!”

She was so angry that her eyes began to water.

“I want to fight! I want to keep my friends safe! I couldn’t save my father! I couldn’t save my mother or Robb! No stupid crown helped them!” She held up Needle. “This is what I want! You were supposed to understand! Why don’t you understand?”

Needle fell to her side and she struggled to keep her tears in. Everything was as unfair as it could be and Brienne was acting like that was fine. Brienne reached out for her but she jerked away from the lady’s touch, facing the weirwood instead. She knew Brienne was staring at her but she didn’t want to look at her.

_I don’t want her to see me cry again._

“Arya…I do…” Brienne paused awkwardly. “I should have been there today but I was meeting with Korjen and planning our trek north…I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Arya didn’t say anything to that and Brienne didn’t say anything more after. Some time later a crannogman had come to tell Brienne a bath had been drawn up for Arya and she was forced to go bathe.

It hadn’t been so bad bathing in a barrel. Her side still hurt but the warm water had felt good on her poor bruised skin. There was also no one else around and that was fine by her. After the bath she spent the rest of the day in her chambers alone. She took her meal there alone as well, no one calling on her.

When Brienne came to sleep they said little to each other, her crawling into bed and the lady laying down upon the floor.

The dream was of the day’s fight.

At least it started out that way but things quickly changed and shifted. Men were still laughing but rather than crannogmen it changed to city folk. People like she’d seen in King’s Landing and there were thousands of them all shouting and laughing. All of them were shouting at her father as he knelt in the middle of Moat Cailin. He bent forward and a shadow came beside him with a great sword. She tried to run to him but her feet were trapped in bog water and wouldn’t move.

Then the sword was falling towards father’s head.

It was falling still and when someone pulled her away she was outside the fortress looking upon the snow covered bodies again. Rather than hundreds there were thousands, tens of thousands stretching out forever as the snow kept falling and burying their bodies.

Bodies that weren’t just Boltons anymore. They were people she knew.

Jory. Hullen. Mikken. Maester Luwin. Septa Mordane. Hyle.

The boy she’d seen was different as well.

The corpse mound was covered in crows and Bran was the one sitting against it. Old dead arms were holding him in place and red tears were streaming from the empty, black holes where his eyes had been.

She screamed and turned away only to see the body under the water again. Except it wasn’t some rotting man anymore.

It was her mother. Her faced pale and rotted, her mouth open as if she was screaming.

And she was screaming. Arya could hear it. The sound so loud she fought to cover her ears and she begged for it to stop. How could she scream so loud even under the water. It became louder and louder until Arya was screaming too.

“Arya!” Brienne’s voice woke her. “Hush child! All is well.”

She could barely see Brienne’s face through her tears, her cheeks were wet with them and she was terrified. She could still hear screaming as Brienne stood over her, the sound coming from all around them.

It took her a moment to realize it was the sound of the wind whipping around the tower.

“My mother Brienne…she was screaming in the water…I couldn’t…"

She sobbed and Brienne sat on the bed next to her and leaned against the wall. Her arms drew Arya against her chest and she sobbed against it.

“Hush child…only a dream…” The warrior woman said softly as she cradled her. “It was only a dream…”

The tears still came as she pressed herself against Brienne. The wind still screamed and she knew it wasn’t really a dream. Not all of it.

No matter what she dreamed, they were all dead. 

No matter how tightly Brienne held her nothing was bringing them back.

Nothing could bring them back. Not her, not Needle, not Brienne.

Nothing.

 

* * *

 

**BRYNDEN**

 

“It looks dead ser.”

“I can see for myself lad.” Brynden snapped back. “But you’re right. Something is very wrong here.”

The Riverrun he called home was a beautiful thing by night. Torches and candles lighting up every window and arrow slit, their lights reflecting off the rivers around.

Yet the castle ahead was mostly dark with only but a few lights burning within its formidable walls. Stranger still, the drawbridge was down, it’s entrance way dark and ominous in a way he’d never felt of his birthplace.

His men had halted in a field a good ways back from the castle yet even at this distance something had him on edge.

“Could it be a trap?” Brynden Blackwood asked from his place beside him. “The Freys know we come and hope to lure us in?”

“It would be a fool thing to do.” He answered, shaking his head. “Letting your enemy into a castle is the first step to losing it. There could be ten men in there and we’d still be idiots to besiege it with our numbers.”

They were almost a thousand men and horse, a healthy mix of river houses rejoining the cause and Vale houses just now entering the fight. The force was much like the one King Robb had led into the Westerlands and so far Brynden had found it perfect for their uses. Over the last moon or so they’d fought a half score battles against Frey and Lannister companies, either crushing their foes or driving them off.

Every bastion of Lannister control in the Riverlands would soon be broken if Brynden had anything to say about it. An army of the Vale besieged Darry even now, their new allies hoping to secure the castle before marching south. Jason Mallister commanded most of their men and would be heading towards Riverrun once matters at Stone Hedge had been settled. Apparently Jonos Bracken was not eager to abandon his newfound fealty to the Iron Throne and Tytos Blackwood had not the numbers to properly set the lord to rights.

So while the others were occupied, Brynden had set out to fall upon any enemy who sought to reinforce Riverrun. Taking the castle with his small force wasn’t really an option. Yet the reports he’d received about the state of the castle had driven him to see the truth of it for himself.

_Even seeing it is not really believing it._

“Maybe they mean to raise the draw bridge as we approach.” The other Brynden suggested. “Perhaps there is an army about meant to cut off our retreat?”

He shook his head.

“My outriders say there are no guards or men about this whole place.” He said,  gesturing around the lands surrounding the castle. “There’s no army awaiting us here. There’s no one.”

“Abandoned then.” Jasper Redfort asked. “Could the Freys have shown their true colors and run? Sought refuge at the Golden Tooth?”

“Leave a strong, easily defended castle for open ground? If we didn’t ride them down someone else would.” Brynden stared at the castle, willing it to offer him some explanation for what was going on.

For some reason he kept thinking back to when he’d worn the red witch’s bracelet. There was something in the air, the darkness had an edge to it somehow and it reminded him of how he’d felt watching Jon Snow offer his blood to those flames.

 _Bad memories,_ he thought, _and not the kind you should be paying attention to._

He’d finally taken notice that the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and a familiar feeling came back to him. One he’d felt long ago while hunting a band of common outlaws alongside Barristan.

“Bring up my guests.” He commanded of one of his Vance knights. “Don’t harm them or I’ll harm you.”

His two prisoners had expertise on what he feared was going on ahead. He didn’t care for either of them much but they’d been treated well, mostly out of respect for his fierce little niece. Yet they’d been uncooperative on this topic before and if they continued that behavior now he was willing to risk the ire of his kin to get the answers he needed.

Soon enough the two were brought up to him. They made an unlikely pair, Edric Dayne, heir to Starfall and a smart-ass archer who called himself Lord of the Chickens or some other fool thing. Yet they had their uses and Brynden expected them to be useful now.

“Welcome to Riverrun.” He said, gesturing to the dark castle beyond. “What do you think of my home?”

“Not how I imagined the place ser.” Anguy piped up. “How about you m’lord?”

“It’s not right.” Ned said, shivering as he looked about the dark, snow covered lands about them. “It feels off.”

“My scouts tell me there’s no one about here for leagues. Yet you feel off, why is that?” He asked, already half expecting the answer.

“We’re being watched.” Ned locked eyes with him. “And we have been for some time.”

“Lad’s got the right of it.” Anguy pointed about, at darkened copses of trees and empty cabins. “Someone’s been eyeing us and they’re so good at it your outriders can’t even find them. So it’s not Freys.” 

“Outlaws then.” Brynden nodded. He’d feared as much.

“The Brotherhood? Ser!” The Blackwood heir sounded shocked. “Are you saying that some criminals besieged Riverrun? The Lannisters couldn’t even…”

“Kill the Lightning Lord and his ragtag band?” Anguy put in. “You lords never think of the power of the smallfolk. Wouldn’t be the first time we got men inside a castle which wanted to keep us out.”

“Are you eager to have your filthy neck stretched?”

“Enough.” The Blackfish held up his hand. “It’s the most likely thing I’ve heard so far. We’ve heard little and less of the Brotherhood in weeks. Is it likely your friends just gave up? That this Lady Stoneheart ended her hanging and headed home?”

Ned and Anguy exchanged a glance, they often did so when he made mention of the mysterious leader of the outlaws.

“They are not the type to abandon a cause.” The young Dayne answered.

“Then it stands to reason they were up to something.” Brynden looked to Riverrun again, he focused hard upon the few lights he saw. “Could be this was it.”

“Well, if it’s outlaws in the castle we ride in and drive them out.” Jasper patted his sword belt. “Gate’s open, why not?”

“Because I don’t trust it, that’s why not.” He spat. To risk the force he’d mustered on such would be foolish and he was no fool. “The army stays here and a small party goes in. Myself and a few others.”

“Madness! If you’re captured…”

“Then Lord Jason can take charge when he arrives.” He began pointing at the different men among them. “You, you, you and the homely one there. Yes, you. Don’t blame me for your face. You lot are with me and so are the two outlaws here.”

He smiled to see the surprise on the faces of his men and the outlaws alike.

“Who better to talk with scum than scum if it comes to it?”

So it came to pass that Brynden returned to the castle he’d been born in. The last time he’d been here he’d swam away from Riverrun’s walls with a queen in tow. Now he rode across its drawbridge flanked by a pair of outlaws and too few men.

 _I wish Jeyne was alive to see this_ , he thought, _to know how far we’ve come._

_She would’ve liked to have seen all this._

At the moment it had been a sweet thought.

Until they rode through the gatehouse and into the courtyard. Then he wished he’d never thought such a thing, for he’d never want Jeyne to see what he found within. Brynden had seen much brutality and cruelty in his lifetime yet what he found now almost made him retch.

One of his guards did retch.

All around them, hanging from the walls and whatever made for a decent scaffolding, were bodies.

Scores of them. All dead and bloated.

“No…no not this.” Ned whispered as he turned his horse about to take in the full scale of the horror. “He didn’t want this…”

Brynden rode forth to get a better look at the corpses, ignoring the smell as best he could. He saw some wore Frey garbs while others had been stripped down to nothing at all. There were men and women, old and young. Even some children among them.

As his eyes passed over rotting, darkened faces he found one he recognized.

“No. Oh gods no.”

He cursed as he stared up at one body hanging naked above the main archway. It was an old body, one that would’ve been wrinkled and grey before its death. Now it was bloated and held a greenish tinge. The man’s face a purple mess where crows had been at it.

It was not the kind face Brynden had known most of his life.

“No Utherydes…no you deserved better…” He said as he gazed up at the corpse of the steward who served the Tullys so well.

They’d argued often and rarely saw eye to eye but Utherydes Wayn had been a good and loyal man.

“He deserved better!”

Brynden wheeled about, ready to pull his sword right then and there and cut down the only outlaws he could find.

“I never said he didn’t!” Anguy held up his hands. “Wasn’t us who did this ser! You know that!”

“Who? Who gods damn you? Who!”

“Quiet yourself Blackfish.” A voice rang from above them.

He looked up see a darkened shape between two crenels. The most he could make out of the man was the ugly, yellow cloak upon his shoulders. Then the helm he bore became clearer and Brynden swore.

“Clegane!”

“Ha! That bastard’s long dead.” The man called back. “Longer than this lot.”

“Lem!” Ned called out. “Lem this is a crime! A crime beyond…”

“Shut it turncloak. Lest the lady see to you and that ginger fuck as well.”

“Nice to see you too Lem.” Anguy muttered.

“You’re responsible for this?” Brynden asked, doing his best to stare intently at this new Hound even as he counted how many of the shadows on the walls had started moving.

“I helped.” The Hound called back. “If you have a better way for dealing with Frey lovers and turn cloaks shovel it somewhere else. If you want to be meeting the reason your castle is yours again then get off your horses and shut your traps.”

“Lady Stoneheart? She’s here?” He contained his anger as he realized there appeared to be about a score or so figures watching his party from the shadows.

“You’ll see.”

Brynden glared up at the helmed man, ready to respond with as insulting a jab as he could think of when a breeze brought the smell of death to his nose again.

Yet he smelled something else as well. Something that worried him greatly as he lowered his eyes and gazed at the wooden barrels stacked all around the edges of the courtyard. Turning back he saw more at the top of the gate.

_Bastards. That’s why the gate was open._

“Watch your torches.” He commanded to the others then before gesturing to the barrels. “They’re filled with oil and pitch aren’t they? Set yourself a nice little trap for any one who comes in and won’t play by your sick little rules?”

The Hound chuckled above him.

“You’ve got a good nose on you, most can’t smell it through their stink.” He said before kicking at the rope that held Utherydes, causing the body to sway and smack with a sickening sound against the wall.

“Now you’ve got two choices, get off those horses and do as I say or we fry ourselves some fish.”

Brynden had already decided he would kill this man. Perhaps not tonight but one day this man would die for the indignity he had just done Wayn. It was an easier decision to accept than the other one he was forced to.

_If he wanted us dead we’d be dead already._

_I gain shit all by fighting out in the open and if things go sour I know this castle better than any._

“Dismount.” Brynden commanded to the others as he did so himself.

The others hesitated but eventually followed suit. Men emerged from out of the shadows to take the reins of their horses which they began to lead away.  As he watched his mount led towards the stables Ned came beside him.

“Don’t trust them ser.” The boy pleaded. “And don’t trust her. Forget all you knew of her because she’s not that. What she was did not come back…”

“By the gods make sense lad.” He grabbed the boy’s arm but Ned said no more, only stared over Brynden’s shoulder as the Hound helmed man approached.

He held a torch and two others stood with him, the flames licking off all their faces like they were some demons.

“Follow. Alone.”

“Not a chance Lem.” Anguy put in.

“Ser we cannot leave…”

“They’re right.” Brynden crossed his arms. “I’m no fool Len.”

“Lem.”

“Like I care two shits for what you call yourself. Half come with me, half stay here. To keep you honest.”

The outlaw was silent while he considered his options. His helm silently snarling at them all the whole time.

“You, the turncloaks and one other. That’s all.”

“Fine.”

It didn’t feel fine at all. None of it did.

Yet Brynden and the others followed anyways. During the walk they passed more bodies strung up, hanging from archways and torch holds. Some were so close to the ground their toes almost dragged upon them. He saw less bodies than he had in the courtyard but more familiar faces were among them.

One was Emmon Frey, the Frey lord of Riverrun, who had a parchment shoved in his mouth. Another was Genna Lannister, the large woman done the indignity of having been stripped naked prior to hanging. Then a small boy with a Lannister tunic Brynden could only assume to be their son.

_A child too young to be held to account for the crimes of his parents._

They were led to the Great Hall, a place where Brynden and Hoster had once feasted and danced in their youth. Where he’d later watch Cat, Lysa and Edmure do the same.

The hall had changed as well, touched by the same darkness as the rest of the castle. Most of the long tables were upturned and broken chairs, cups and plates strewn across the floor. Brynden saw bloodstains there as well and more along the walls where the banners that had once hung proudly had been torn down.

There were too few torches here to light the hall properly but he saw they weren’t alone in the hall. Someone was sitting upon the great chair at the fore of the room. He gritted his teeth to see a stranger sitting in the chair where his brother had sat and ruled for so long.

 _A chair meant for his children to sit upon_ , he thought, _not for whoever this monster is_.

As he came closer he thought it to be a woman on his brother’s chair. Despite the heavy cloak and hood hiding the monster’s features he thought her too slight to be a man and he saw long white hair hanging out from beneath the hood.

To either side of her were two men who couldn’t have been more different. The one looked to be about fifty and sat stringing a harp absentmindedly, as if he had no cares in the world. The other was almost the complete opposite. He was a stocky man wearing a stained leather jerkin. Brynden thought him a northman and based on his build, a formidable foe if it came to a fight.

A gurgling croak came from the cloaked woman then.

_What is she on about? Does she mean to spit at you?_

“The lady welcomes you to her hall Brynden Tully.” The northman called out.

“This was my brother’s hall, it is now his son’s.” Brynden replied. “So unless we’re of some relation I’m ignorant, she’s got no right to this place.”

Some of the outlaws around him began to laugh at that. The Lem character was one and the harpist another. As they did so he took count of how many had gathered here.

Altogether they numbered seven to his four.

 _Too many for comfort,_ he thought _, we’d have to slim that down quick._

His strategizing was interrupted by another gurgling croak from the woman and the northman spoke for her again.

“The lady says the hall is yours to have if you’d give some answers she’d have of you.”

“I don’t give a piss to what she offers. Are you the ones responsible for the murder of this castle’s smallfolk?” He spat at the floor between them. “The Kingslayer of all people, a man with shit for honor, even he let the household yield with mercy. Yet you’d hang them? Those who did nothing but serve my family? You’d hang children?”

 “Don’t be speaking to the lady of murdered children Blackfish.” The harpist piped up. “Sadly she’s well versed in such cruelties.”

“Tom…Tom you know better than this.” Ned stepped forward then. “He does not need to see…”

The lady slapped her hand upon the arm of the chair then and strained wheezing came forth.

“The lady says to quiet the turncloak and that any who serve the Lannisters or Freys earn the noose they get.”

Brynden felt his hands clench into fists at that. Utherydes had done what he had to, what Edmure had bid him to. Yet he wouldn’t debate with these monsters, instead he’d learn as much as he could to help put them down.

“Are you sure that’s not Queen Cersei you have under there?” He asked. “Sounds more like that mad bitch than…”

The lady rose then, gurgling and wheezing as one hand clutched beneath the hood and the other pointed a strangle pale hand at him.

“Silence! She says silence and answer what questions she asks.” The northman took a step forward then and put a hand to his blade. “Or else.”

Ned and Brynden’s guard took places to the right and left of him, as if expecting things to go south quickly. He shook his head to see the archer staying close behind the lordling, as if to shield himself behind the boy. The outlaws had all moved in a bit as well and everything was getting very tense.

_Not yet, this is not your moment._

He shrugged and crossed his arms.

“If it ends this conversation all the quicker go ahead and ask what you will. I’ve got an army without eager for my return.”

If his threat intimidated the woman she showed as little evidence of it as she did her face. Again the northman spoke for her wheezes.

“What of Walder Frey and his family at the Twins?”

“Dead. Many by my own hands.” He made a fist of his sword hand. “The north remembers but so do those loyal to the Starks here in the south.”

Lem whistled off to the side and other sounds of celebration came from the men. None from their lady came forth, yet she did take two steps towards him, just out of reach of his arms.

 _Daring_ , he thought, _could be helpful if it comes to it._

“What of the Stark girls?” The northman asked.

Brynden didn’t like that at all. What interest could a monster like this have in Cat’s girls.

“What of them? What are they to you?”

“The lady cares greatly for their safety and has heard whisperings of them lately.”

“Tell her nothing ser.” Ned made to step between them but Brynden shoved him aside.

“Hold your tongue boy!” He roared before turning back to track this Lady Stoneheart’s movements only to see that she had moved closer to him.

Close enough for Brynden to reach out and yank that hood back from her face.

“Ser you don’t understand!”

He ignored the boy’s protests, the woman’s gurgling sounded strangely familiar to him. Something like when a friend of his had his throat slit and tried to speak despite it. And familiar in another way he couldn’t place.

“Harwin come off it!” Anguy yelled. “This has been wrong ever since we brought her back! We all knew it! Beric would have seen it!”

Brynden held up a hand as the lady began to croak again, coming even closer. He could almost see the lower part of her face.

“Speak of the Stark girls ser.” The northman hissed. “She begs it of you.”

Brynden’s skin was crawling now. There was something about this woman sending waves of terror through him. She was altogether too familiar.

“Why?” He asked, hearing the tremble in his voice. “Why does she care so?”

Everything was silent then.

All he could hear was the sound of his rasping breath. The lady made no sound herself but her grotesque hands went to the corners of her hood.

And she pulled it back.

_No._

His breath caught in his throat.

_No, it’s not._

He found himself taking a step backward, stumbling some as he did so.

_She’s gone, she’s gone and dead._

_You failed her._

Her skin was the color of curdled milk with spots of green and rot across her face. Deep, open cuts ran from her eyes down her cheeks and bits of pale flesh hung about them in tatters.

Lower still he saw her throat was a great gaping wound that didn’t bleed.

For some reason it was her hair that made it the hardest for him. What had once been fire and beauty was half gone and what was left was white and brittle. Her once bright eyes seemed as cruel now as they were milky and dim.

He’d never imagined such a thing could walk and speak.

Yet it did. And he knew her.

Since she was but a babe in his arms.

“Cat… gods Cat, what have they done?” His hands reached towards the face he’d known. “What have they done to you?”

The thing that had been his niece reached up to close the gap in her throat. Her mouth began to move and the gurgling, croaking sound came forth.

It almost made him retch to hear it.

“Much and more she says.” The northman spoke for her. “Tell her of her daughters Blackfish. Tell her of her children.”

Ned was saying something but the way Cat was staring at him made the boy’s voice seem far away. Within them he saw a need, a desperate longing need that he’d seen before. It had been there in Cat’s eyes whenever she spoke of her lost children. No matter how pale and lost they were now Brynden saw that part of his niece in the thing before him.

_Oh gods they tried to take her away but she’s right there._

_She’s trapped in this thing but they can’t hide her from me._

“Oh Cat.” He reached for her then and the lady let him fold her into his embrace. She stank of a foulness he’d smelt on battlefields from here to Dorne but he pushed it away.

“Oh gods girl…I never thought…they were all I had left. She looks so much like you…how can you be here?”

He pulled back and the ravaged face gazing up at him held little of the comparison he was about to make.

“They live.” He said as if the words could change what he was seeing. “Sansa and Arya both. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. I’ve held them. I kept them safe for you.”

Deep down he’d wished for a miracle. That the news would work some spell to change her back into what he’d known her as. Yet even through her cloak her flesh felt soft and too tender, as if it was about to slough off the bone.

Nothing happened, save something like a smile appeared on Cat’s foul lips. It held none of the beauty he remembered and it chilled him to see. As much as his eyes were suffering his nose was worse off, it was becoming harder to ignore the stench that filled his nostrils.

Then she croaked again and he actually felt the air coming through her neck. He’d never seen any with such a wound survive it. Nor smelt anything like her that lived.

“Where are they?” The northman asked. “The lady wants her daughters…”

“How did this happen to you?” Brynden wanted to know first, he clutched her shoulders tightly and willed something of the girl he knew to show herself. “What can I do to make this right? There must be a way.”

“It’s not something meant to be made right.” Anguy answered instead.

“Shut it!”

She croaked and a horrible stench wafted across his face.

“Where are they ser?” The northman asked again.

_She’s in there._

_If sorcery can make me into a Frey it can make Cat herself again._

As if hearing his thoughts Cat’s hands moved up to his face, running her fingers about his eyes, feeling the lines of his face. She’d done so as a little girl and it had been a pleasant thing to endure from such a lovely child.

Yet to endure her touch now was a trial. The cool, clammy feel of her fingers against his cheeks made him want to jerk away from it.

Something about it was so wrong.

So unnatural.

As unnatural as the sounds coming from her throat.

“Where are they?” The northman repeated. “She must know.”

“Gone. Far and away.” He answered. “I sent Arya off to be with Sansa before I came south.”

Cat’s eyes narrowed then and he felt the fingers tense as he spoke. The desperate need he’d seen then seemed to fade away and something else replaced it.

“Don’t worry she’ll be fine. Sansa too.” He tried to soothe her as he reached up rest his hands upon her wrists. “I wouldn’t have let them go if I didn’t believe that. They’ve got good people about them. Ones they can trust. Jon Snow is by Sansa’s side at all times and the lad’s a fine…”

He hadn’t been ready for it.

Not for the crackling scream that burst forth from the creature nor for the nails digging deep into his face.

He screamed himself as the pain seared through him. It felt like she was trying tear his face apart and he wrenched away. As he did he saw her hands hung in the air between them, her fingers covered in his blood, his flesh hanging from the nails.

Behind her the northman was approaching with his sword drawn.

Brynden looked to warn the others when he saw Anguy already in motion. The archer was pulling a bow from its hiding place beneath Ned’s cloak while grabbing an arrow from the quiver beneath his.

“I bloody well knew it!” Anguy shouted as he pushed Brynden out of the way.

“No!” The northman yelled as he dived in front of the thing that had been Cat.

Anguy’s arrow shot through the air and caught him straight through the throat. The man spun, spewing blood and falling upon the corpse he had protected.

“Kill them!” Lem roared and despite the burning pain Brynden felt he readied for battle.

He pulled his own sword and met the Hound’s attack full on.

“Ned down!” Anguy yelled and something whistled by Brynden.

There was no time to watch what happened behind him. Lem and another outlaw were both doing their best to cut him to pieces. His face felt like it had been torn to ribbons but that pain wasn’t the one that hurt him so.

It was a deeper, harsher pain that fueled his rage. That pain which drove his strike and slash against his foes.

“You did that to her!” He roared as his cut went up and through the thigh of one of the outlaws. “You made her that thing!”

“It was the Freys you old shit.”

Lem shoved aside his dying comrade to try and cut Brynden’s head clear off. He ducked under the blade and caught the second slash just as it was about to come down to cleave into his shoulder.

“She was a good woman…you turned her into that…” He repeated it again and again as Lem and he clashed. “You made her a monster…you all did…”

“Beric breathed the life into her.” Lem growled as Brynden’s kick landed squarely at the side of the piss-cloaked bandit’s knee.  “We tried to do her justice.”

_Justice?_

Brynden roared his rage as he kicked out again and this time the man’s leg buckled.

“You old cunt!” Lem cried out, vainly trying to skewer him while on one knee.

Brynden stepped around the blade and drove his own down, through the opening in the man’s armor around his neck and deep into Lem’s chest.

The man died gasping and grunting within the dead man’s helm. Brynden looked about wildly for another foe to feel his wrath. He saw his guard dead and Anguy laying upon the ground as Ned did his best to fend off an outlaw intent on finishing them off.

“You did this!” Brynden yelled as he stabbed the outlaw through his back and yanked his sword up.

The man screeched horribly as his insides were carved up and torn to bits. He threw the man off his blade and sought more to kill. He could hear more fighting from the way they’d come but there were no more foes in the hall.

“Ser we need to go…” Ned said, trying to help Anguy to his feet. “Others will come…”

“Let them.” He snarled as he pointed his blade at the boy. “You knew! You knew, didn’t you?!”

Ned and Anguy just stared at him and his sword twitched in his hand.

“You did that to her!” He reached out and yanked Ned away from the archer, forcing him to face what he’d done. “Look what you…”

Yet when he turned to where he’d last seen her he saw Cat was gone. The northman’s blood soaked body had been tossed aside and bloody footprints led away to an exit at the side of the hall.

“Cat no!” He yelled. “Cat don’t go!”

Brynden threw the youth aside and forgot all about killing the outlaws.

_You have to find her. That thing has her and you have to find her._

He grabbed one of the torches and chased after her into the darkened corridors. The light from the torch was weak and it seemed every passageway he travelled through was the darkest black and he stumbled several times. His childhood home had become a den of darkness and death. He’d once promised Cat and Lysa to chase all the monsters they feared wandered the castle by night.

Now he chased after a real one.

When the trail of blood no longer guided his way he stopped and listened.  Her footsteps scraping against stone ahead in the darkness helped him continue the pursuit.

He chased her all the way up the northern battlements, out into the cold winter air. It was a place he knew well. The view of the river below from this part of the wall was breathtaking. When Cat had been a little girl he’d lift her up upon the wall and hold her so she could lean out and pretend she was flying.

The memory of that laughing, smiling child was lost when he saw the thing that had been Cat waiting for him.

The cold wind whipped what was left of her hair all about and the sounds of the river beyond filled his ears. Once it had been a calming thing to hear but now the monster’s choked croaks and gurgles tainted it. She gave him scant attention as her eyes darted about in a murderous rage. Her blood stained hands clawed at the sky above them, as if trying to tear it all down.

He’d never been more terrified in his life but still he came closer to her.

“Cat this isn’t you!” He yelled over the wind, which began to blow harder, snow coming with it. “None of this is you.”

She pointed at him now as she wiped her hands across her face, smearing his blood across her lips. Croaking and wheezing curses he could not make out all the while.

“You should be at peace girl! Gods that’s all we ever wanted for you!” He threw his sword down on the walkway and held his hand out to her. “I prayed you’d had that at least. I prayed you’d be with your husband and sons...at peace with them…Cat I’m so sorry…”

Cat’s eyes had stopped their mad frenzy and now locked upon his sword, cast away by his feet.

“Look here! Look!” He fumbled into his pockets for the pendant, pulling forth the old silver thing and letting it hang between them. “Remember! Remember you asked me of this! Countless times as a girl…I couldn’t tell you then. You stopped asking but remember? I’ll tell you now…”

The thing was coming towards him now. Her eyes not even glancing towards the swan, too intent upon the sword between them.

“Someone I loved gave it to me Cat! Someone I let go for you! For all of you!”

Cat lunged at the blade and he backed away as she pulled it up and into her grasp.

“You loved more than the rest of us. You always did.” His tears stung as they fell into the wounds upon his face. “Please just remember. This isn’t you.”

Her eyes were on him now. The blade twitching in her hand as her decayed lips pulled back in a soundless snarl.

“Don’t make me…I beg of you…” He held the pendant up between them. “You were worth it…”

She came at him. When she was a little girl she’d rush to him so he’d lift her up into his arms. On the rare times she did so as a young woman it would be a warm embrace she’d come to offer.

Now it was death.

He was ready for it. He was ready for death he thought. He was ready for all these horrors to end.

Yet he moved and it felt like someone else had acted.

Like someone else stepped aside from the stabbing blade and brought a blow down upon the hand clutching the sword. Another who shoved the torch straight into the monster’s face, the flames giving Brynden another clear glimpse of the thing that had been is niece.

Cat’s brittle hair caught fire like old straw and the flames engulfed her head. He saw her mottled flesh blackening as it did so. Then the torch was forced through the folds of her cloak to spread the fire further. Both cloak and what lay beneath were burning then and the stench of it filled the air.

Along with the choked screams.

The thing thrashed and fought against the growing flames, fanning their spread even more. He should’ve backed away but he couldn’t. He should’ve stopped the fires but he couldn’t.

A hand clawed out and wrenched the pendant from his grasp.

The thing that had been his niece became a burning, blackened husk before him. Yet it still thrashed and battled against the flames. In defiance of what laws gods and man had made for the limits of the human body, the thing fought on.

The evil within refusing to leave the body of the person Brynden loved.

He numbly pulled the dagger from his belt. How he found the strength to drive it through the thing’s heart he’d never know. The force of his thrust drove them back, the thing hitting the wall.

Flames licked at his own body as he felt the struggling, suffering creature suddenly wrench to a strange, eerie calm. The river below echoing loudly off the walls. He held her there for a moment, holding her up against the wall while the river flowed beneath, his hands clutching her burning form desperately. The thing’s eyes locked on his, they bore deep within his soul as he pushed. The darkness within them replaced by the darkness of the sky beyond as she fell away.

Brynden watched as his niece’s burning body toppled over the side of the wall, the brightness of her flames illuminating her descent into the river below.

The splash and darkness that followed signaled his own collapse.

He fell to his knees, retching and screaming. Clawing and striking the walls in his anguish. Cursing the gods. Cursing men and women. Cursing his parents for bringing him into this world.

He cursed those who’d done this thing to Cat the most.

Among those curses Brynden found the strength to swear a terrible vengeance. As the blood poured forth from his face he swore by it to see his vengeance done. As his heart beat within his chest he knew he could not let it rest till the deed was done.

He’d care for naught else. He would love nothing else until it was done.

For the vengeance he sought he’d harden his heart.

He’d turn his heart to stone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North remains a divided, war torn land. With some threats more obvious than others.
> 
> The price of returning home is steep and more is still owed.

SANSA

 

 

“Your grace...I could return at a later time if you would prefer…”

“There’s no need Maester Medrick.” Sansa smiled at the clearly uncomfortable man. “Myranda has had my confidence for some time now.”

“Of course she does…I did not mean to suggest…” Medrick fumbled at his words before dropping one of the many parchments in his grasp, scrambling to grab it in mid air.

She heard Myranda stifle a giggle and she did her best to keep one in herself at the poor maester’s expense. Myranda was putting the finishing touches on her hair but she knew it was not her friend’s presence that bothered Medrick so.

He had been ill at ease since arriving in her chambers and she imagined much of that had to do with having to join them here in the first place. It had been a week since they’d retaken Winterfell and every morning since Sansa had met with the maester. The two would prepare letters to be sent and discuss the status of the wounded, still in the man’s care.

Usually such meetings occurred within her father’s solar with Howland or possibly Jon in attendance, never before in her chambers as Myranda finished preparing her for the day.

 _He thinks it inappropriate,_ she thought, _that such matters should be conducted in a formal manner._

_He would be right of course but acting as such reminds this man he serves me and my will._

Still Sansa felt a twinge of guilt for subjecting Medrick to this but it had been convenient considering who else she’d summoned here today.

“There were more ravens in the night?” She asked, her tone as serious as it could be. “Replies to our own?”

“Yes my queen, several in fact.” Medrick quickly straightened and flipped through his parchments. “I believe you’ll find one even more welcome than the raven from Lord Wyllis.”

_That bodes well._

They’d sent ravens far and wide across the North announcing the return of the Starks to Winterfell. The most significant of the replies had come from White Harbor yesterday, penned by Lord Wyman’s son, Wyllis. He had thanked her for the safekeeping of his father and asked forgiveness for the delay in his reply, for they had just lost their maester.

Beyond that, the acting Lord of White Harbor had pledged his support to House Stark and promised men and supplies would be on the march soon to bolster their position at Winterfell.

 _Things we need desperately_ , she thought, _I must assume the worst until Maege returns._

“And who has replied today?” She asked.

“We have had ravens from Moat Cailin and Torrhen’s Square… I would ask to read the letter from the Moat first.”

That was interesting news indeed. The Moat was held by her crannogmen and Torrhen’s Square by the ironmen. She nodded her assent to the maester’s request.

“From the Moat… Queen Sansa, Princess Arya arrived only two days past. I have sent her party to you with almost thirty guards. No signs of attack from the south, more northmen arrive daily. Sincerely, the mummer’s lord of the ugly towers, Korjen.”

While the maester grimaced at the last line, Sansa and Myranda laughed.

“I think Willem would like that man.” Myranda said and then squeezed Sansa’s hand. “It is good news of your sister.”

 _It is great news of my sister_ , she thought, _Arya’s closer still, coming home as we speak._

“I am glad you read that one first maester, I cannot wait to tell Jon.”

“There is more.” The maester added. “A second letter arrived with the first, this one from your royal sister but I have not read it.”

“I thank you for that and would ask you leave it here as Jon and I shall read it later. Together.”

_It will be a reason to see him alone…_

The maester nodded but shifted uncomfortably. She was doubly glad he had read Korjen’s letter first if the second made him fidget so. She raised her eyebrow and he took the hint and cleared his throat.

“Wolf bitch…”

The maester gulped but Sansa waved her hand, it was not he who wrote these words.

“Dagmer Cleftjaw fears no woman and heeds none save the krakens. We paid the iron price for this castle and will pay it again to keep it. Come for me with your skirts and I will make you a salt wife and give you many sons.”

As disappointing as the words were she was not surprised at the letter. Her lords had told her to expect as much. The ironmen were a treacherous, cruel people and not likely to accept Sansa’s offer of safe passage should they leave her lands.

“So now we must force them out.” Sansa said wringing her hands. “It must be battle to retake Torrhen’s Square…yet another to make the North whole.”

“Your grace, a noble goal indeed, but with the damage to Winterfell’s gates and armies still at large in your lands…”

“Thank you maester.” She cut him off, not wishing to hear things she already knew. “If you would, I’ve prepared a letter to be sent to White Harbor…”

In the letter Sansa thanked Wyllis for the men, assured him that, while his father remained feverish, Wyman’s care was a great concern of hers and that Manderly men protected him within her walls. It was important to reassure the Manderlys before asking them to furnish supplies to Moat Cailin and for the siege at the Dreadfort.

Of Bronze Yohn and the Greatjon they had heard little. The prisoners they’d taken at the castle yielded no answers and Roose Bolton had burnt most letters after reading them. Such was how he had kept word of the siege between himself and the maester, and all the Medrick knew was that ravens passed with increasing frequency between the two castles.

_If the Dreadfort falls the Lannisters will have no foothold here in the North._

_And the Bastard will have nowhere to flee._

Howland and Jon were sure Ramsay Snow had survived the battle on the Kingsroad and would be gathering a force around him of other Bolton survivors as well. Even in defeat, he found a way to wreak evil upon her people.

Two days after their victory, a party of outriders had gone missing somewhere to the east. All were later found, hanging from trees, their skins flayed from their bodies. It had been the same at a small settlement further east, two families murdered and mutilated as well.

_It does not matter where he flees, he will be held accountable for his crimes._

_We will hunt that beast down. We must._

Sansa had said as much to her war council last night.

“Without the Dreadfort or any castles open to him, winter will deal with the bastard for us.” Mors had laughed off her concerns, the man becoming more brash with her by the day.

Howland had not agreed.

“Ramsay Snow may have too few to mount an attack against this castle but he may have more than enough to harass these lands and our supply lines.” He’d looked to Jon who also thought the situation more serious than others believed.

“Lord Beric did great harm to the Lannister advance using such tactics and he had nowhere near the might Ramsay could lead.” Jon had said before proposing madness again. “I could lead a force out east towards the White Knife to seek him out…”

“Out of the question.” She’d decided on the spot. “There are still armies in the field and one of our gates remains under repair, I would not weaken us at such a time.”

“Besides, everything points to the Bastard heading back towards the Dreadfort and we all know what he’ll face there.” Ser Morton Waynwood had said with a smile. “True, he has some men to his cause but his father’s army is at our mercy. What’s left of it.”

 _Quite a bit of it is left_ , she lamented _, almost too much of it in truth._

The thought was a dark one but more survivors of the Bolton army continued to show up outside Winterfell’s gates. Ramsay Snow had marched out into the snows with few supplies and less protection against a long stay outside the walls. Those who survived the battle could not survive the winter. So not a day after the battle, hundreds of men, most on foot, had turned up outside the walls seeking the same treatment she’d offered Steelshanks Walton.

Keeping a hundred or so surrendered men in the castle among her thousands was workable, at first. But then more came and suffering almost a thousand more prisoners within the walls was out of the question. Jon had proposed setting up tents outside the walls as a camp for the surrendered Bolton men and she’d had it done.

At best it was a temporary solution until she decided what to do with them.

_At least I can deal with some of my defeated foes today._

“Maester could you tell Quent that I am ready to receive my guests?” She asked as Medrick prepared to leave. “He knows in which order I’d see them.”

The maester nodded, relieved to be leaving the chambers as she picked up the parchment he’d left behind.

The letter from Arya.

“Where is Jon off to today?” Myranda asked, offering her a cup of water. “Off trying to storm the Dreadfort alone?”

“No, not yet at least.” She sighed. “He is riding about our lands, spreading word of our return so that any who wish to can return to the safety of the Winter Town.”

She had been able to restrain Jon from throwing himself into danger on a mad pursuit of Ramsay Snow but it would be foolish to try and keep him idle. Allowing Jon to ride out to nearby farms and holdfasts, spreading word of wagons with food and dry wood being distributed in Winter Town seemed harmless enough.

_And it builds a fine reputation for him in the process._

_Let the smallfolk see the true knight he is, let them love him as I do._

“I hope he can convince some to return. To see the town empty is a sad thing.” She sipped of her water. “I make a poor queen without a people to care for.”

“You sound more like a Septa than a queen when you talk so.” Myranda laughed. “It makes it harder to believe the tales of the great swordswoman I heard about. The one holding her ground and breaking the Bolton charge at the Reaping.”

 _The Reaping_ , she thought, _a foul name for a foul thing._

Such was how men were styling the battle against the Boltons along the Kingsroad. Somehow the story of how she’d desperately lifted a sword in a feeble defense had grown into a tale of her joining the fight to throw back the Bolton attack.

“How can men truly believe such nonsense when there could be tales of true heroism that took place during those dark hours? Not some silly girl…”

“The brighter the light, the less dark it seems. Men need things to be inspired by.” Myranda smiled and reached out to cup Sansa’s cheek. “Perhaps it’s not exactly as they say…”

“It’s nothing like they say.”

“But none question that you stood your ground when others would have fled. I know I would have.” Her friend gestured to her gown of deep violet and shook her head in mock derision. “I saw the state of your gown afterwards and I could never suffer such a thing to happen to a dress so fine.”

The knocking at the door interrupted their laughter and Sansa knew her guests had arrived.

“Yes Quent, please enter.” She called.

When they’d taken Winterfell some interesting prisoners had come into her power and now Quent escorted one before her.

The Lady Walda Bolton, Roose Bolton’s fat Frey wife.

The lady’s eyes were red rimmed as she gazed about the chambers mournfully, as if she had a right to feel such about them. Before Sansa had taken them for her own, Lady Walda had been using them.

_And they were my mother’s before that._

Taking her mother’s chambers rather than her old ones had felt strange at first. Yet she felt closer to her mother here, her thoughts often turning to pleasant memories. When her mother would soothe her worries, praise her achievements or simply brush her hair before an important occasion… sleeping came easier to her with such happy memories.

Her memories had been in a better condition than the room when she’d first seen it. Like the rest of Winterfell, mother’s chambers had been almost destroyed, yet with work, they had improved greatly, close to being what they once were.

As all of Winterfell would be.

_No thanks to this woman’s family or husband._

“Bow to the Queen, Frey.” Quent hissed at Walda who started at his words.

Sansa imagined the lady heard the same hatred in the guard’s voice as she did.

“Please, Quent, no.” She said softly. “The lady shall be treated as befits her title, no matter her relations.”

At that she had Quent offer the lady a chair and when she had moved her girth upon it Sansa saw how stiffly the woman moved. Lady Walda was pregnant with Roose’s child yet her condition had not spared her the ire of her goodson.

When they’d taken the castle they’d found her cowering in these chambers, her hands and feet in irons. Apparently the bastard had not wished her any chance of escape while he was gone.

Walda was a Frey by birth, a Bolton by marriage, and carried her enemy’s child yet Sansa could not help but pity her. In a way, despite being older than Sansa, Walda seemed almost a child in manner.

The woman’s eyes were glistening and she was so nervous the fat beneath her chin was wobbling as she trembled.

_She has little to fear from me._

_I am not some monster._

“My lady, I have called you here today to assure you of some things. Namely the safety of you and your child, for I intend no harm to come to either of you whilst you are in my care.” She spoke in as soothing a voice as she could. “In fact I am arranging things so that even after you leave my castle you will be cared for. I believe it within my power to have your uncle Olyvar, the new Lord of the Crossing, offer a home to you both.”

She paused as the lady’s eyes widened in surprise, causing Sansa to wonder how little she knew of the events to the south.

_Roose may have been content to let her live in ignorance but I am not._

“I tell you these things to let you know your child will have a chance at a future in the south.” Sansa held out her hand and Myranda handed her a rolled up bit of parchment. “For there is no future for House Bolton here in the North. I have signed a proclamation stripping the Boltons of their lands, their title and forever banishing its members from the North. To return will mean…”

With that the woman let out a great wail before burying her face in her hands. The lady sobbed uncontrollably and reacted in such an ungrateful manner to Sansa’s mercy she began to feel her anger rising.

_It is more than the Lannisters would have given her._

_More than her father or husband would have offered me._

_Petyr would’ve had her killed to end whatever threat that child could pose._

Yet Sansa knew what her real father would have done. So rather than give in to her anger, she set Quent to removing the woman, the guard having to call two more men from the hall to assist him in the task.

Following that spectacle, Quent had her second prisoner brought within and the contrast between the two ladies could not be more pronounced.

“Your grace.” Lady Barbrey Dustin gave a stiff curtsy, her chin held high and her eyes burned with defiance no matter her courtesies.

“My Lady of Barrowtown. Please, take a seat.” She gestured to the empty chair before reaching out to touch Myranda’s hand. “This is my dear friend the Lady Myranda Royce, daughter of…”

“Nestor Royce, yes I know of her.” Barbrey eyed Myranda coldly. “Your father once proposed you be promised to my nephew Domeric. It was out of the question of course, you being but a steward’s daughter. I do hope Roose was kind in his rejection.”

“He wasn’t.” Myranda’s hands tightened into fists before a wide smile appeared on her face. “Although I imagine being rejected by the father of a potential suitor pales in comparison to having your husband’s entire household reject you. I heard hundreds of men from House Dustin were fighting against your good brother and his bastard. That they chose to fight for their queen instead.”

_Harsher than it need be but true none the less._

On a day of betrayals, Lady Dustin had felt one of her own. Her men scorned her allegiance to Roose Bolton and plotted alongside the Manderlys. They’d joined with the Starks during the Reaping, which pit them against the men of Barbrey’s father, Lord Rodrik Ryswell.

_And she lost more than her house in that battle._

“Men are fools.” Barbrey sneered. “No matter their age. Domeric thought you worthy of being a bride before he was shown sense.”

Before Barbrey and Myranda could continue trading insults Sansa offered something else.

“Lady Barbrey, I have not had the chance so I would offer you my condolences at the loss of your brother Rickard.” She spoke with sincere sympathy, it was a horrible thing to lose a brother. “I have had his remains brought to Winterfell and promise them safe conduct back to the Rills…”

Barbrey shocked her by laughing. It was not a laugh born of mirth or happiness, instead sounding almost a sour. The lady closed her eyes as she did so and her face lowered away from being seen.

“Gods you are kinder than your father at least. Did you happen to find Rick’s horse? Would you offer me that as well?” She said as reached up to wipe what might have been a tear from her eye. “I mean, that is what the great and benevolent Eddard Stark offered me after he led my husband to his death - His horse. He didn’t see fit to bring William’s bones home to me but I guess his daughter learned better. He would be so proud of his little girl.”

“Do not speak so of my father!” She snapped. “He was a good man!”

“So was Willam.” Barbrey hissed. “As was my brother!”

Sansa felt herself close to losing control as the woman scolded her like a child. Worse were the lady’s harsh words about her father, spoken within the walls of his home.

“If we are to speak of loved ones then let us speak of the ones you have remaining to you.” She said quickly, struggling to retake the upper hand in this exchange. “And of the mercy I have shown them…for now.”

Lord Ryswell had managed to survive the Reaping with his two surviving sons and a good many of his men. Yet they’d lacked the supplies needed to attempt the long trip back to the Rills and thus had chosen a shorter journey instead. The power of House Ryswell had arrived at Winterfell’s gates but a day and night after their defeat to beg shelter and offer fealty to House Stark.

_I want nothing of offers._

_I want guarantees of loyalty, protection against betrayals._

_I want them scared of me._

So she laid her plans for House Ryswell bare to this woman many saw as the true power behind it.

“Your father has two sons left to him and I intend to keep both as guests of House Stark.”

“Hostages…”

“Call it what you will but Roger, your father’s heir, shall be remaining here at Winterfell while your younger brother Roose will be sent on to Castle Cerywn.”

“Cerwyn?” Barbrey’s eyes widened and she smiled. “You think sending my brother away to Jonella’s care will make my father more fearful? The woman couldn’t hurt a mouse if she fell on it.”

“Why should she need to?” She asked innocently. “The lady has told me she is quite lonely at Castle Cerwyn since the loss of her kin and would welcome the company of Roose.”

“Your grace!” Myranda feigned confusion. “Only the youngest Ryswell? But I thought…”

_Now, oh it must be now._

“Oh how could I forget? Yes Roose will go of course and his lady sister as well, whom Lady Jonella has told me she grew to be quite fond of.”

Barbrey was clearly taken aback at that, the power in the room suddenly flowing back in the right direction.

Yet soon enough Sansa saw a grin pulling at the side of her mouth. Jonella Cerywn and her men had eagerly returned to the Stark fold. The Cerwyn men who fought for her during the Reaping vouched that the lady wished nothing more than the return of the Starks, so great was her fear of the Boltons. Yet Jonella had lived in her father and brother’s shadow almost her entire life and was not as strong willed as she needed to be.

_Barbrey is no doubt already plotting at how to strong arm Jonella to her side._

_If I was her I would be thinking of offering Roose as a husband to the lady._

“If I must suffer Jonella’s hospitality to spare my family, I will do so. As poor company as she is.” Barbrey did her best to show some displeasure at the thought.

“Oh don’t fear on that account Lady Dustin, Ser Kyle Condon has promised the lady he will take up his duties as Cerwyn’s captain of the guards and leader of their fighting men quite soon. He was her father’s right hand man after all, and a stalwart supporter of House Stark. The ser has already said he looks forward to hosting you within his lady’s walls.”

Barbrey’s expression darkened immediately and Myranda did not even attempt to hide her laugh at the woman’s expense. With the knight in command of House Cerwyn’s forces there was little Barbrey would be able to convince Jonella of. Ser Kyle would hold the real power over Castle Cerwyn, and thus Lady Dustin and her brother, and the Lady of Barrowton knew the knight was a harder person to manipulate than timid Lady Jonella.

Weary of Barbrey’s harsh looks she waved at Quent who stepped up to the lady’s side and offered his arm to help her rise. Sansa then explained how things would happen going forward.

“You and your brother shall leave within the hour for Castle Cerwyn, with a good many men as an escort. I believe you’ll be there before nightfall if the weather stays as good as it is. I bid you good day and safe travels Lady Dustin.”

Barbrey rose without accepting Quent’s assistance, looking down upon her with such a ferocity that Sansa thought the lady meant to strike her. The tense moment lasted for a while longer before the older woman’s face relaxed some and she reached down to smooth her skirts.

Her humorless laugh coming again.

“I warned him about you, did you know that? After I heard the whispering that you had taken the Moat, I told Roose Bolton that any girl who could do so was not one he could afford to ignore.” She shook her head. “I knew that you were either a fool or mad or both. Any of which would spell trouble for us. He didn’t heed me of course, men are always fools when it comes to what they think women are capable of, but I was proven right in the end.”

With that Barbrey turned to leave and was at the door before Sansa gave in, unable to resist the baiting.

“And which am I?” Sansa asked, expecting the insult. “A fool or mad?”

Barbrey did not offer the courtesy of facing her again, yet she did turn her head slightly before answering.

“You’re like your father…you are trouble.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

JON

 

“Home again Ghost.”

The direwolf running beside Jon’s horse probably needed little reminding as the pair rode through the Hunter’s Gate.

It made no matter if the wolf needed to hear the words. Jon more likely said it to remind himself that this was real. To remind himself that he was truly home, in the hope Winterfell would feel safe once more, and not some place waiting to be attacked.

_If I can’t believe it myself, it’s no wonder I’m having such a poor time convincing others._

Rodwell, Ronnel Stout, and the rest of their men were following close behind the pair and he felt embarrassed to perform so poorly in front of them. Rodwell had kept count and he believed they’d met over two hundred smallfolk on their journeys through the lands around Winterfell. Those being the ones brave enough to be seen or too slow to hide.

Some had been happy to hear the Starks were back. Most seemed to care little but did show interest in the talk of food and warmth in Winter Town.

_The war had taken much from them, more than can ever be repaid._

Jon forced himself to remember that when few appeared to celebrate Sansa’s return. Many of the folk he talked to probably had family who had marched south never to return again. The least the castle could do was fulfill its traditional role of protecting the smallfolk during the winters.

Just as he was trying to protect the elderly man and woman clinging to the backs of two of their riders. He should have delivered them to the Winter Town but they had been so fearful after speaking to him that Jon had promised them safety and work within the castle.

_Little enough room for them but when more come to the town hopefully they can find a home there._

He had hope they would be given that chance. He truly believed once the abandoned buildings of the Winter Town were acting as homes again, and the fires in the cold hearths set to burning, that the smallfolk would begin cheering the direwolf banner again.

A different cheer went up as they rode within the courtyard.

Although to call it a jeer would be more accurate.

“I told you lot to shut that gate! Look at the ugly beasts you let in!” Willem laughed as he limped across the courtyard with Howland at his side. 

“You welcome as well as you walk.” He called back, earning a small bit of laughter from Rodwell and Ronnel.

“True, I’m a sad excuse for a knight compared to you.” Willem held his hands up in mock defeat. “I’m the first to say you’re a braver man than I. I mean, riding about the North with your arse exposed to the wind is as daring as it gets.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, for he was dressed quite warmly against the cold and his arse was firmly planted on his horse. It was plain the others were confused as well and Willem smiled all the wider because of it.

“Seven hells, that’s your face isn’t it?”

_You walked into that one._

He hung his head to hide his own smile as the others laughed heartily at the insult. Rodwell went forward to clap Willem hard on the back before he began shouting for a steward to see to the old couple. Jon thought him a good man and Sansa needed more of the like. As strong and fierce a fighter as he was, Rodwell’s true value came from having been a guard under Jory Cassel.

 _Sansa would find no better captain,_ hethought _, I’ll bring it up at her next council._

He imagined such a meeting not far off, considering Howland was here to greet them at the gate. Sansa kept the lord constantly busy with her affairs and it was a rare enough thing to see him idle.

“Am I late?” He asked and Howland smiled.

“I think you’ll be spared this time. The Queen has called a meeting of her council and you’re expected there.” The crannogman gestured towards the Great Keep. “She waited until you were sighted before summoning the others and has made food and drink ready.”

He nodded and asked a boy to see to his horse and whistled to Ghost to follow, which the beast did gladly. As Howland and he made their way towards the keep, Ronnel and Willem joined them at a slower pace. Those were not the men that concerned him though, for ahead he saw a group gathered outside the keep’s entrance.

None of whom appeared to be the least bit happy.

“Tallhart men.” Howland answered before Jon could ask. “Word came from Torrhen’s Square that the krakens do not yield. They want to know when we march for their home.”

“One battle won and they would have the next start so soon? With the threats facing us still?” He suddenly felt very tired at the prospect.

“War rarely allows us time to ready ourselves for the next battle and we’ve had great fortune in that regard up until now.” Howland made a slight face then. “House Tallhart has not seen much fortune in these last few years. Torrhen’s Square has endured more fighting and suffering at the hands of the reavers than the rest of the North. While their men fell to the south and here at Winterfell, their home was attacked twice over and is held still.”

At that Jon caught the eye of one of the Tallhart men and saw that they were of an age. Yet there was something in the young man’s eyes that made him seem older than he should.

_He’s been fighting as long as you have if not longer._

_Is being tired what you owe him for that?_

“We owe them their home.” He said, giving a nod of respect to the stranger as they passed. “We owe them some justice for all this.”

“Don’t expect much justice to come from war Jon and you won’t be disappointed. To retake Torrhen’s Square we need send a great many men. With so much uncertainty about us I fear those are men we do not have to spare.”

It was a sobering thought yet he thought it true.

While they had a great many manning the walls almost twice that number were being used to guard the defeated Boltons and Ryswells. On top of that, men who could be holding weapons and reinforcing their lands were put to work at repairing the castle and gathering the lumber and stone needed to do so.

At times it felt like their victories had drained their strength as much as any loss.

With the ironmen still a threat along the coast, the Lannisters to the south, and the Dreadfort possibly holding off the siege, Sansa needed reinforcement desperately.

“This should be a truly uplifting council then.” He grimaced at the decisions before them.

Howland reached out and placed a hand upon his shoulder, something of a smile on his face.

“I did not wish to sour your mood so.” He said quietly. “We had some of Maege’s riders arrive not long before you. They were not in poor spirits.”

He was struck by the lord’s words but had little chance to question him before they arrived at the meeting room. Within he found Ser Symond, Mors Umber, Ser Kyle, and Ser Morton already seated at the table where a modest but savory fare was spread out. Howland and he took their places to either side of the head of table.

Sansa would hear no arguments from him on seating arrangements.

“Good travels today ser?” Ser Symond asked as he offered Jon some wine.

He shook his head and reached for the water instead.

“The smallfolk are scared but they will come.”

“A far better sight than Bolton men I’d wager.” Ser Morton smiled. “The Queen’s people should start flocking here what with Roose and the Bastard gone...”

“Forgive me ser but I believe it is fear of the bastard that keeps many away.” Jon said and made to continue before Howland rose abruptly.

“My lords, the queen.” He announced as Sansa arrived flanked by Quent and three other Stark men.

Her gown was a pretty thing, lacking frills but a green so bright and warm it made him think of summer in the Reach. They all rose and she gave a wide smile as she scanned all their faces. Jon avoided her eyes as he stepped forward and pulled her chair out for her.

“I thank you ser.” She rewarded him with a smile as she sat. “Please, all sit, your time is too valuable for me to waste it.”

He took his seat to her side as Howland unfurled some parchments and began reading out what news might not be known to all. The council discussed the letters Sansa had received from Moat Cailin and Torrhen’s Square as well as the one she had sent to White Harbor. Kyle and Willem spoke to the state of their castle guard and of the ongoing repairs to the castle’s defenses.

He was getting anxious to hear of Maege’s riders when Sansa herself began to speak.

“As you all know, Lady Maege accepted the task of finding out what befell the Frey army and that of Stannis Baratheon… as well as her daughter. Her company has been gone for many days, scouring the Wolfswood for any sign of either and today we finally had word…”

She paused then to smile brightly.

“Most welcome news. Not only did she find Stannis Baratheon but she found him alive, her family alive, and his army victorious over the Freys.”

Sounds of surprise and cheer echoed around the table, Kyle and Symond clanked their goblets together while Mors ruffled Willem’s hair and the knight tugged on the man’s beard until he laughed.

Sansa waited for the uproar to die down before giving them the details. Stannis and the Freys had met in battle, the Baratheon army somehow entrapping their enemy near a frozen lake. The victory there had not meant the end of the fighting though. Hosteen Frey had survived and managed to recover half of his forces to attempt a retreat through the woods.

The clansmen among Stannis’s army had not been willing to allow such, giving a long and bloody chase to the Frey survivors. Bleeding them for days until, as far as Maege could tell, few if any still lived.

That pursuit had forced Stannis to abandon his march on Winterfell and move to regroup his forces, possibly out of fear Roose Bolton would fall upon them during their weakness.

Whatever his reasons, it appeared Stannis had reformed his army and once again marched towards Winterfell.

“As an enemy or friend your grace?” He asked. “Did Maege learn of his intentions?”

At that Sansa frowned and gestured to Howland who cupped his hands in front of him and answered on her behalf.

“Maege waited two days to send word to us, and in those two days she was not granted an audience with Stannis.” He sighed. “Apparently he did not recognize her as an emissary of the Queen in the North, since he knows of no such queen. Still, she had assurances from the northmen who march with Stannis, they will not fight against House Stark, and the north remembers which crown it follows.”

_Stannis won’t care what crown they follow, he’ll only care it’s not his._

“It would be wise to prepare for a fight then.” Jon said to the shock of the others, including Sansa. “Just in case Stannis requires a lesson on who the North’s true ruler is.”

“Easy enough to say but we’re using good fighting men to do work better done by laborers, men we need holding swords and not trowels.” Ronnel lamented and Mors grunted in agreement.

“I’d rather have that gate back up than those swords, fighting a battle within these walls is not something I’m eager to do again.” Willem put in.

“Then we need laborers all the more.” Sansa cut through the murmuring before turning to him. “Were you able to bring any of our people back with you Jon? Any willing to work within this castle?”

_Go ahead, tell her you brought some back._

_An old man and an old woman, ready for work._

“I spoke to many who would be and I think they will come Sansa but few enough within the next few days.”

He watched her face fall and resisted the urge to reach out and comfort her, she needed to hear something of a more pressing nature rather than feel his useless touch.

“I believe more would be here already if not for threats made against them…”

“Threats? Who is threatening them?”

He shook his head and did his best to speak to what the elderly couple had so fearfully told him.

“Men who come to the farms and hovels in the night, men who hide in the darkness shouting to the smallfolk that any who forgets who the true ruler of Winterfell and the North is will know true pain.” He swallowed against the disgust in his mouth to say the next part. “Men who hang skins from the trees and howl in the night. They call themselves hounds…”

“Why is this the first we’re hearing of this?” Ser Kyle asked. “My scouts have spoken with the smallfolk as well and none have reported anything of the like. The last we heard of the bastard he was far to the east.”

“How many spoke of this Jon?” Sansa inquired before he could answer Kyle.

“I have two who swore to it and from how fearful others were to speak to their claims I…”

“Only two?” Ser Symond and others looked doubtful then. “Ser, even if they can be trusted, perhaps it is but outlaws or broken men.”

“I have doubts myself about their claims.” Ronnel had the character to look ashamed to argue against Jon. “Those two were old and had little to gain from blaming outlaws. Blaming the Boltons got them safe passage within the castle.”

“More mouths?” Mors grumbled, draining his goblet before slamming it down. “Why do we bother speaking of imaginary enemies when the ironmen still ravage our lands? Why do we bother to feed and shelter the men who betrayed our kin?”

“I would hear all on my council, my good man.” Sansa responded, somewhat taken aback at the man’s attitude. “I have found it a wise thing to do before choosing a course of…”

“A wise thing to do would be to let us ride out that gate and put the whole bloody Bolton camp to sword.” Mors nudged Willem with a hard look in his eye. “It’s how the Bolton would’ve done it. Give them some of their own I say.”

“No.” Sansa spoke firmly. “No those men are a symbol. Of how House Stark will rebuild the north. Not through blood, but with honor and strength.  Fight us at your peril but drop your sword and be treated well. Robb would have done so.”

“Aye he might’ve, but the Boltons killed him.” Mors shot Sansa a look as if she didn’t belong there, as if this was a conversation beyond her.  “We are northmen. Your parents may have sheltered you from this girl but the north is as much about blood as it is honor. Sometimes there needs to be more of one than the other, even if it stains a gown.”

_Too far._

_Too far and too much from him._

“Watch your tongue.” Jon rose from his chair. “That’s your queen you’re speaking to.”

Some of the others may have treated the situation seriously yet Mors chuckled. He continued doing so as he filled his goblet again, his eye looking Jon up and down the whole time.

“Boy, I only have the one eye but I see who she is clear enough. Same as I see you standing there… no idea the number of men I’ve buried for doing less than you do now… trying to tell me to watch my tongue.”

“Any of those men call you an old fool?” Willem said as he picked at something in his teeth. “With more size than sense?”

“Do you wish to be the first?” Mors slammed the wine pitcher down so hard it cracked. “Limping little fool?”

Willem kept picking his teeth but the smaller knight rose to stand, not all that much taller than Mors was sitting.

“Bronze Yohn once told me a smart man knows when to hold his tongue. Fine words. These are finer, you’re an old fool with more size…”

“When was the first Mors?” Jon jumped in then, unstrapping a dagger from his belt and tossing it on the table between them. “The first man you killed. How old were you?”

“Stop this!” Sansa joined Howland and the others in trying to calm the matter but as Mors rose in rage, Jon persisted.

“You brought up the men you’ve killed! Now speak to it!  How old were you?”

“Ten and five if I was a day.” Mors curled his hands into two fists in front him. “I used a sword then but I could use these just as well. I’d need no dagger…”

“The queen was even younger. And she used a dagger not a sword. Much like that one.” Jon pointed down to blade. “I saw her kill Lord Petyr Baelish with mine own eyes. It was likely doing the deed would mean her own death but she did it anyways. She avenged Eddard Stark, your lord, at her own peril. So before you question her strength and willingness to get bloody, remember that. A girl of ten and four.”

Mors’s angry expression slowly changed to one of bemusement as he glanced to Sansa. Jon had wondered if Mors had heard the tale of Littlefinger’s death. Of how Sansa had saved his life.

“You yourself saw her holding a sword during the Reaping.” Ronnel added. “Standing her ground, fighting as her brother would have.”

“I wasn’t…” Sansa started but Mors grunted, cutting her off.

“No. He’s right I saw that clear enough.” Mors offered scratching his head. “I wasn’t saying the Queen wasn’t one apart from most. I was never saying that your grace.”

“I heard no such thing.” Sansa gave him a weak smile before gesturing to his empty chair. “You’re a part of my council Mors, I listen closely to all my lords. All my loyal, true men.”

Mors actually looked abashed at that and he took his seat quickly.

“Your father always acted so and it’s good to see that in you. I was just saying there’s more to ruling the north than just honor. The honor makes them respect you and the blood makes them fear disrespecting you.”

Jon thought that somewhat wise as he sat down. The idea came on him like a flash as not long after.

“Then we should use both just like Mors says.” Jon said. “We should break the Bolton camp beyond the walls.”

“By killing them?” Willem asked in shock.

“No.” He struggled to make his thoughts clear. “We’re afraid they’ll go back on us. The Ryswells and Dustins too. They’re at our mercy right now. Outsiders in the Queen’s cause who could go over to Stannis or Ramsay if the wind blew them to it.”

“Sounds like you’re making Mors’ case for him Wolf.”

He steeled himself before correcting his friend.

“I’m making the case for the newest bannermen to Queen Sansa’s army.”

The uproar his suggestion had caused took longer to quiet than the celebration of Stannis’s victory.

It took hours for them to sort out the details of what he proposed. By then nightfall had come and powerful winds blew falling snow all about the keep. Still men were summoned, oaths were sworn and lives threatened but when it was all said and done Sansa retired and soon after, he left as well.

Seeking his old chambers.

Sansa had offered to let him take his father’s but he’d pointed out he never knew Rhaegar Targaryen and wanted little of his uncle’s room. He was not such a fool to think he was worthy of them. Not like Sansa was worthy of her mother’s.

Which made her presence within his own all the more scandalous. He’d seen no sign of guards outside the door and when he found her standing by his bed he slammed the door quickly.

“Sansa you can’t be here…”

“Don’t argue with your queen.” She said before quickly putting her hands on his face and pressing her lips to his. “My true knight.”

He should have ended it but he couldn’t. He could forswear wine and live lies, climb castle walls and face certain death.

Yet resisting her kiss was something he could not do.

They had stolen moments together every day since returning to Winterfell. Sometimes just to talk or to hold each other. More often their lips found a way to meeting, their hands becoming more and more bold. Mostly brief and sweet but when they could, their mouths lingered longer and he had treasured every moment.

Each time only became better and Jon was saddened at how secretive they had to be.

_How could something so beautiful be hidden?_

_So wrong?_

Yet no matter how he felt, he knew how others would see it so when Sansa broke away to gasp for air he backed away.

Breaking a kiss was beyond him, fleeing when one was broken was within his power it seemed. 

“Sansa to come here…to come without guards is reckless!” He said, reaching out to touch her face. “Far too reckless.”

“How? You were my sworn sword long before most here.” Sansa asked, pulling his glove off his burned hand and kissing it. “Besides, if any ask, we have a good excuse.”

“That being?”

Sansa beamed up at him before running back to his bed and picking up a rolled up bit of parchment upon it.

“Arya.” She clutched the paper with both hands. “She’s on her way here from the Moat. And she sent a letter. I wanted to read it together and surely that is reason enough…”

“She travels to Winterfell?” He felt a mixture of joy and fear grasp at his heart. “How many come with her? Sansa I meant what I said about the threats in these lands if she travels too lightly…”

“Scores of men escort her!” Sansa sounded exasperated. “Jon stop worrying so! She’s coming to us!”

She flopped back on the bed like the girl of ten and five she was and began patting a spot beside her.

“Now come here and read Arya’s letter with me.”

He felt foolish for not just accepting the happiness of Arya’s journeys to them but the feeling of worry wouldn’t leave. Sitting down beside Sansa on his bed should have driven away those worries yet he still felt a sort of dread hanging over him.

It was not helped when Sansa unfurled the parchment to begin reading and her brow quickly furrowed.

“What is wrong? Foul news?” He asked.

“No…not at all…it’s just Arya’s handwriting is still so horrible.” She laughed and Jon even joined her.

Then something appeared to shift in Sansa and she handed him the letter, reaching up to wipe at her eyes. He should have seen to her but he had to read what was in his hand.

_‘Sansa,_

_I wanted to find you for so long. I am sorry for everything. I swear we won’t fight. I love you._

_Jon,_

_Please stay alive. Wait at Winterfell for me. Needle kept me safe. I love my brother._

_Sansa don’t read that part.’_

He laughed at the last part and imagined Sansa had read it as well. Yet he doubted the tears in her eyes were because of guilt.

“She sounds the same.” He said, clutching her hand. “I even read it in her voice.”

“So did I.” She smiled, glancing at the parchment again before looking confused. “What is Needle?”

Jon began to laugh when something stopped him. The worry came back to him again as the wind beat at his windows. Something felt very wrong.

“Jon! Tell me!”

“It was the name of the sword I gave her. Before you left Winterfell, I had Mikken make her one and she named it Needle…she took it to King’s Landing with her.”

“Arya didn’t have a sword…she had a dancing master but…oh!” Sansa realized quickly and laughed. “I was a silly girl then…I wouldn’t have told me either.”

Her words seemed distant to him and he stood up quickly, looking about the room as if to see an enemy within it. Yet he saw nothing.

“Jon?”

 _Something’s wrong_ , he thought, _someone’s being hurt._

“Jon what is…”

Sansa’s words were cut off by a sound filtering in through his window. Not the wind whipping by outside, one even more familiar.

The sound of Ghost’s howl.

He went quickly to grab his cloak and threw it upon his shoulders. Sansa was confused but he led her quickly down the corridors until he found some of her guardsmen. Leaving her with them he ran on, ignoring her calls.

The whole time a heavy burden weighed on him, more punishing than the cold without the Great Keep as he ran along the battlements. He ran across the snow covered steps as Ghost’s howls continued to echo off the walls.

He found the direwolf on the south part of the outer walls, facing out into the dark flurries in the distance. Men were collected about him, all looking quite confused as Ghost howled again.

Rodwell saw Jon coming and hailed him.

“The men said he came up here all of a sudden! Just started making a racket!”

“Ghost doesn’t just make a racket.” He answered back, coming to his friend’s side and peering out into the darkness. “Have your men checked the walls for ropes? For intruders?”

“I have four patrols walking up and down these parts of the walls alone, they’ve seen nothing.” Rodwell gestured to the towers down the line, all lit up and likely manned. “No one is sneaking up these walls on my…”

“Quiet!” He snapped.

Through the wind he’d heard it. For the slightest of moments it had come and from how Ghost paced right afterwards he knew it hadn’t been his imagination. He strained his ears and soon enough, it came again.

The sound of screaming.

Someone outside the walls was screaming and the wind carried it right to him.

“Listen!” He commanded of Rodwell and the others, and while they appeared doubtful all quieted and did as he said.

When the next bout of screams came Rodwell’s hand jerked to his sword and some of his men did so as well.

There was more than screaming though. Deep down he knew that. He sensed it.

_There’s blood in the air. A lot of blood._

_Someone is being killed. Or many are._

“We ride out!” He turned to run and Ghost was right behind him, knowing his mind.

“Ser!” Rodwell called as he followed. “We won’t be able to find our way five feet from the gate in this!”

“Ghost can!” He yelled back as they came to the stairs. “Us and many more!”

It took a great amount of time for Rodwell and he to get enough men ready to ride out at such a late hour. Willem had appeared and he refused to let Jon leave with any fewer than thirty men. His friend among them.

The whole time Ghost had continued howling and Jon knew the screaming continued. He knew more blood was spilled and something foul went on beyond the walls.

When the party finally rode out, each man holding a torch, and Ghost and himself leading the vanguard, they heard no more screaming. They saw little in the dark and the snows. A good many torches blew out in the journey. Without the direwolf, they never would have found their way in this darkness.

They had not been riding long before they found what Ghost had sensed.

The direwolf had led them to a slaughter.

At first, with their torches offering such weak light, it appeared there was only one body. A bloody, skinless mess of a man strapped against two logs forming an x-shaped cross.

“By the gods…” Rodwell spat as others retched.

“There’s more.” He saw as much as he felt it. “Many more.”

He held his torch out and followed as Ghost explored the massacre. The direwolf was ambling down the long line of bodies much like the first one.

All upon the crosses. All with their skins flayed.

They counted almost ten and five in all. Some looked to have been mutilated much earlier while others had more recent wounds. Their bodies were still wet with blood.

Jon was only able to name two as people he knew.

For they still had their faces while the rest of their skin was gone like the rest. A man and a woman. A pair Willem recognized as well.

“They only left this morning Wolf.” He shook his head before jerking his cloak off and throwing it over the woman’s body. “I don’t care about their mistakes…no one deserves this.”

He had nothing to say to that as he stared at the face of the woman before him. A face that, despite its obvious scorn of him, had once been quite handsome.

It could no longer be called such with the horror her body had become.

_She is not a horror, she was a lady and a strong one if I was to judge._

“She was the Lady Barbrey Dustin.” He choked out. “And we will not let her father see her as such. Nor his son.”

“Cut them down!” Rodwell called out before riding up next to him. “Ser, I don’t see their skins…not on the ground or anywhere else.”

_That’s because he takes the skins._

_The bodies are for us._ _This savagery is for us._

_And Sansa._

 

* * *

 

 

BRIENNE

“It came from the woods.”

Arya pointed towards the forest standing not far from where their group travelled along the Kingsroad. The trees ahead were bare save for some pines covered in snow.

Everything around Brienne was blanketed in snow. There wasn’t a part of these lands left untouched by the winter, the daily snows as constant as the sun rising each morning. It still rose, she was sure of that, yet she couldn’t speak as to the last time she actually saw it. Little to any sunlight escaped the canopy of grey clouds overhead.

She never thought she’d miss the Neck but two weeks of riding across this great white country made her yearn for the browns and rotted greens of the swamplands.

To think of bright, beautiful Tarth was like imagining a different world.

Nymeria’s howl came again and she was certain now from which direction it came. The first one had made her signal for their party to halt their journey. This second one made her hand go to her sword hilt.

“Brienne something is wrong.” Arya said and turned back in her saddle to look at her protector. “Nymeria’s found something…”

“I believe you’re right.” She said as she scanned the lands around them for any sign of threat. “Harren, your men should ready themselves.”

“Of course my lady.” The captain of their escort nodded as he drew his sword.

The rest of the five and twenty riders followed suit and soon their party bristled with swords, spears and bows. She was relieved to see Gendry already had his horse between Arya and the woods. The knight held his warhammer in one hand, the reins in another.

_To attack a force like ours in the light of day would be folly._

_A foe would need a great many men to challenge us, even more to be sure of victory._

There was no sign of such a force close by and she saw nothing among the trees to indicate an ambush.

Yet when the wolf howled again Brienne decided to trust Nymeria over her own eyes.

“A scout would be a good idea Harren.” She said. “A few men to discover what troubles Nymeria so.”

“Aye, I’d say it be a smart move but even if there’s nothing out there I might lose some men. That wolf is not good with my lads and she does not sound happy...”

Brienne saw the truth in that. Harren was not a fearful man but by her count Nymeria had snapped her teeth at the crannogman no less than three times during their journey. Many among his men could attest to the same treatment and all were wary of the beast.

Arya scowled at that.

“We need to go to her.” The girl said fiercely. “She could be in trouble!”

_She’s as protective of that beast as it is of her._

“Arya, we will not abandon Nymeria.” She chided her charge before turning back to Harren. “You’re right, your men would not be welcomed by the wolf but there are some Nymeria tolerates more than others. Myself, Podrick and Ser Gendry. So perhaps one of us can join the scout and...”

The wolf howled again and before she could finish Arya had cursed and snapped her reins. The girl dug her feet into the sides of her horse and shot forward, riding straight towards the forest.

“Arya! Stop now!” Brienne yelled as the girl rushed headlong into danger.

She was after her but a moment later, her boots punishing her mount in the process. Shouts went up from the others and she turned back to see Gendry, Podrick and the others all giving chase as well.

Gendry was barely clinging to his saddle as his horse pounded through the snow to join her as the closest to Arya.

“Dammit Arya stop!” Gendry roared, his voice ringing with a mix of fear and anger.

 _We’ll never catch her_ , she realized, _you made sure of that._

Before they’d ever left Moat Cailin Brienne had arranged it so that Arya was given the fastest and most able horse of the lot. Should the princess have to flee from any danger she’d wanted her to have the best chance of doing so. Now Brienne was left helpless, watching as her charge used that very horse to fly away from them towards the trees.

She cursed how quickly the horse galloped through the snow and how rapidly the distance between Arya and her grew.

_She is too far ahead, too open, if there are arrows…_

“Warrior protect her please.” She said through gritted teeth. “My life for hers, always.”

Arya had reached the forest and for a moment she lost sight of the girl amongst the leafless trees. When Gendry and she reached the forest they looked about in a panic for the missing princess.

“There!” Gendry yelled before snapping his reins and taking off again.

Brienne followed his gaze and saw the shape of Arya ahead of her and willed her horse to be faster, more sure of foot. She could not let the girl come to harm, not when she was so close to having her home.

 _My life for hers,_ she swore _, always mine for hers._

They rode for a little while longer before Arya finally slowed her horse and they were able to close with her.

The forest fell away before them, opening up into a small clearing, which Arya was ambling her horse straight through towards the other side. Brienne kept her horse at a gallop as she followed Arya’s path, a journey the girl appeared to be ending.

For she’d found what she’d been seeking.

Arya was climbing down from her horse as Nymeria leapt through the snow to join her side. The wolf looked unharmed yet was acting strangely nonetheless. Both the wolf and princess stopped to gaze at a cluster of fallen trees just ahead of them.

A glance behind her showed the others had reached the clearing as well, Harren, Marlen and Podrick at the lead.

“Harren! Around the right!” Brienne shouted back. “Marlen the left! Podrick to me!”

If there was danger about she’d flush it out quickly and be by Arya’s side when it happened.

“Arya!” She shouted. “Arya how could you be so foolish? Come here at…”

Her command was lost in her throat as she saw what Arya and Nymeria were gazing at.

Among the fallen trees sat a group of men, packed so tightly she struggled to count their number. In the end she saw there were seven of them and all in a poor way. Three were clearly dead, their skin white and frost collected about their faces. The other four looked little better and she thought them close to death as well. They were huddled about what looked to be a pile of sticks and logs. She suspected it to be a poorly made attempt at a fire. 

She was spared guessing as to whether these men were friends or foes by the clothing they wore. Borne clear upon their tunics was a sigil she’d come to know well.

Blue towers upon a grey field.

_Freys._

“Arya back away from them.” She said as she brought her horse to a halt.

“They are Freys, Brienne.” Arya said without looking back to her. “Real ones this time.”

The girl’s sword was out and her gaze upon the men unwavering. Brienne dismounted and moved to stand between her and the traitors. As she did so Nymeria growled causing her to pause mid step.

Yet it appeared the growl was not meant for her, the wolf did so again as it advanced upon the Freys.

“Arya keep her back.” She commanded as Gendry came beside her.

Podrick and some of the crannogmen were gathered about them as well. Some of the escort had their bows at the ready and were already aiming at the men Nymeria threatened.

A sound came from the Freys then.

The largest of the four men was trying to speak. He had a square face and jutting jaw and the cold had left his nose and ears dark from frostbite. Despite his condition Brienne recognized him from her time at Riverrun yet couldn’t put a name to his face.

All she knew of him was he was a knight and kin to Walder Frey. He had been larger at Riverrun, brawny and fearsome. Now it appeared the winter had robbed him of much of his muscle, the man’s strength wasting away before her eyes.

He struggled to speak again and this time Brienne caught his words.

“Fire…fire please…” He kept repeating it, beseeching her with his Frey eyes. “We need fire…”

“Who are you Frey?” She demanded.

“Ser Hosteen Frey.” He rasped at her. “I would have you rewarded…a fire please…the cold...”

The other men about him began begging for the same. All wanting fire, all seeking a relief from the cold around them.

“He’s the one…the one who led the army here.” Arya said softly. “The army that went to Winterfell.”

The wolf growled again at Arya’s words and Brienne searched her memory for what the Blackfish had told them of the Freys sent north. Soon enough she realized Arya half right, Ser Hosteen was one of the two Freys who led an army to bolster Roose Bolton’s hold over the North.

Yet she knew him guilty of a far worse charge.

“You were present at the Red Wedding Ser.” She said remembering what else the Blackish had told her. “You aided the murder of Lady Stark and the King in the North.”

Nymeria’s growled then and snapped viciously at her words and she saw Arya’s expression darken.

“Vengeance…Stark had no honor…” The man almost smiled but his shivering prevented it. “He has no head now…”

“No!” Arya yelled as she lunged towards the knight.

Brienne moved to grab her when Nymeria blocked her path and snapped at her. The bite was nowhere close to wounding her but instinctively Brienne pulled her arm back and could only watch as Arya came upon Hosteen.

The girl stood over him and pointed her sword at the man’s chest.

“You helped kill my mother and brother…” She spoke quietly but Brienne felt the rage. “You murdered them.”

“Your mother?” Hosteen looked from Arya to the wolf before his eyes widened some. “No…the others were dead…you can’t be…”

“Oh I’m a Stark alright. My sister was the Stark who saw your father killed.” Arya held her chin high in pride. “I’m the Stark who will see you dead for what you’ve done.”

Rather than scaring Hosteen it emboldened him.

“No fire…kill us…yes kill us…the cold…do it bitch…”

“Arya we can take them prisoner, we can take them to your sister.” Gendry spoke up, coming to stand by her side.

Nymeria eyed Gendry warily but made no move to stop him. Nor Podrick who came on as well.

“It doesn’t feel good to kill princess…I mean Arya.” Podrick stammered. “It never feels good.”

“Let your sister deal with them.” Gendry continued. “There’s no need for you to be a hang…”

“No.” Arya cut him off, shaking her head. “No…Sansa has done enough.”

She turned and waved to two of the crannogmen who had ridden through the trees.

“Take the Frey’s swords. Take their weapons.” She said before reaching out to Podrick. “Leave them nothing sharp.”

This tone was not one Brienne remembered hearing Arya ever use. It reminded her of Lady Catelyn’s voice when she’d commanded her to help free the Kingslayer.

Podrick and the others did as they were bid, roughly stripping each Frey of any blade or weapon they had on their persons. The crannogmen even searched the corpses. Hosteen made to hold onto a dagger but his fingers must have been frostbitten because he fumbled horribly and got a fist to the jaw for his troubles.

 _Please let her take them prisoner,_ she hoped _, she can’t think of doing this herself._

_For one so young to put so much blood on her sword…on her conscience…_

The thought chilled her more than the cold about them. Brienne was about to speak out when Arya walked quickly towards the Frey’s unlit fire. She kicked at it until all the wood was scattered about in the snow. The Freys groaned in anguish as Arya returned to her horse and looked down upon the men.

“What are the Stark words Frey?”

“Please…a fire…take us…” The man rasped and the others begged much the same.

“Kill us please.”

“Prisoners…we can be prisoners…”

“Mercy please…mercy…”

Arya shook her head and pressed on.

“The Stark words. Tell me our words and you’ll have mercy.”

“Winter…winter is coming.” One groaned as he fell forward, his hand reaching towards Arya.

Arya looked down upon him for a moment before closing her eyes and furrowing her brow. Suddenly Nymeria leapt forward at the Frey who’d answered. His throat was torn out in a bloody mist before Brienne could even cry out in alarm.

“That was my gift to him.” Arya’s eyes were open again as spat down at his corpse. “Winter has come Freys and it will do for the rest you.”

She then wheeled her horse and began to ride back the way they came.

“No please! Mercy!” The men were shouting. “Mercy!”

Brienne knew this to be anything but chivalrous. She could only imagine how brutal a death in such conditions could be for it was doubtless they would die .

There was a chance that it might not be too brutal of a death. They might succumb to the cold, fall asleep and never wake. Or they might freeze, slowly, feeling each limb drop off from frostbite. A storm could pick up, the harsh winds whipping at their faces. Wolves might come in the night. It could be a terrible death for them.

 _They killed Lady Catelyn,_ she reminded herself, _they_ _murdered her in cold blood._

With that she turned and climbed upon her horse, Gendry and the others following suit.

All except Podrick.

The squire stood staring at the begging men, a troubled expression on his face. His hand was at the dagger at his side and seemed ready to pull it. Before he did so he glanced back to Arya, who had stopped her horse at the edge of the clearing.

The girl was staring right back at Podrick, her face almost a mirror of the squire’s.

Their silent exchange went on for a few moments more before Podrick lowered his gaze and let his hand fall away from the dagger. Then he too turned his back to the condemned men.

After gaining his horse Pod kept his head lowered and rode away without a single look back. She too urged her horse on and began to ride next him with Gendry drawing up behind her.

“Podrick.” She tried to reach out to the squire. “You are doing as you are tasked to…”

The squire, to her surprise, ignored her and rode on by. Perhaps urged on by the sounds coming from the clearing.

The cries of the doomed men gradually faded as they made their way back to the road. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of horses and the wind. Not one man in the entire company said a word except to calm their horses as the direwolf prowled beside Arya.

Arya and she rode beside one another with Gendry just a bit behind them. Podrick stayed much further ahead.

She wanted to say something to put Arya at ease but nothing came to mind. She feared of saying the wrong thing. The girl was clearly upset and when their eyes met briefly Arya looked at her with the eyes she’d had the night of the storm.

Brienne’s heart had broken for her that night. To hear Arya screaming and crying so in her sleep had been a shock, a far cry from the stubborn, determined princess she knew. She had never expected to hear such from her.

Brienne was reminded of a small girl she once knew years ago on Tarth. A child who also cried in her sleep, a girl longing for a mother to hold her. For a woman to come and ward away the cruel words others spoke.

She could not stop herself from comforting Arya that night, no matter how improper it was. She’d held the girl to her like she thought Lady Catelyn would have.

Like Brienne had always wanted to be held when she would weep as a child.

Yet Arya clearly needed something different from her now.

“Was I wrong?” Arya broke into her thoughts. “Leaving the Freys there…should I have just used Needle…”

“I think you left the Freys to a fate they already faced before we found them. A fate they chose themselves when they came to the North. One sealed when they murdered your mother and brother.”

She spoke the truth or at least her belief of what that was. She could never believe Lady Catelyn would have wanted Arya to kill those men herself. To have her death avenged at the cost of her daughter’s innocence. 

Her lady had never been so bloodthirsty.

Arya looked unconvinced, the girl biting at her lower lip and fiddling with the reins in her hand.

“You acted like your mother would’ve preferred.” Brienne continued. “She loved her children dearly and I think she would have done the same for those who killed her son. I see so much of her in you...”

“I look like father. Everyone always said so.” Arya whispered. “Sansa looked like mother. It was her mother was proud of. I never did anything as good as Sansa…my mother always said my hair was dreadful to brush…”

“She loved you dearly child. Never doubt that. She loved her daughters differently but no more than the other. I swear.”

Arya trembled some at those words, saying nothing for a time. When she did it was not to speak of Lady Catelyn.

“Do the others think me evil?” The girl looked back at Gendry and then ahead to Pod who were out of hearing.

“I don’t believe so.” She answered. “You’re many things Arya Stark but evil is not one of them.”

“Gendry is still mad at me for the fight.”

Brienne knew the young knight had been more distant with Arya since that fight. He rarely spoke to her unless spoken to first and even then it was no more than good courtesy.

“You wounded his pride when you claimed to defend him in front of the others. Men are prickly with such.” She leaned in to add the next part. “But he was right behind you after you rode from us and beside you as quickly as I in the clearing. I think he remains your friend no matter how hurt his pride is. Podrick will…”

“Pod will be okay… he’s always okay.” Arya shook her head. “Gendry’s the stubborn one.”

The girl said no more to that, instead she reached down to her saddle and unstrapped the bow tied there. She ran her fingers down the string just as Marlen had taught her to. Korjen had gifted the bow to Arya just prior to their departure from the Moat. It was a fine bow as far as Brienne could tell. It was smaller than most bows, like the kind the crannogmen used.

Their stay at the Moat had been short as the raven from Winterfell arrived the day after the fight. Korjen had used the news of Queen Sansa’s victory to ease the foul mood the fight had put on his camp. He arranged for a small tourney of sorts to be held where the castle defenders took part in contests while hot food and wine was served to all.

“A finer tourney the Moat has not seen in hundreds of years.” Korjen had proclaimed and even Arya had laughed at that. 

After Marlen and some others had shown their archery skills the archer had called out to Arya.

“I would boast of my skills as a teacher!” The young man had said before having Arya fire some arrows at a target.

None hit the center mark but they were good shots for one as new to the bow as she. The men had clapped and cheered with each shot. When the crannogmen introduced them to a game where men tested strength with the throwing of a large log Gendry had earned loud cheers when he’d tossed his the furthest. Another had eventually beaten him, but still, the blacksmith knight had smiled for the first time since the previous day.

It was among the watching crowd that Brienne had spied three badly beaten men drinking their wine sullenly. They were the ones from the fight and she had asked Korjen of it.

“Them bruises? Not my doing.” He had gestured to the assembled crowd. “These men are loyal to their lord and their queen. She is much loved here. Those three gave her cause to think badly of us so the men saw to them.”

As they stopped to make camp for the evening Brienne wondered how many of those men were among her party now.

_Would they look kindly upon the justice Arya enacted today?_

_Would they have expected worse?_

The crannogmen chose a group of pines beside the road as their campsite for the night. Horse lines were set up, sentries sent out to guard the perimeter and meals were cooking by the time night fell around them.

Nymeria appeared to be in good spirits, the wolf not only joined them at camp but curled up next to Arya as a group of them sat about a fire. As Brienne took a seat beside her charge she took a quick glance at the other groups gathered around fires like their own and towards the tents before leaning towards Gendry.

“Has Podrick retired for the night?” She asked quietly as Arya talked with Marlen. “He is usually not so eager…”

“He didn’t take well to what happened today.” Gendry whispered back before shaking his head. “Said he wasn’t hungry either. I’ll go and check on him in a bit but I think he just needs some time.”

_Perhaps I should go speak with him as well._

_He has a good heart and should know there’s no shame in being troubled about today._

She had resolved to excuse herself to seek out the youth when the wind shifted and blew some sparks towards Nymeria. The beast was up in a flash and snarling towards Marlen at the other side of the fire.

“Whoa easy there!” He held up his hands. “Princess, could you…”

“It’s okay Nymeria it was just the wind.”

Arya reached out to soothe the wolf when it took a step away and snarled again. Brienne saw the hair on Nymeria’s back standing straight up and noticed how the wolf had shifted her gaze away from Marlen to the land beyond their tents.

The clouds above blocked the stars this night so, aside from the areas around their fires, the world was largely in darkness. When the wolf snarled again and left the circle heading in the direction of the road Brienne rose to her feet, suddenly feeling very uneasy.

For out of the darkness she saw two cloaked figures approaching.

“It’s just Rey and Teryk.” Marlen said as he stood up as well. “I know Rey’s moth eaten cloak anywhere. They’re supposed to be watching the road…”

Nymeria growled and snapped all the more, rushing forward a few steps as if to challenge the coming of the two sentries. The pair stopped then, their hoods turning towards each other as if sharing a glance but making no further attempts at approach.

“Nymeria come here!” Arya began to follow after the wolf when Brienne grabbed the girl and held her back.

“Why are they not watching the road then?” She asked, putting her hand on Oathkeeper and walking forward herself. “Who goes there! Show yourselves!”

At her shout, others in the camp took notice of what was going on, turning to the face the newcomers or gaining their feet as well. The two figures gave no answer and made no effort to come any closer.

_Why not just answer? Why leave their posts?_

Suddenly she spotted movement from beneath the pairs cloaks.

And then the crossbows were being raised up and pointed at her.

“Arya down!” She screamed throwing herself backwards and tackling the girl to the ground.

Behind them a bolt slammed into the trunk of a pine and elsewhere someone cried out in pain. Then a horn blew somewhere in the night.

Somewhere very close.

“Ambush!” Marlen yelled as many others began shouting as well.

As she lifted her head she saw a great number of shadowy figures rushing forth from the night. All armed and howling like hounds as they descended upon the camp.

Behind that lot came a score of riders, charging through the snow towards them.

Nymeria was the first into the fray, the direwolf attacking the two mummer’s sentries as they tried to reload their crossbows. The crannog archers were faster still, Marlen and many others began losing arrows before their enemy even entered the camp.

Some of their foe fell but more charged on and Brienne pulled Arya behind her as she drew Oathkeeper.

“Gendry! Marlen! Protect Arya!”

The words were barely out of her mouth before a large bearded man came at her with an axe. She went forward to keep the fight as far from Arya as possible. The axe swing went wide and Brienne stabbed her attacker through his side before throwing him away to meet a coming spearman. She parried his stab and drove an elbow into the man’s nose.

“To the right!” Marlen yelled as he loosed at a group of three trying to swing around them.

One fell with an arrow through his throat while the other two came on, causing Marlen to drop his bow and pull his short sword. Gendry had no weapon on him but if his attacker expected the knight to cower away, he would be unpleasantly surprised and that was to the knight’s advantage. As the man ran at Gendry with his sword raised, the knight lunged forward, tackling the man about the middle and driving him hard onto the ground.

She tried to see where Arya was but the spearman had recovered and a mounted man now rode towards her.

 _The rider_ , she decided, _he is the bigger threat._

Brienne fell back from the spear’s stabs and swung Oathkeeper up to meet the downward cut of the rider’s blade. He overshot her and was bringing his mount around to press the attack when the spearman screamed.  
  
He staggered as Arya stabbed at him again with Needle, skewering him through the neck this time.

“Arya run!” She yelled as the rider came forth again.

This time he looked ready to ride her down so she dropped Oathkeeper in a hurry, rushing to grab up the dead man’s spear. She waited until the horse was almost on top of her to sidestep it and drive the spear up into the rider’s chest.

Her step was a fraction too late and the beast collided with her in such a way that she was sent sprawling backwards onto the ground. She could taste blood in her mouth and her ribs screamed in pain. Snow was packed about her face and as she flung it aside more of the battle was laid out before her.

Had Nymeria not warned them it would have likely been a slaughter. As it stood now, the precious few moments they’d had to prepare had allowed for the crannogmen to mount a startling defense. Groups of spearmen defended archers who were extracting a deadly toll on their attackers. Many men of the ambush had fallen but their side was taking losses as well.

She thought she saw some being hauled off into the darkness. Then Harren had his throat slit before her very eyes as a couple of their tents went up in flames. Harren’s killer backed away and Brienne saw something painted upon his shield. A sigil she had seen for herself at Harrenhal.

Representing a house as foul as the one they’d encountered earlier that day.

_The flayed man of the Dreadfort. Of House Bolton._

Gendry was doing his best to fend off an attacker with a sword he’d gained at some point, his foe doing all he could to smash the knight in with a mace. Marlen fought back to back with Gendry against an opponent of his own.

Brienne wanted to help them but she sought Arya first. Her frantic glances across the camp finally finding the girl.

Arya was running towards her. Yet not as she should be, for fear clouded the girl’s features.

Behind her Brienne saw the reason why.

For a rider was bearing down on her.

“Arya!” She choked out a scream while climbing to her feet.

The Bolton man was swinging a rope about his head and Arya was moving much too slow to escape him. Brienne moving even slower in her attempts to reach the girl.

_My life for hers. Please my life for hers._

As the man loosed his rope at Arya the world began to fall apart around her. Her feet became heavy and all the strength left her as the rope flew towards her charge. Arya’s eyes on hers, wide with fear and hand outstretched.

Then Arya was flying sideways, crying out in alarm.

For someone else had run straight into her, throwing the girl aside.

Putting himself in the rope’s path instead.

Brienne saw his face as the rope wrapped itself around his legs, causing him to stumble and fall. When the horse rode on the rope became taut and his legs were jerked about as he was dragged along behind it.

His face twisted in pain and terror as he was pulled along.

“Podrick!” She screamed, running to him. “Podrick my hand!”

The horse was dragging Podrick near to her so she ran to meet his coming, fumbling at her side for a dagger to cut the rope with. His body was bouncing horribly upon the ground as the rider kicked at his mount, clearly meaning to flee with the boy.

_They can’t have him. He came with me. He joined my quest._

Brienne was but steps away, certain she could get to him. Ready to leap forward and cut the rope and rescue the squire.

Until her foot fell upon a stone hidden beneath the snow and her leg gave way.

She pitched forward, arms outstretched but not to protect herself. Even as she fell she reached to save Podrick. Her one hand came so close their fingers touched. He was in her grasp for the shortest of moments and her hope refused to let her accept what was to come.

Yet it came anyway.

His hand was jerked away and she hit the ground, their eyes meeting as she did so.

“Ser!” Podrick cried out as he was dragged onwards. “I can’t…”

The rest of his words were lost as he was dragged through deeper snows, the rider continuing on into the night. His cries of pain and fear ringing clear through the battle around them.

Arya ran by her then, chasing after Podrick and stumbling through the snow in her attempts to catch him. Brienne was up and doing the same soon after.

“Pod! Leave him be! Leave him be!” Arya yelled as the horse and boy disappeared into the darkness. “Mercy! Mercy please!”

Her longer gait and the girl’s frequent tumbles closed the gap between them. When Arya fell for what seemed like the hundredth time Brienne finally caught her, wrapping the girl in her arms. Everything in her told her to keep running. To chase down Podrick and bring him back.

Yet behind them the attackers were beginning to flee themselves. Returning back into the night from which they came. It was likely if Arya kept on as she did the girl could be captured as well.

_I can’t lose her, not her too._

“Brienne let go!” Arya struggled and fought with her. “We have to help him! He’s right there!”

From the darkness Podrick’s shouts grew more distant. Her grip on Arya tightened all the more.

“I know! I know!” She said as the tears fell down her cheeks. “Not you though. Not you too.”

“It was supposed to be me.” The girl sobbed, pushed and pulled all the harder. “It was supposed to be me…”

_No it wasn’t. It was supposed to be me._

_My life for yours._

_Not his._

As Brienne held Arya in her arms, Gendry joined them. The three all together, all peering out into the night, searching for their fourth.

Yet she saw nothing but darkness.

And heard nothing except the howling of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good song to listen to after, it got me through it.
> 
> Emily Barker and The Red Clay Halo - Pause


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In winter all roads lead to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just reminder that great thanks go out to A_Cold_Wind_Blows for beta'ing this for me.

 

**JON**

 

The army marching towards the castle was in tatters. Barely a horse to be seen and many of the men wore mismatched rags.

_The march was not kind to them._

“I’d have thought he’d have more men.” Kyle’s words were met with a chorus of the agreement from the audience above the gate.

“Stannis lost almost all his strength at the Blackwater, most of this army is northmen.” He said, taking notice of the Mormont bear flying amongst the marchers as well as the mailed fist of House Glover and the banners of the mountain clans Flint, Liddle and Wull.

“These are the Queen’s men.”

_And their days of marching for Stannis almost at an end._

Maege had learned as much from her time travelling with the Baratheon host. The lady had been reunited with her daughter and informed them that there was no question who the Mormonts and the other northmen would follow. Sansa had already arranged for meetings with all the clan headsmen later in the day, heeding Jon’s words to attend each man personally to show them the respect they may not expect of her. She would praise the men’s valor and strength, thank them for their service and mark them as forever remembered by House Stark.

_The daughter should do as the father did. I doubt any have been feasted by such a queen._

_A great thing to boast of for men who follow the old ways._

Considering Sansa followed the old ways and worshipped the same gods as the clans he believed it gave her a distinct advantage over Stannis. To follow Stannis was to endure the man’s red god and priestess.

_And it would be a difficult thing to suffer Melisandre._

_To her our gods are false, our lives forfeit to her flames._

It was a relief to learn Melisandre was not out there among the lines of men. Apparently she’d remained at the Wall when Stannis left to march on Deepwood Motte.

Once again, word of such happenings had come from Maege and not the king himself.

The letter Stannis had sent Sansa had been curt and without warmth. The man wrote of how he would have himself on the Iron Throne, which was his by rights, and that the Lady of Winterfell would treat him and his men with the respect they were due.

Sansa’s reply had been even cooler. She bid Lord Stannis to march to her walls and camp there in safety. Nothing was said of his rights or what respect Sansa thought he was due. He wondered if the man would expect rooms of his own within Winterfell or he’d be content to camp with his army against the walls.

 _Room enough for it now_ , he thought, _what with Lord Rodrik gone._

Tents were being raised in much the same place as the Bolton camp had been. A camp he’d set to emptying himself, and not by the sword.

The idea had spawned from a simple thought.

_If all the northmen here can be united we would have the strength to unite the North itself against any foe._

How the others had reacted had made him feel quite simple himself.

“You’d have the Bolton army march on Torrhen’s Square for us?” Sansa had gaped at him. “You’d arm them and let them take the field?”

“Madness!” Ser Morton Waynwood had exclaimed. “They are hungry and at our mercy, as they should be…”

“And few northmen could endure such treatment for long! Even Boltons.” He answered. “Keeping them in conditions like we do will only deepen what ill will they hold towards the queen…”

“Many already fear their homes and lands lost to them.” Howland put forward. “We have told our prisoners of the siege at the Dreadfort, to rob them of any idea of respite in the east. Even now, there are rumors moving among the camp that once the castle falls Bronze Yohn and the Greatjon will set to rampaging across the Bolton lands, burning homes and dividing the territory up between them.”

Sansa had been offended at hearing such and he suspected she was just as upset about not being told earlier.

“They will do nothing of the sort. I may have stripped House Bolton of its titles but I intend to raise up a lord sometime in the future to oversee and protect those lands.”

“Let us give them more than a lord.” Jon had gestured to Sansa. “More than a protector. We would give them a Queen. We would give them hope.”

“Hope?” Mors had chuckled but Sansa looked intrigued.

“Yes, hope.” Sansa beamed at the word. “Fight for the Queen in the North and earn back your honor. Fight for her and your lives, your lands, and your homes are safe. Give them something to fight for other than vengeance.”

“You would offer them a place in the Kingdom of the North.” Howland nodded then. “It would also remove them from possibly going over to Stannis when he arrives…”

“The Ryswells.” Sansa had said suddenly, her eyes bright and alive with possibility. “Not just the Boltons, the Ryswells as well, perhaps even the Dustin men. If Lord Rodrik wishes to prove his fealty to me, let him do so by leading his men and the forces of his daughter against the ironmen.”

“We hold his children hostage.” Mors had smiled widely. “Rodrik is not such a fool to risk them by betraying you… and his lands are threatened by the squids as well. By the gods…this could work!”

“Our strength remains here, our enemies drain each other. It was Roose’s idea.” Howland made a face at that but pressed on. “With the men we propose to send, and the Tallhart levies strengthening them, there might be enough to free Torrhen’s Square of the ironmen completely.”

The Tallhart captains they sent for later certainly thought that it was possible. They even began pointing out strategies that could be used and weaknesses in their home before Sansa invited them to propose such to the army’s commander.

The night of the meeting Lord Rodrik had appeared almost eager to undertake such a task. An undertaking which gave him an army and a chance for glory. Perhaps one day, even a place for him and his sons at Sansa’s side.

The next morning, after he’d learned of the murder of his two children, things had changed drastically. Sansa had been sick to hear of what had been done to the Ryswells, most of the castle enraged, but their father had suffered worst of all.

In one short night the Lord of the Rills, who was already an old man, had aged horribly in his grief. He had already lost one son in battle for Winterfell, but to then lose another son so quickly along with his last daughter in such a grisly way robbed the man of all his vigor.

The next time he came before Sansa he had to be supported by his one remaining child, the poor lord clutching Roger’s shoulder desperately. While he’d still planned on marching the rest of them had doubted whether the man was well enough to lead such an attack.

With Lord Rodrik drowning in grief, and House Dustin without a lord following Barbrey’s death, it was clear Sansa needed a capable and devoted man to fill the void. Howland, Mors and Jon had all volunteered to do so but Sansa rejected all of them in favor of a different option altogether.

One she announced at the South Gate courtyard before the assembled lords and knights, in front of dear friends and former foes.

“House Stout served the Dustins and House Stark loyally for thousands of years and few men have done as much for me personally, as Ronnel Stout.” Sansa had called out. “I hereby bequeath upon him the title, Lord of Barrow Hall and the lands of House Dustin. Let henceforth all those who swore fealty to House Dustin do the same for House Stout of Barrowton.”

Ronnel had knelt before her as Howland had unveiled a banner that showed the Dustins’ two rusted and crossed long axes with the black crown between but instead of backed by yellow, behind them was the chevronny russet and gold of House Stout.

It had been a good way to see the army off, the new Lord Ronnel riding beside Lord Rodrik as the two set off to rid the North of the ironmen.

Their departure had been an event steeped in hope and promise.

Stannis’s arrival felt like the opposite.

“He comes.” Rodwell pointed towards the middle of the army marching beneath the walls.

A small group of riders had separated themselves from the column. Flying above them was a banner showing a crowned stag’s head within a flaming heart. They were making towards the gate when Jon turned to leave.

“Rodwell, it’s time. Ser, I’ll be with the Queen.” He excused himself as Ser Kyle stayed, keeping close watch on the army below.

“You sure you’d rather I be on the stairs?” Rodwell asked as they walked the battlements. “If Stannis is worthy of these precautions, I’d rather be beside you…”

“The stairs are the best place for you to keep watch and command any action.” He pointed to the direwolf awaiting his coming in the courtyard below. “Ghost is protection enough for me. You see to the castle.”

With that Jon began his descent down the stairs towards the gate courtyard, his eyes taking in the defenses around him. He hoped the sheer number of men on their walls and moving through the courtyard displayed Sansa’s strength.

Soon enough, the man this spectacle had been arranged for rode though the gate and into the courtyard. Stannis looked much as Jon remembered him. Perhaps a bit thinner than he had been but the king still appeared to be a strong man. Broad shouldered and tall as he was, his trials were still borne plainly upon his face, his cheeks and eyes sunken just a bit. His clothing was clean yet faded and worn. His armor was dented and scratched from use but gleamed from recent cleaning.

That Jon did not like.

_He wears armor to speak with Sansa, the man shows little courtesy._

Jon endeavored to show more.

“King Stannis!” He hailed as he came before Stannis’s party, bowing when they took notice of him. “I welcome you to Winterfell!”

His eyes quickly swept over the party and he recognized some as men from Dragonstone but most were strangers. They did not regard him warmly, taking after their king in that regard.

“Jon Snow. I’d heard you survived the Blackwater. I had not expected you to be the one to greet me though.”

There was no warmth in the man’s voice but he did nod slightly as he climbed from his horse. From Stannis Baratheon that could be as touching as an embrace.

“That would be Ser Jon.” Howland called out from behind him. “A knight in the Queen’s service.”

The lord walked towards them in step with Lady Maege, Ser Willem, Mors Umber, Ser Symond and Ser Morton. It made for a strong delegation but if Stannis was pleased he did not show it.

His men acted little better, one actually let out a bark of laughter. He was a large man and Jon remembered him as a knight named Godry.

“Ser Jon? Did your sister’s Lord Imp husband give you your spurs, Snow?” The knight asked and some amongst Stannis’s party chuckled.

“Ser Jon was knighted by Lord Bronze Yohn Royce.” Ser Symond came alongside him and looked sharply upon Godry. “A great man and hard to impress so I’d see those he knighted given the respect they deserve Ser…?”

Jon was surprised, Ser Symond and he were cordial enough but he wouldn’t claim the Knight of Ninestars a close friend. He resolved to change that from now on if he could.

Godry was not as touched by Symond’s words as he, the knight waving them away before puffing up to declare his own title.

“Ser Godry Farring, called Godry the Giantslayer.”

Willem and Mors laughed at that.

“Giantslayer? Was someone else already called the Grumpkintickler?” Willem tickled the air with his hands in a way that made Mors howl.

_This is going poorly._

“You dare...”

“Silence.” Stannis said curtly, his tone firm and his face grave.

Jon marveled that even Sansa’s men did as Stannis demanded. It had to be said, the man could command like a king.

_But can he listen?_

“Where is the Lady of Winterfell? It would be good courtesy to meet me at her gates, would it not?”

“The queen awaits you in the Great Keep. A meal awaits you and your men.” Howland stepped aside and gestured towards the keep. “If you would follow us.”

As the group went on, Jon saw the men of the castle guard watching them closely. It was Rodwell’s doing and Jon felt Sansa had chosen well naming him the new captain of the guards. Jon waved to him to signal all was well for the moment.

“It is good you survived the battle ser, I thought you lost.” Someone spoke to Jon’s side.

“Ser Richard!”

How he had missed the pockmarked knight he’d known from Dragonstone’s training yards was beyond. Richard Horpe was an able warrior and had once spoken up for him when there were few to do so.

“It’s good to see you survived as well ser.” He reached out to offer the knight his hand but Richard just stared ahead as they walked, the gesture either going unnoticed or being ignored. “And that you were able to continue fighting, I believe the king fortunate to have a sworn sword such as you.”

“Stannis has more need for swords than good fortune.”

Jon had thought more would be said but Ser Richard was quiet after that. It was an odd exchange and the silence heavy between them, yet it fit in well with how the rest of the group was acting. Few words were shared and less good will. Stannis led by example, his walk brisk, mouth set in a firm line and chin held high.

_He has the manner of a king down well enough, he does project strength._

When they arrived at the room where Sansa awaited them he found her projecting something quite different.

Her hair was styled into one long braid which fell over her shoulder and down across her chest. Her bronze crown sat prominently upon her brow, glimmering some in the torchlight. The gown was grey but with white playing about it’s edges and a silver direwolf broach pinned to her chest.

_She looks as fierce as she does regal._

Lady Myranda stood by her with a look more sultry than graceful yet he knew that was how the woman preferred to be seen. To him it made Sansa stand out all the more.

 _They probably planned that_ , he thought, _if_   _Stannis has any sense he'll not underestimate those two._

“Welcome to my home good men, I know you are weary from your battles and travels. Please sit and we shall have the food served.”

Sansa gestured for all those entering to make use of the chairs. He took notice then that none save Jon had referred to Stannis as king. Stannis seemed to take note of Jon’s place at Sansa’s side.

His jaw clenched.

“I did not come for a dinner party. I came to see if you are your father’s daughter or your husband’s wife.”

The man offered Sansa a hard, unyielding glare and while Jon could see this unnerved her slightly she did not so much as flinch.

“If you speak of my marriage to Tyrion Lannister, it has been set aside. I was forced into it and the marriage itself never consummated.”

Godry made a sound of disbelief and it was his turn now to glare at someone.

_He may be trouble and if he aims to continue as he does, it’ll be me he’ll face._

The knight caught his eyes and sneered back.

“So you are Lady Stark and not Lady Lannister.” Stannis said. “Either way I would have you do as your lord father knew to be right. I had no love for the man nor him for me but Eddard Stark was honorable and loyal. He knew who his king was.”

“I know well who my lord father was. I also know who my king was. My brother, Robb Stark. King in the North.” Sansa looked about the table at her council. “Made king by his bannermen who named me their queen. The North wishes my brother’s legacy honored and his death avenged.”

“Your brother was a usurper and traitor. He reached too high and fell for it. You would do well to remember that child.”

Those words reminded Jon why he had no warm regards for this man. The implicit threat towards Sansa made his sword hand flex on the table.

“You would do well to open your eyes and see yourself in the North, during winter and surrounded by northmen. Sitting before their queen who has seen her enemies crumble before her.” Maege spoke fiercely and Mors pounded the table and cheered.

“North, south, a child’s table, it matters not. I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and destined to see it returned to me. If you mean to stand against me in that speak so now.”

Jon saw some of the others almost ready to do so when Sansa spoke up.

“You speak of your rights your grace. Yet your throne became a Baratheon one through conquest, not through rights. My brother won his crown through conquest and I will see mine done in the same manner.” Sansa reached up to touch the bronze circlet lightly, as if to remind Stannis it was there. “My father would have seen you king and I would do the same. And after that is done and you wish to try and make the North yours again I would invite you to speak to the Boltons and Freys on such.”

“Speak plainly. I am not one for women’s prattling.”

“I will see my kingdom set to rights but I cannot forget the crimes committed by the Lannisters on the Iron Throne. I recognize you as King Stannis Baratheon, King in the South. I offer you the friendship of the North and alliance against the Lannisters. I have the power of the Vale at my back, a land that seeks a king who would rule justly and set the realm to rights.”

“There is no such title as King in the South. I am king of all the seven kingdoms and will accept no less…”

“Pray excuse me your grace, but you have already accepted less.” Jon jumped in, surprising many by doing so. “When the Lannisters seized the throne and murdered Eddard Stark you were at Dragonstone and did not act. Then you sailed to besiege Storm’s End and not King’s Landing where your throne was.”

“Renly was a pretender who had stolen my bannermen. It had to be done to see me to the throne.”

“This is what must be done to regain your throne.” He heard Sansa hiss something to him but he pressed on, this needed to be said. “You went to the Storm’s End because Renly acted a king and denied you men. You came to the North to act a king and win men to your side. My queen offers you her men and a great many others in your war against the Lannisters. The power of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale, all backing your claim.”

“My claim, but not me?”

“How many more losses must we suffer against the Lannisters and their allies?” He continued. “Robb and you fought separately and suffered horribly because of it. Would you war with those who call you king rather than those who call you a traitor? Would you bleed what forces we still have, fighting each other rather then sending them against our enemies? Would you accept that a Kingdom of the North, no matter what you think of it, might be your best chance of regaining your throne?”

As he finished he felt almost exhausted. Talking so much in the company of knights and lords, let alone royalty was not a pleasant or common thing for Jon.

Neither was how Stannis stared him down and ground his teeth. The silence around the table was awkward and lasted far too long. Sansa staring at Stannis, Stannis glaring at him, and Jon wishing to be anywhere but here.

Stannis ended the suspense by scowling.

“You speak as if the affairs of the North aren’t my concern.”

“To be concerned with the North is well and good but it’s for the Starks to rule.” Howland added.

“And what of the Wall?” Stannis shot back.

Sansa was clearly confused by the question.

“The Wall and the Night’s Watch have stood long before the Iron Throne existed, if we come to an alliance I’m sure…”

“Your maester taught you well, I owe him my thanks. Yet I need no history lessons.” Stannis leaned forward. “Since you all have only spoken of the Lannisters and the problems to the south I take it you’re ignorant of the true threat facing the realm.”

He bristled at that yet not as much as Mors who slammed a fist onto the table.

“You’re ignorant of what we’ll tolerate of you and your lot if you think to speak to our queen like that!”

“If she cannot stand simple truths I suggest she go back to her dolls.”

Stannis didn’t even spare Mors a glance as he gestured to one of his men. They produced a bit of parchment which was slid across the table towards Sansa.

Sansa was doing her best to hide it but she was angry. Yet after she lowered her gaze to read the parchment her face twisted into an expression of fear and disbelief.

“This is true?” She swallowed as she handed the parchment to Howland. “It can’t be true. Wights? The return of…no they are just stories…”

“The Wall was not built to keep out stories.” Stannis gestured to the parchment. “The Others have returned and threaten not only the Wall but the realm itself. Lord Commander Mormont gave me that before I left Castle Black. In case the northmen I encountered would not accept my…word.”

Stannis said the last part through clenched teeth while Jon was dumbstruck at what he was proposing. Even more surprised when Howland passed a hand over his suddenly tired face before passing the parchment to Maege and Mors.

“Are we really talking about this?” Willem smiled and looked about as if Mors or Jon would agree. “Are the grumpkins marching with them? On unicorns?”

“It is as Stannis says.” Howland answered in such a tone that Willem’s smile fell away. “Jeor Mormont himself writes of a large number of sworn brothers perishing in a battle with the Others and their wights, that he holds the Wall now only in thanks to efforts of Stannis and the wildlings who have come over to his side. More still, he expects their foes are reforming for another attack. He seeks help…”

Howland stopped when Maege put a hand on his arm.

“My brother is no man to ask for help if it is not desperately needed. And if the Others are back…” Her voice failed her towards the end and Jon had never seen her so desperate. “If the Wall does not hold them, Bear Island could fall…”

“Last Hearth as well.” Mors growled. “I wondered what had the wildlings coming over the Wall so often as of late.”

“My father always heeded the Lord Commander.” Sansa spoke up, somewhat her old self again. “I thank you Stannis for coming to the Wall’s aid when others didn’t. If was not for you who is to say how foul things there could have gone.”

Stannis appeared surprised that Sansa had thanked him.

_He does rare enough things to earn thanks._

“The Lord Commander asks for help to hold the Wall. The Lannisters still hold the Iron Throne. Your throne.” She paused as Stannis exhaled so that it sounded like a growl. “What will you do now? What action will you take?”

“I had intended to put Winterfell to rights and make it my seat while I rallied the North to their rightful king.” He once again glowered at the collection of lords here. “The Iron Throne is not moving. The Others are. I would march back to the Wall with as strong a force as I have to meet them and defend the realm as its true ruler should.”

That surprised him. Stannis was so single minded, so set on returning to the throne of his brother, he hadn’t expected the man to scorn a march south.

Sansa, not to be outdone, surprised Stannis even more.

“A wise and just strategy.” Sansa folded her hands over one another. “One I intend to adopt as well. My father and the Starks before him have always been friends to the Night’s Watch. After we drive the ironmen out of our lands and crush the remaining Boltons, I would have my armies march to the Wall. To defend it and the North.”

“As its true ruler should.” Jon finally spoke.

He’d hoped it would please Sansa yet her calm expression faltered to worry.

“Well said.” Howland agreed.

“Aye.” Mors echoed.

“Would you march with us?” Maege asked Stannis. “Can we fight this threat as one?”

Jon thought he saw the slightest twitch on Stannis’s face at those words. It was an easy thing to spot since the man had returned his steely glare on Jon again. The cold feeling he’d felt during his time with Melisandre crept up his back.

_She was only able to burn men alive because he allowed it._

Stannis spoke not a word as he rose, with his men scrambling to do so as well. Willem and he did so as well, his hand prepared at the slightest sign of threat to pull his sword.

Godry looked to say something until the king held up his hand.

“I would retire to the counsel of my men. You will know my answer when I decide to give one.”

“I thought we would eat together.” Sansa rose as well. “I had a meal prepared…”

“I am not hungry. Feed it to your dogs.” He shot Jon a final baleful look before turning and storming out of the room.

The others followed quickly behind while Godry lingered, challenging him still and offering one final sneer. When he too finally left Sansa asked the guards to close the door again.

“That went as well as expected.” Willem drank of some wine.

“It went quite poorly ser.” Maege sounded incredulous.

“Pretty much how I expected. Here’s to the sore arse that’s to be my king.” Willem quipped as he drained his cup.

Sansa did not join in the breaking of the tension. She turned to him and he marveled at how well she’d composed herself considering everything that had been thrown down before her. How strong her resolve had been and how quickly she’d set their course of action.

_Father…well, her father would be proud._

Yet Sansa was clearly worried.

“Why did you have to say those things?” She asked. “Stannis did not love you for it…”

“He has never loved me your grace.” He suspected she was not quite speaking as his queen now and forgave her for it. “I spoke hard truths and Stannis is a hard man. He would be used to such.”

“Do you think him fool enough to reject the alliance?”

“I’d hope not. The man is the only claimant to the Iron Throne I’d like to see upon it.”

“Seven save us if he is the best option.” Ser Symond said glumly as he stared into his empty cup.

Jon had much the same thought.

Besides those of fire.

And burning screaming men.

 

* * *

 

GHOST

 

 

_His belly was full and the winds quiet tonight, so his slumber was all the better._

_He slept about the bone white tree, its blood leaves keeping what little snow fell at bay. The small forest within the stone den was peaceful and quiet. He always had the deep sleep here._

_The dreams took him far and away. Some to places he’d been, others to strange lands he’d never known._

_The savage brother had been in one of those lands. Cold like their home but far more wild a place. He wasn’t there anymore. He was someplace he didn’t like, moving on great water. He couldn’t run like he wanted or hunt like he wanted. He was trapped by wood and water._

_But closer, coming closer._

_Not as close as the wild sister._

_She was in the cold lands too. She had been for some time. Coming closer with each day. The men she was with smelled of worry and fear. Her girl’s cheeks tasted of the wet, salty water that came when the men would whine. She was not being hunted though._

_She was doing the hunting._

_And she was in her lands. Their lands._

_These dreams were not just his own. He knew that now, he knew he shared the dreams like a pack shares a kill. All crowding around to get their fill._

_His mind felt crowded now, like someone was pushing in to take his place._

_A presence he longed for yet not in this way._

_For this was his place, his bond._

_His dreams changed then, pulling him north. Farther than the great ice, into a land which smelt of death and a deep cold._  
  
In these lands something old and dying was trying to be heard. Pulling him deeper and deeper into the earth so he would hear.

_He didn’t like this place. The darkness here tainted everything. As much as the cold above._

_The red eye found them in the darkness, bearing down on them as crows screamed._

_“This is not for her.”_

_The eye closed, the crows grew louder, their cries hurting his ears. Their beaks piercing into his mind and pulling the other one away. Sending her far away._

_“She does not belong here.”_

_The red eye beheld him again but he fled. He didn’t want this thing. He didn’t want these dreams._

_“You will see.”_

_Even as he woke and gazed up at the trembling of the blood leaves above the wind carried the voice all around him._

_“You cannot hide from it.”_

 

* * *

 

 

**SANSA**

 

 

“I am glad I have treated Lady Maege as well as I have.”

Myranda’s words were almost whispered as she beheld the group of ladies approaching them from the godswood.

The four women of House Mormont had likely just come from prayers at the heart tree yet their manner of dress seemed more appropriate to a battlefield. Maege and her three daughters all wore heavy cloaks over ring mail or leather armor, with none lacking for weapons.

_A powerful look for powerful women._

“I would not want to face the wrath of such fearsome women.” Myranda exclaimed but Sansa felt no such thing.

However fearsome the Mormonts may have appeared the bright smiles on all their faces improved her mood greatly.

“Queen Sansa!” Maege called out happily when she saw them. “Lady Myranda! A good day to you, can I beg a moment to introduce my girls?”

“You may not. For it is I who will beg to be introduced to the daughters of my dear lady.” She held out her hands and Maege grasped them, her grip strong and warm. “I have heard so much of them I cannot wait a moment longer.”

Maege turned to present her daughters before grunting and jerking her hand downward.

“You were raised on an island not in a camp, show the queen your courtesies.”

With that two of the ladies curtsied while the third, the youngest she thought, dropped to a knee.

“Jory…” The girl next to the kneeling one yanked her up and to her feet.

Following that Maege introduced her in turn to each of the ladies. The eldest of them was Alysanne, a short, chunky yet strong looking woman. The second was Lyra, a tall, wiry lady with a small scar upon her cheek and lively brown eyes. The third, Jorelle, was just older than Sansa but a head taller and had curves which would have made Myranda jealous.

It made Sansa happy that Maege could enjoy such a reunion.

“I know you all arrived yesterday but please, accept my welcome to Winterfell. I pray the rooms I had made ready for you can suffice for now, we have so many people in the castle that I fear…”

“We just spent over a moon living out of tents your grace, I fear having chambers of our own will spoil us.” Alysanne said to a laugh from her mother.

She’d managed to arrange for the old Cassel rooms to be offered to the Mormonts and thought it the least she could for the likes of Maege.

“Lyanna will be so angry with us.” Lyra smiled. “Fierce little thing had wanted to ride out from Bear Island and avenge the Starks herself. Her being there and us all here meeting Queen Sansa…I’ll have to have a shield on me when I tell her.”

“Lyanna?” Myranda raised an eyebrow. “Jon and Sansa’s aunt?”

Maege and her eyes met without meaning to, a betrayal of the secret they shared if there ever was one. The lady recovered first.

“My youngest daughter, named after that very woman.”

Sansa sought to change the subject and noticed then that Jorelle was staring at her with a confused expression.

“Is something amiss my lady?”

“Eh? Well no, not really. I mean, forgive me for saying so but from what tales my mother told us I half expected to find a direwolf dressed as a woman.” Jorelle said with a laugh.

Her family did not share her good humor and Lyra smacked her on the arm.

“We’ve just been introduced and you’ve embarrassed us twice.”

“Embarrassed us? I’m not the one who told King Stannis to mind his teeth with all that grinding…”

“Girls.” Maege sighed, putting her hand to her forehead. “Your grace I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be! They’re lovely!” She said earnestly. “They remind me of Arya and myself. We used to argue all the time and...”

The thought of Arya caused her voice to fall away. Ever since the bastard’s murder of Barbrey Dustin, his followers had launched several attacks throughout the Stark lands. Her people were now fleeing in droves towards the Winter Town after a number of farms and settlements had burnt and travellers ambushed.

Those who could not escape were killed if they were fortunate, flayed first if they were not.

She’d immediately sent men riding south to seek Arya and her escort. Her sister was well guarded and few attacks had been launched against the armed companies she’d sent out to find the hounds yet it comforted her little.

Myranda put a hand on the small of her back to try and comfort her now.

“You’ll argue again.” She said softly. “Or you’ll share stories or tears or even lemoncakes if you want. I believe that Sansa.”

She nodded at her friend’s words but her eyes went to ground, suddenly fearful of the other women seeing her struggle.

“Aly take Lyra and Jory to the hall and get some food.” Maege moved forward to touch Sansa’s elbow gently. “I have things to discuss with my Queen.”

After the eldest Mormont daughter ushered away the other two Myranda and Maege shared a worried look.

“It’s as Howland told me then, your sister comes and you fear what she rides into.”

“I’d thought she’d be here by now.” She said truthfully. “I’d hoped at least, and with Ramsay Snow doing as he does…”

“Say the word and I’ll rally my men and scour these lands for that monster.” Marge growled. “I knew Barbrey. She impressed me as often as she angered me and to hear she suffered such a fate…”

“It was my fault.” She admitted. “Had I let the lady and her brother stay in Winterfell they would still be alive. All those men would still be alive…”

_Instead you moved them about to your advantage like pieces on a game board._

_Your first thought was how to use their deaths to rally more support to you._

_It doesn’t matter if it disgusted you to think it, Petyr would still be so proud._

“And Ramsay Snow played no part at all?” Myranda asked. “I’ve seen you show your enemies more fairness and mercy than I could ever have expected of a girl as wronged as you’ve been. So forgive me if I can’t allow you to punish yourself for that creature’s evils and for doing as a wise ruler would.  ”

“A wise ruler would’ve had him defeated over two weeks ago. A good ruler would’ve protected her people.” She shook her head as Myranda huffed and shivered against the cold.

“Lady Maege do you know where Sansa was heading before we chanced upon you?”

“Randa…”

“I’ve no idea.” Maege said.

Myranda pointed to the Guest House, which was still under repair with men clambering about the roof as they spoke.

“To visit the poor people who have survived the bastard’s raids. People she’s had tended to by maesters and healers where most lords would leave them without their walls. The father forbid a king ever welcome such people into their castles…”

“Survivors? I didn’t think the bastard was leaving any alive.”

“He doesn’t.” Sansa began walking towards the Guest House. “But the hounds don’t always kill all they take right away. They take some elsewhere to do the deed…or to do worse to the women before killing them.”

Her men had fought some battles against the bastard’s, sometimes being fortunate enough to catch the monsters before they could kill some of their victims. Ser Kyle had brought in four people taken from lands near a holdfast to the north. Jon had brought in even more from a surprise attack they’d launched on a camp in the Wolfswood.

He’d been leading a party to the south when Ghost had picked up a trail and led them within the woods. The camp they’d found had been poorly guarded, most of the hounds likely doing more evil elsewhere.

“I wanted to catch more of them but waiting meant sitting there and listening to what they were doing to those women.” Jon had hung his head to tell her the tale. “I couldn’t do it…and I couldn’t get prisoners of our own. The men were too bloodthirsty, too eager to take vengeance.”

“We found them once we can find them again.” She’d eased his guilt. “You saved the people that matter the most. The innocents.”

The captives he freed had been taken from raids across a great distance. Apparently some had even joined in the fight, one tripping up a Bolton even while he was bound and spared Jon an injury himself. She’d wanted to visit them earlier but with Stannis arriving and all the other matters before her she hadn’t the chance.

Now that she did, it appeared Maege would join Myranda and her in this visit.

 _I will be better off with them_ , she admitted, _it is easier to be strong with others behind you._

The second floor of the Guest House was the best off after repairs so that’s where the wounded survivors were kept. Even as they started up the steps she heard the cries. They were a woman’s and came from a room towards the end of the corridor, one a maester was just leaving.

“Your grace!” Maester Henly bowed and shuffled towards her, wiping his hands with a filthy cloth. “I had not expected you…”

“I came to see to the care of my people. Is something amiss here?”

“Amiss? No, not at all.”

Another chorus of loud, pained cries came from down the corridor but the maester did not even flinch.

“That woman disagrees maester.” Maege crossed her arms.

“Which one? Oh you mean the woodswoman. Yes terrible thing that the Boltons did to her. Took the skin off one of her fingers before they ravaged her.” Henley paused as he gestured to a steward climbing the stairs to go towards another room. “The flesh was too close to rot so I had to remove the finger. The pain is constant I’m afraid. She barely sleeps.”

“Do we have nothing to aid her?” Sansa asked. “Milk of the poppy perhaps?”

Henly appeared confused at her question which made her happy it was Medrick she had tending to most of the castle’s affairs rather than this man.

“We have milk of the poppy yes but not in great amounts. I’d thought with no guarantee of further supply I would restrict its uses to those of status.”

“You will not!” She snapped, not quite believing Henley could be so callous with a woman screaming so. “These people are of status! I want them cared for and that is status enough!”

The man shrunk back from the anger in her voice and began to stammer apologies. Her anger was so great she turned her back to him rather than harangue the man any more before others. She proceeded to check on the state of her guests herself as Maege ushered the maester into doing as she willed him to.

Her tending to the brutalized people, or at least watching as the maester’s helpers did so helped little in truth. Still, learning their stories and hearing of their wounds made her feel like she was doing something productive.

_Just because a king sits idle doesn’t mean I should._

Stannis continued to sulk in his camp, scorning her invitations to meals and meetings while demanding her stores be made available to his army.

She could not allow such an arrangement to last much longer, especially with Stannis’s northern strength pledging itself to her now, leaving Stannis’s force to barely over a thousand. Not dealing with the man made her look weak in front of her bannermen, yet forcing a confrontation with Stannis, no matter how easily such a thing could be won, was not ideal. Stannis Baratheon was the only claimant to the Iron Throne the North could support, losing him hurt their cause against the Lannisters greatly.

 _That’s not true and you know it_ , she thought, _there’s another you could support._  
  
_But to do so would mean sending him to the capital, to that city of nightmares._

Her plans for revealing Jon to the world had become much more complicated of late. Besides the complications it could raise with Stannis, she had known better than to ask Jon to do so before Arya’s arrival.

_She’d called him brother in her letter, returning to us only to hear otherwise right away would be cruel._

_We’ve lost all our trueborn brothers. I can suffer to allow Arya a false half-brother for some time more._

Something she couldn’t suffer was to go on being ignorant of what went on at the Wall. When they’d retaken Winterfell, ravens had been sent to Castle Black but the lack of reply hadn’t seemed important at the time. With what Stannis had told them, it made that silence ominous at best.

If no word came soon she resolved to send word to Last Hearth for riders to go forth and inspect the state of the Night’s Watch for themselves.

For now though, Sansa could only watch as a healer inspected the broken arm of a young girl Jon had rescued.

“It will heal.” The healer said. “She was spared what most of the other girls that had been taken endured. So she has that.”

“Why is she so quiet then?” She asked, the girl was staring straight ahead and made not a sound the whole time.

The healer signed and ran a hand over the girl’s head, the stare still not ending.

“She saw things your grace, her parents and her hid when the hounds came but...”

“Hiding didn’t save them.” His voice came from the doorway.

When she turned Jon was there, half in and half out of the room, as if he felt uncomfortable here. Ghost was not so shy, the direwolf padding within, sparing a quick lick to her hand before offering one to the girl as well. After Ghost’s tongue touched the child’s cheek Sansa swore she saw the girl smile some.

“I had not expected you here.” She said as she came to stand with Jon. Ghost offered the child more comfort than she could. “Not after what happened here…”

“This is where I was told I’d find you.” He backed in the corridor and she followed. “And I needed to see you.”

Despite what she’d seen today and knowing the state of the poor people around her, those words made her smile. A quick glance about them showed Myranda and Maege far down to the other end of the corridor speaking with the maester still. No others were in sight so they had a moment or two. She thought to quickly steal a touch of Jon’s hand but as she reached for him he jerked away and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…it’s just here is too risky and…” He leaned it then, whispering in her ear. “Did you come to my chambers last night?”

It was a strange thing to ask.

“No.” She eyed him carefully, noticing now his face seemed a touch drawn and tired looking. “It was far too busy to try and I’d need reason, why would you think I had?”

His eyes flicked down the corridor and he did not speak until a servant had walked by.

“Truly you were not in my rooms? You did not try and wake me?”

“Jon…I only saw you at the stables and keep yesterday…”

She paused then, a feeling of doubt came over her. A feeling that what she was about to say was not entirely true.

 _But it is true_ , she thought, _I only saw him in those places._

_There was no time for our specials moments._

Somehow she believed that last thought wrong. Deep down she felt like Jon and her had been together at some point. Not acting in their formal roles about castle, and not so long ago. She wracked her memories for such a moment yet all she could think of was the smell of the sea and the urge to comfort and care for someone.

And the sound of birds.

“Sansa…did you have a dream?” Jon asked, his turn to stare upon her face. “Last night, did you have a strange dream?”

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head, trying to remember her sleep from the night before.

A trickle of assurance came soon after and she thought it strange Jon was able to guide her to the answer so quickly.

“Wait, I think maybe I did. A dream of us perhaps…” That felt right, even with few of the details coming back she was sure that was true. “We were at sea…yes that might be what it was. I dreamt about our trip through the Bite, when you and I cared for one another…”

“Through the Bite?” Jon was confused again. “You didn’t dream of Arya or… a different sea? Of a dark place? Of wolves?”

His words inspired almost a panic in her, a great unwelcome feeling like somehow she didn’t belong here. A series of muffled shouts and bangs came from one of the rooms at the end of the corridor and she backed away towards it.

“I don’t understand. Why are we talking about dreams?” She gestured to the end of the hall. “What do my dreams matter when there are people suffering?”

“Sansa…”

“You did what!” Maege’s yell caused both Jon and her to gaze down at the lady.

Maege had advanced so far upon Henly that he was flush with the wall and looking to sink deeper into the stone. Myranda was standing open-mouthed, facing the door from which the noise was coming from.

“He’s mad! Or a liar!” Henly protested, as he looked about for help. “I didn’t want him upsetting the others…”

“Upsetting others? You let that woman scream for hours!”

“She wasn’t spreading lies! Falsehoods about the royal family!”

“Maege, what is happening here?” She came on them, gently easing her lady back from the maester.

“This bloody grey fool…”

“I am a maester of the citadel!”

“Then you know better than to interrupt a lady.” Jon put in.

“Has he denied someone else care?” She asked through the thumping behind the doorway.

“I have denied none of my charges anything! I was merely…”

“He denied you your grace.” Maege hissed at the man. “He kept word from your ears and endangered your sister.”

“It is not true!” Henly argued. “I was going to tell Medrick of this madness but he was most engrossed in tending to the ravens that I thought the ravings of some mad boy could wait.”

“What does this have to do with my sister?”

Maege’s mention of Arya bothered her. Her sister's journey to Winterfell was a well-kept secret. She’d kept word of Arya’s journey strictly limited to only a few of her lords and trusted men.

“He says he has a lad in there bound and gagged…”

“For his protection! And the Queen’s!” Henly interrupted again. “His injuries were grievous! When the ser brought him in he had not yet woken and when he did, he insisted on trying to leave his bed and making his injuries all the worse!”

“As would I if I had been a part of the princess’s party!” Maege yelled so harshly that the man closed his eyes against it.

Sansa was standing in shock when Jon turned from them and burst through the door.

“I knew of no such party!” Henly argued as she made to follow Jon. “How would it look? A mad boy spreading tales of the princess being attacked?”

She ignored him as she entered the chamber, upset to find the situation within much as Maege described. For what was supposed to be a sick room had turned into a prison.

A young man was indeed bound to the bed, his arms and legs tied to the four corners and his mouth gagged. Even as restrained as he was, he was bucking and bouncing upon the bed and making muffled sounds through his gag. She could make out little of his features as his face was swollen and bruised. The side of his face turned towards her showed an eye bandaged thickly and she wondered if he even knew of their arrival.

“Easy lad!” Jon said, causing the boy to stiffen some as he went to work untying his hands. “Remember me? You took a maul to the face during the fight. You’re safe now, so just calm yourself while I help you, alright?”

The stranger gave a muffled reply but stopped struggling long enough for Jon to get one of his hands free. She moved to unbind his other hand while Jon pulled his gag away and began to question him desperately.

“Is it like they say? Do you know Arya Stark?”

“I do!” He rasped through a dry, disused voice. “I know her!”

The voice pulled her attention to his face. Even as poor as he sounded, something about him was familiar. She reached down and jerked his face towards her, less gently than she could have.

“Ow! Hey!” He cried out and made to pull away from her hold when their eyes met.

His eyes widening in surprise and his mouth moving yet no words came out.

Which was familiar too. For he had always seemed so quiet to her.

Whether or not he knew Arya she wasn’t sure of.

But she knew him.

 

* * *

 

 

**ARYA**

 

“Brienne please we are so close!”

Arya couldn’t understand. She could see Winterfell.

_I can see Winterfell! I can see it!_

Being able to think such a thing was almost too much for her. Actually doing it threatened to break her completely.

She’d already tried to urge her exhausted mount forward once before but Brienne had made her ease back and their pace was painfully slow.

As slow as it had been since they lost Pod.

She’d still had hope the morning after the attack. Marlen and Brienne said there was no way they could try and track down those they’d lost at night but by morning they could try.

Four others besides Pod had been taken during the fight. Two were waiting for them along the road, strung up on crosses without their skins. She still had hope even after that because neither of them were her friend, Nymeria still had a scent, and there was a trail to follow yet.  
  
Then the snow had started falling and the wind blasted at them horribly. The trails were lost and she could feel Nymeria struggling to keep the scent. Despite all that, they were still able to find more of their lost people.

Or at least what was left of them.  
  
A pack of wolves had pulled down the skinless corpses, feasting on the fresh kills, leaving little but bones and a bloody mess in the snow. Much of that was already being buried by more snow, like the cloak Nymeria dug up near the gore had been.

“We found his cloak! So what! Just because it’s Pod’s, doesn’t mean he’s dead!” She’d argued. “We keep looking! He would keep looking!”

“How, princess?” Marlen had asked, gesturing to the foul weather all around. “I can’t find any trail in this…neither can your wolf. And if we do find them, we aren’t as many as we should be…”

She’d turned her back to the man and sought Brienne instead, sure she’d find a way to keep going. Brienne always kept them going and Pod had been with her longer than any of them. She was sure the lady would have them charging on, she would force the others to find Pod.

Yet Brienne had just stood there, clutching Pod’s bloody cloak and staring off into the falling snow.

“We cannot be attacked again.” She’d finally said. “We cannot be surprised again. Following these men could mean going where they lead us, where they want us to be. I cannot risk that.”

“We can’t risk Pod! Brienne there’s a chance…”

“A chance we could fail in what we all swore to do, to get you safely to Winterfell.” Brienne had clenched the cloak tight in her fists. “I swore to do so. As did Gendry and Marlen. Harren died trying to do so and Podrick…I know how…I knew how much he wanted to see that done. He would not risk your safety for his own. I cannot do the same.”

With that Brienne had Gendry and the others put together a makeshift pyre, setting fire to what remains the wolves had left. As angry as she was, how disappointed and helpless she felt, she didn’t take it out on Brienne.

Her friend had watched the fire burn the whole time, still holding the cloak and staring so intently into the flames Arya worried for her.

That night over half the men stayed awake, watching the darkness for any sign of attack. Brienne hadn’t slept much either but not to keep watch. Arya woke up to the great heaving of Brienne’s body beside her, the lady quietly sobbing into that cloak. The memory of the night of Moat Cailin came back to her so she rolled over to try and hold Brienne like the lady had held her.

If it helped, Brienne didn’t say anything, Arya had fallen asleep to the sound of her friend’s tears.

The next day they’d continued on towards Winterfell, without Pod.

Their travels were slow and careful, Brienne and Marlen taking them off the road after the next day’s ride had come across another ambush. The direwolf had howled and run off towards some burned out hovels by the roadside, flushing out the archers and spearmen hiding there.

The Boltons had greater numbers but the men were dirty, hungry and Nymeria ruined their surprise. Arya had even loosed some arrows during the fight but never saw if any hit, for Brienne and Gendry had loomed large about her blocking her view of the battle.

In the end they lost no men but Brienne wouldn’t risk the road anymore after that.

“It will add time to our journey yet adding safety is all that concerns me.” Brienne had said before they set out on a trek to cross the river over to the east side of the Kingsroad.

Marlen had been sending men to fan out on either side of them, sometimes sending them as far as the road itself to get a sense of any threat upon it. One night they brought back word of an entire army marching south. An army marching beneath many banners, including the Starks. The Ryswells, the Tallharts, and maybe even the Dustins but from the colors the crannogmen described Arya thought them wrong.

She hoped they were going somewhere to hurt her family’s enemies. To find and kill men like the ones who’d taken Pod.

That was the last exciting news to come for days. The ride through thick snows, the short days so they would have time to make strong camps, it all dragged on and on.

Which made the slow pace they made towards Winterfell even now all the harder.  It would take an hour to get there and if she could just ride ahead it would be only moments.

“It’s right there!” She yelled, trying to point out how ridiculous this was. “I’m home Brienne!”

“Arya, Marlen has ridden ahead to announce our coming.” Brienne said and her tone was not a happy one. “The other men I sent ahead talked of a camp and banners flying outside the walls that I do not like. I’d have your family send men to meet us and we’ll give them time to do so. Do not think of leaving my side before I give leave.”

_What’s so bad about a flaming stag?_

That’s what the scouts had said were on the banners and the mention of them had Brienne worried so. The dark look upon the warrior lady’s face caused Gendry to share an uneasy glance with her. Neither could imagine Brienne being scared of anything.

Now Gendry rode up beside her and smiled.

“The princess would stop a royal procession from welcoming her home?” Gendry teased. “We still have a chance to put you in a proper frilly gown…”

“Keep it up and I’ll have you put in stocks!”

Her threat only made Gendry laugh and shrug, which annoyed her all the more because of how nice it was to hear him laugh and see him smile again.

“Don’t be so hard on the lady.” He said. “She’s got a duty to see done and knows how badly you want to get to the castle…”

“You two should want to get to Winterfell too! It’s got a smithy! You can smith a new helm and armor for yourself. Then you can be a knight in service for my house just like my brother.” She spoke with pride for all her home could offer her friends. “And it’s got an armory and a quitain for us to train at in the yards…”

“I know…I heard you telling Pod about it.” Gendry’s eyes dropped then and shook his head. “It be a good thing though, to use those things. It means I could become the kind of knight you wouldn’t have to protect in a fight.”

Once again her good spirits were ruined. She’d hoped Gendry had moved on from what happened at the Moat. And she hadn’t thought of losing Pod in at least an hour. Her hands gripped her reins so tight her knuckles turned white.

 _It’s not fair,_ she thought _, I finally get home and my friends are all upset with me._

_Or gone._

Arya kept her eyes locked on the castle as Gendry coughed awkwardly, trying to get her attention. She wouldn’t give it to him though, her feet were poised to kick at her mount to race home. To get away from all her problems.

“That was unkind of me to say princess, I’m sorry.” Gendry broke in. “I shouldn’t…”

“You’re only apologizing because you think I’m a princess and better than you. You’re still mad because I tried to help during the fight and it’s not fair! You weren’t mad at Pod …”

“I hadn’t sworn my life to keep him safe.”

“Well you should have!” She snapped and regretted it immediately. “Or you shouldn’t have. Maybe you all should’ve stayed at the Twins instead of coming with me. You’d have been safer. I-I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

“Wasn’t really an option for me after what I swore, and the oath I gave your uncle is not the one I’m talking about.” He sighed and leaned back in his saddle. “The night the Hound took you, I swore if we found you again I’d protect you…just because I never dropped to a knee before you to do it doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it…”

He’d never told her this before and when she met his blue eyes he looked away quickly.

“Knights keep their vows, at least they’re supposed to. Just because Lord Beric knighted me doesn’t make me a real knight. Others won’t think I am. I need to show them I’m worthy of it, worthy of fighting for you.” He struggled then but didn’t close off like she feared. “I know your worth Arya and what you’re capable of. I just want others to see my worth as well.”

“You’re stupid.” She hissed at him. “As stupid as any bull…but you are a knight. I know you’re a knight. A stupid and stubborn one but… a true knight.”

Gendry laughed before his face fell some, his hand making a fist before him.

“A true knight… I meant to say these things a while back. Pod told me I was being unkind and a true knight would not treat you so. And for a mute like him to say so…”

A rider let out a yell and it tore them from their moment. The man was gazing towards the castle gate and she squinted to see what excited him so. He had better eyes than she for it took her a good while longer to make out what was going on at the castle.

Riding out from Winterfell was group of horses flying a direwolf banner. The men were riding hard from the castle down the road towards them.

And leading them in their journey was a great white wolf.

Nymeria bounded ahead of Arya then, quickly building into a full out run to meet the other wolf.

To meet her brother.

Now was when Arya was most scared. Now that the moment was here, when it all might become real, her fears grabbed her all at once.

In all the travels she’d had since Brienne had found her, she had never been as terrified. So filled with worry that it was bad news awaiting her at the castle. That she’d come so far only to be told they were gone.

_Please let me see them._

_Please don’t let something happen._

_Please let them love me despite…_

“Arya, would you like to ride to meet them?” Brienne asked, her voice softer than it had been and the woman’s small smile gave her some comfort.

“Yes.” She said despite all the uncertainty. “Yes, more than anything.”

“Then let’s ride!” Brienne called loudly as Gendry and she kicked their horses.

She shouted in surprise, as if they could try and beat her. Her horse was much faster and she was thrice the rider they were. Her heart pounded in her chest as the air whipped against her face as she bounced upon her saddle.

The riders were closer now and she could see they were northmen of all sorts. None seemed familiar for a time until the one clad all in black caught her eye. He was spurring his mount at a much faster pace, riding ahead of all the rest just like the white direwolf.

_It’s him._

“Jon!” A voice Arya thought was her own screamed.

Any mercy she had towards her horse was lost as she kicked at its sides.

_Faster and he would be right there. Faster and no one would be between them._

Nymeria and Ghost met first, the two wolves colliding, rolling about on the ground playfully nipping and struggling with one another. Her horse startled some at that. Fast as it was, it had no idea the wolves weren’t truly fighting.

Try as she might, she could not force it forward so she jumped from the saddle and went on by foot. The snow was deep and her strides shaky as she ran forward, her feet slipping every few steps, but she kept going.

_I can’t stop._

_I won’t stop._

Even when the others overtook her she still ran.

The rider she ran to reined up before her. Then he too jumped from his saddle, falling in the snow before shooting up and running as well.

Any moment a rope would pull him away. Or some men would attack. Something would happen.

His outstretched arms would never hold her.

“Jon! Jon please! Don’t go!” Arya cried as she leapt up into his arms. “Please…don’t go…”

Jon pulled her tightly against him as he fell to his knees. Her own arms were wrapped around his neck and she buried her face against his chest.

“Arya… oh sister you have no idea…” Jon’s words were ragged and his voice was deeper than she remembered.

Her brother had been a boy the last she’d seen him but now he was a man. No matter how he’d aged he was still her brother though.

How Jon kissed the top of her head as she said his name, ever so fiercely! She had remembered him as the one who’d always been closest to her, the one she missed most. He’d always said kind things where others would say nothing. Jon had understood what it was like to be one on the outside and had given her a sword before holding her tightly for what she thought would be the last time.

_He’ll understand what I had to do._

_He has to._

“It was long…it took so long…I didn’t know if any one was left for so long and I thought you were…” Arya was rambling and crying as she looked up into his grey eyes.

Her eyes.

“I’m right here little sister. We were so worried about you…I was getting ready to come looking for you when…” He gripped her even tighter and stroked her head softly. “You are in so much trouble.”

She laughed through her tears. Then she felt hot breath at her neck and something pushing itself between them. She saw Ghost behind Jon staring at them as Nymeria pushed her head between them to nuzzle at Jon.

“Gods, I can’t believe you found her!”

Jon reached up to pet the direwolf’s head. Nymeria was only so friendly with Arya and she heard Gendry say something. Jon rose to his feet then, pulling her up with him to stand and she realized he was taller than he had been. Her brother looked lean and powerful in his black tunic and armor.

“Are these the people I owe to your safe return?” Jon asked and she pulled him towards the others.

Jon needed to know them because they were her friends and he’d find places for all of them. He had to.

“This is Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill and this is…”

“Lady Brienne, it’s good to see you again.” Jon said quickly as he walked forward to offer his hand to each of her friends and to stand before Brienne.

“Robar did well to see you to safety my lady, I think he’d be happy to see how his deed helped bring my sister home.”

The lady looked at him with an odd expression and Arya was worried something was amiss.

“Ser Robar was a good man…it surprised me when I heard you fought for Stannis on the Blackwater…”

Brienne’s words were awkward and halting. Not how Arya pictured her meeting Jon at all. They were both the truest people she’d ever known.

“I was a prisoner on Dragonstone and I fought to free my sisters at the Blackwater. I’m glad you sent riders ahead, I would not have wanted your group to ride through the king’s camp without our men’s protection.”

“We shall all need protection with Stannis about.”

Brienne said no more and neither did Jon, the two sharing an uncomfortable silence she didn’t like at all. Brienne and Jon were supposed to get along. They both understood her more than any other and their meeting was not going as she had wanted.

_How are they going to keep Sansa from making me a stupid princess if they don’t get along?_

“Where’s Sansa?” She asked suddenly noticing her sister nowhere in the party.

“The queen awaits her sister in the castle.” Jon ruffled her hair like he always did. Only he could sound so formal and then treat her so warmly. “I was on the walls when your riders came so I took as many men as I could. I fear Sansa may be angry with me for not waiting for her to join us.”

With that Jon grabbed the reins of her horse and offered her his hand. She rolled her eyes at him as he helped her climb upon the horse, as he’d done so many times before when they were younger. When Jon pulled himself upon his own he looked more a knight than any she’d ever seen.

_Jaime Lannister can cover himself in fine garb and golden armor all he wants._

_Even in black Jon’s a truer knight than he’ll ever be._

Her brother rode next to her as their party made its way through the camp outside the gates. The southron men gazed at them as if their arrival was something queer while the northmen among them began kneeling. The walls of her home loomed high above them as horns and cheering began sounding from above and within.

The feeling of riding through the gates of Winterfell made her squeeze her reins tightly and seek Jon. He smiled a little sadly and nodded.

“It was the same for me…it still is.”

She didn’t know what she’d expected after hearing all the tales of what had befallen the castle since she’d left. Her breath still caught in her throat at what she saw. So much of the home she remembered was now scorched or ruined. Much of it was under repair yet it hurt all the same.

_Even Winterfell has suffered._

_Nothing is as it was._

“Ser!” A sharp cry from behind them made her jump.

She whipped around and saw someone pushing their way through the gathering crowd within the courtyard. When two guards blocked his path Jon intervened.

“Let him pass!” He commanded before facing her with a look of apology. “I’m sorry, I should have said…”

The newcomer moved stiffly and his face was a mess of bandages and bruises yet even through the crowd she recognized him.

As did Brienne.

“Podrick?” Brienne said numbly, her arms falling to her sides.

“Pod!” Gendry roared as he began to struggle to get from his horse. “How the seven hells…”

“Podrick!” Brienne broke out of her spell and was off her horse, shoving a guardsman aside in her drive to pull the squire into an embrace.

“Ow!” He wheezed in pain. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to get here first…I tried to get free…”

She sat like a fool on her horse watching Brienne and then Gendry reunite with their missing fourth. Everything in her told her it wasn’t true.

That nothing could ever go so well for her.

“Arya!”

She jerked at her name and saw a beautiful lady rushing across the courtyard at them. For a moment she thought it was mother coming for her. Somehow alive and wanting to welcome her home.

Yet it was only a little girl’s dream for Arya knew her mother was as dead as the girl who dreamed quietly of such things.

No matter the truth of that though, her heart swelled to see Sansa hurrying through the throngs of people struggling to part before her coming. It was surprising to see her sister dirtying her clean skirts in the mud and wet in her haste. There was a crown upon Sansa’s head but the tears spilling down her sister’s face were stranger still.

_She never cried for me._

_She cried for boys and gowns and lemoncakes._

_Never for me._

Yet Sansa was obviously crying now and Arya was off her horse before any could move to help her. When returning to Winterfell had been but a dream, she’d imagined this moment. How she would stand tall, a bow slung over her shoulder and a hand resting on Needle when she came before Sansa. Her sister would hear she was no princess and no matter how Sansa raged Arya would be as strong as Brienne.

None of that happened.

Before she had a chance to prepare herself, Sansa was on her, her sister hugging her tightly against her. Even through her cloak she felt Sansa’s fingers digging tightly into her back.

_She’s here._

_We’re here._

“Arya. I thought I lost you. I’m sorry I thought it. I’m so sorry…” Sansa pulled back and kissed her brow, her blue eyes red with tears. “Forgive me, I beg you please.”

“Sansa I…”

Whatever words she had practiced were lost to her. All she remembered now was running from the Red Keep amid screams and death. Of Sansa’s screams as Ser Ilyn moved upon father.

“I left you… I didn’t even try… I should’ve tried…”

“I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it. I only care you’re here. I’ll be kind to you, I swear. I love you, I love you, and I… I promise we won’t fight…” Sansa was kissing her again and her eyes did something to her.

_Soft eyes._

_Mother’s eyes._

Arya’s strength broke then and her own tears came again. Suddenly she was small and scared during a storm and Sansa was singing as she climbed into bed with her. Arya had no idea where the memory came from but nodded frantically up at her older sister now.

“I don’t want to fight.”

It was the truth.

For the first time in a long while, she didn’t want to fight.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alliances, oaths and how things were and could be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An earlier version of this chapter had the wrong version of a POV in it. Had to upload it again.

**SANSA**

 

“Jon this is a happy time, it would help if you smiled.”

The knight stopped midstep at her scolding, clearly surprised to see her standing there in the corridor. His eyes had been on the ground and he’d had almost strode right by her. Jon’s somber expression and furrowed brow almost pulled her attention from how handsome he looked otherwise.

He was dressed in the new tunic she had gifted him, a fine black one with white trim about the neck and arms.

Yet something was missing.

“Where is the cape I sent along?”

“In my chambers I imagine.” He shook his head. “I’m not one for capes.”

She could forgive him that. Jon disdained finery after years of acting so sullen but he was her noble knight and needed to start dressing the part. She had great hopes for his future and how dashing he looked made her certain those hopes could be realized.

_A true knight does not need to look the part, but it helps nonetheless._

“Your finery is a matter we can discuss later, for I doubt it is what troubles you so.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so obvious.” Jon frowned. “My thoughts were on what Stannis wants from us. What he wants from you.”

The alliance had been forged the day before and Stannis had asked for much from her.

_Demanded much of me in truth._

She had to swear he would have her support and that her allies in the south to declare for him. That had meant drafting letters for her uncle Brynden and Nestor Royce. The one to her uncle had been the most important, for it offered her bannermen in the Riverlands a choice.

It would be for each riverlord to decide whether or not they would remain her subjects or become Stannis’s instead. She wrote that if some chose Stannis’s crown over hers it would not earn them her ire nor would it end her friendship with them.

In fact, privately to her uncle, she’d added the arrangement almost ideal. The problems of the North would consume much of their resources and as vulnerable as the riverlords were, she could not offer her southern bannermen much in the ways of protection like the Neck offered the North.

Yet the army of the Vale could protect them. The Vale lords commanded the only sizeable force challenging the Iron Throne in the south and soon they would likely declare for Stannis. Should her uncle declare for Stannis as well, she had little illusions over which crown many of the riverlords would choose.

In regards to the North, Sansa had to swear her swords would be with him after her lands were set to rights and that no husband of hers would violate their pact.

“As it was before the dragons, the realm is divided, but once a strong and rightful king sits the Iron Throne, it shall be united again.” Stannis had stated as she signed the parchment. “I have little doubt of that.”

It had been a feeble threat for a man commanding so few swords yet it spoke to a problem she’d have to face in the future. If they ever managed to restore Stannis to the Iron Throne, she doubted it would be long before the Kingdom of the North found itself at war once again.

_Stannis will reward us for helping him to the throne by trying to take mine._

_I must be careful of him here on out._

Future wars and enemies mattered less to her than the ones they faced in the present. The alliance weakened the Lannisters and kept her kingdom alive, and for that she could stomach Stannis.

Yet he’d presumed too much when he had asked for hostages, namely Arya who he proposed join his daughter as a companion. Her rejection of that had been quick and immediate, for none of those Stannis could offer in return could compare to the value she placed on Arya.

_Even if he’d offered his daughter in exchange I would not give Arya away so easily._

That had not sat well with him.

Nor had her refusal to hand over Lord Wyman Manderly.

The lord stood accused of executing Stannis’s Hand, Lord Davos Seaworth, and Stannis wanted the lord given to him for trial. She could not in good sense do so until the man was healthy enough to explain his actions. While Lord Wyman was slowly improving, his fever remained and he could only speak nonsense, strange jabbering of wolves and onions. Jon said he spoke of Skaagos as well but still, it made no sense.

_I must pray he had cause for what he did._

 

_For if he doesn’t I have little recourse but to hand him over for the king’s justice, as I know father would have._

The whole thing left her in an impossible situation. Without the Manderlys, she wouldn’t be in Winterfell now. Nor could they feed the North without White Harbor’s ships.

That decision had angered the king yet compared little to his fury when he’d been presented with a prisoner he claimed as his own. It had been a shock to learn the man they’d held for weeks was truly Mance Rayder, the wildling king, a man who was supposed to be dead. He’d been found locked in the kennels when they’d taken the castle and with only his word and Theon to back his story, she hadn’t paid it much mind.

Until they’d had him brought before Stannis that was. His anger had been obvious. His claims of having seen the man burned with his own eyes must have sounded foolish to those who knew nothing of the Lady Melisandre.

_Your red witch plays tricks with the eyes, we’ve seen it ourselves._

 

In the end they’d kept Mance in their custody as well, arguing that they’d captured the man themselves. She didn’t care much for the King Beyond the Wall as a hostage. The real reason she’d kept him was that she hoped to use the wildling in future negotiations with Stannis, for she had little faith in the man not demanding more of her in the future.

 

Thinking of all this was spoiling her mood and she did not want to lose the joyful feeling she’d had since Arya’s return.

It was a feeling she wanted Jon to remember now.

“Not now Jon, please. After tonight we can worry so. Let tomorrow be a day for planning and talk. Tonight I would celebrate, with my sister next to me. I would hear her laugh and mock me.”

Her tone sounded more desperate than she meant it to but it would be sweet to have a night as such.

“And I would have a dance from a knight.”

Jon smiled at her and the look he gave her was one he usually had when they were alone. When they had freedom with each other. She knew she blushed.

“You’ll have a dance with many a lord and knight tonight my queen, but I hope to have at least one. Even for a dancer as poor as I.”

“Or I.”

Howland Reed strode toward them smiling.

Like Jon he was dressed quite nicely, garbed in a dark green tunic with the black lizard lion of his house sewn about his heart. She longed for one of the two to act as her escort into the feast tonight. Instead the honor of doing so would fall to Stannis. It was only proper and showed the king the respect he so clearly craved.

Sansa could at least walk with Howland to meet Stannis. She thought it a more personal show of respect for the lord she valued above most others.

“Ser Jon, you look to be one princess short.” Howland raised an eyebrow and looked about in mock confusion.

It was a rare thing for the lord to jest and it boded well for the evening. Jon inclined his head towards her.

“I was on my way to Arya’s when the queen distracted me.”

“Oh we will come with you!” She decided immediately. “I sent Myranda to help Arya with her gown and I’d like to see how it went before we arrive.”

Arya had no gowns with her when she arrived and none had survived the sack. Yet some had been brought for Jeyne to play her mummery and Myranda believed she could find a suitable dress among them for Arya.

Poor Jeyne would not leave the chambers set aside for her and spent most of her waking hours weeping. Sansa felt guilty that she had not been by her side but she had little time to care for her friend with Ramsay Snow still about. She would not be helping Jeyne or anyone else by neglecting her duties.

Jon stared at her as if she’d done something terrible.

“You left her with Myranda?” He asked in disbelief. “You know how Myranda is…and with Arya…oh gods.”

He began to rush towards Arya’s chambers, leaving them behind in his haste. Sansa looked at Howland who seemed as confused as she was and so they quickly followed after him.

They were still a ways from her sister’s chambers when she heard the yelling and quickened her pace. When Arya’s room was but a ways ahead, she saw Myranda rush out into the corridor, almost as if fleeing from the room. Her friend was red faced and clearly flustered, and cried out as a brush sailed by her head to hit the wall behind Sansa.

“I can brush my own bloody hair!” Arya’s voice rang out.

“Randa!” She hurried forward as Myranda looked desperately towards her.

The lady’s hair had come slightly undone and she was so out of sorts that Sansa’s heart went out to her. Jon hurried towards her as another barrage of angry shouting came forth.

“And I have no need of boys or flowers so you can go and …”

“Arya!” Jon yelled as he side stepped Myranda and went into the room. “Put that down!”

Sansa went to Myranda first, the lady grasping her hands in apology.

“Sansa, I’m sorry… she’s like Mya but even more fierce! I couldn’t…”

“Thank you Randa, truly. Howland please see the lady to her chambers so she can prepare herself. I’ll see to my sister and meet you outside the Great Hall.” Sansa spoke soothingly as she backed into Arya’s room and shut the door.

“You do look lovely.” She heard Jon say before he laughed.

Arya had come at him with a boot and he was guarding against her blows. As the two scuffled she saw the truth of Jon’s words.

Arya did look lovely.

The young girl wore a gown of grey and white and Sansa found herself staring in disbelief at how marvelous it was upon her. Arya’s riding clothes and furs had made her look more a boy than a princess yet there was no mistaking the truth now. Her sister was leaving her child’s body behind for one that was quickly taking a woman’s shape.

Her hair was a mess though.

“How could you send that woman to me? She talked about stupid things and kept picking and pulling at me!” Arya turned on her angrily with the boot still in hand but paused as her eyes locked upon her dress. “You look nice…”

_A compliment from Arya._

_Much has changed._

Her gown was of a kind with Arya’s but a darker grey with white flowers sown about the bust. She liked how well Arya and her seemed to match and silently thanked Myranda for taking care to arrange it.

“Thank you Arya. I think you look just as lovely but you should not have treated Randa so. She is a lady and my friend.”

“Your friend is stupid. I can brush my own hair and there’s nothing living in it!” Arya said as she threw the boot aside and sat upon a chair crossing her arms.

Jon laughed at the last thing so she gave him a warning look.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get along. I think you’ll grow to like her though, as I have.” She surprised herself with her patience. Usually Arya’s stubbornness irritated her so.

“May I brush your hair?”

Arya hadn’t let her do such a thing since she was three and it had not lasted long even then. It would be nice to have some moments together. So much had happened since Arya’s arrival that the three of them had spent little time together since.

Her sister lowered her eyes before she began to mumble a reply.

“I just said I could do it myself…”

“Arya.” Jon said softly and met Arya’s gaze, the two sharing some sort of unspoken conversation.

They had done such as long as Sansa could remember and it used to annoy her so. Soon enough Arya scowled and kicked her chair about so she faced the mirror again.

She smiled at Jon and gave him a look she hoped he understood.

_A promise of a proper thank you later._

He may have blushed, yet her attention was now on her sister. She stood behind Arya and began to gently smooth her tangles. Her hair was short, shorter than decorum usually dictated but it suited the girl.

She could work with such.

“Howland told me you were the image of Aunt Lyanna today. That you are as beautiful as she had been.” She said truthfully.

Howland had paled when he’d said so and Jon had eyed Arya carefully at the comparison. Possibly seeking something of his mother in her face for Jon had little enough connection to Lyanna Stark beyond Arya’s resemblance to the woman.

“Oh, well his men are nice enough. The crannogmen are great archers.” Arya smiled then, her whole face brightening. “They taught me how to shoot a bow! I think I even hit a Bolton when we were attacked.”

While her sister was pleased at such a thing it bothered her greatly.

She could see in the mirror that Jon was just as upset at the talk of the attack. They had both been wroth that the Bastard’s men had tried to ambush her. Jon had been ready to ride out then and there to seek out Arya’s party but Howland had cautioned him to wait until morning. The lord believed, with what light was left in the day, their time would be better spent preparing for a search rather than rushing out. The last Podrick had seen of Arya, she had been well protected and the bastard’s men were retreating. Howland had said that for all they knew, the princess was at their doorstep.

Even though Howland had spoken in his knowing tone, Jon had spent most of the night going over maps and having the squire tell him what he knew of the hounds’ movements. When the crannog riders had brought word of Arya’s coming it had been an answer to their prayers.

Yet it did little to calm the rage she felt when she thought of Ramsay Snow and his hounds.

 _They will be dealt with,_ she thought _, he will know the justice I’ve brought to all our enemies._

_He will share their fate._

“You’ve taken up archery as well then?” Jon asked and Arya’s smile grew even wider.

“An archer as well as a swordswoman?” Sansa asked. “It was surprising enough to learn the truth behind your dancing lessons but I hadn’t thought…”

“You told?” Arya’s happiness quickly fell away as she glared at Jon’s reflection. “You told! What was the most important rule Jon?”

“I know, I know.” He groaned. “But you wrote about Needle!”

“She wasn’t supposed to read that! You still told!”

“What rule?” She asked as she gently dealt with another tangle.

She wondered if Arya had sat so still for mother. Mother had always complained that Arya fidgeted so. Yet now she was as still as a lady while Jon took up fidgeting uncomfortably.

“When I gave her the sword, I told her… well, that she must under no reason tell a certain someone of Needle…”

It dawned on her quickly enough who that someone was. She cried out in indignation and threw the brush at him only for Jon to quickly catch it. Arya snorted back laughter as Jon begged forgiveness, holding the brush up to her like a sword hilt. She snatched it and narrowed her eyes at her traitorous knight.

As she turned to look at Arya’s reflection she saw Arya staring at something with a worried look. Following the gaze she saw her sister was staring at Jon’s hand, the one covered in the black glove. When he took notice he quickly jerked the hand down to his side, as if to hide it.

“Why are you wearing that glove?” Arya asked.

Jon shook his head and moved to put his other hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Because my hand is not something I’d have you see.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” She said quickly, fighting the urge to reach out and show Jon the truth of that.

“Well if you know why he wears it why can’t I?”

Jon sighed and knelt beside Arya.

“It’s not that you can’t, it is just not a story I’d tell right now. I think this will be a happy evening and I would do nothing to ruin it.” He said. “But I promise you, any answers you’d have of me or tales you’d hear, I will tell them. Just not tonight.”

Arya looked ready to argue further yet Jon’s unyielding gaze broke her resolve. In the end she nodded, yet the mood had changed. Jon’s scars, those they could see, were but the most obvious of his hardships. She bore her own and she didn’t doubt Arya did as well.

_Soon enough we’ll have to lay them all to bear._

_Later. Like Jon says, now is the time to celebrate._

Arya’s hair was quite presentable now and she knew they were holding up the feast from starting.

“We should hurry, all will be waiting on us.” She said, holding out her hand to help Arya rise.

As they left the chambers Arya suddenly started and whipped around.

“I’ve haven’t seen Brienne or the others since the courtyard. I have to tell them about the feast. They need to be there.”

She honestly did not know if Arya’s escort had been told of the feast, the arrangements for the celebration had been made before they’d even arrived at the castle. Her planning had focused on keeping Stannis’s and her bannermen happy and accorded their proper places. Now she felt ashamed for not sparing a thought to making a place for those who’d protected her sister on her long journey.

Apparently that task had fallen to another, her true knight acting the part yet again.

“I’ve seen to Ser Gendry and Podrick having seats on a bench near Ser Willem, a good friend.” Jon said reassuringly.

“What of Brienne?” Arya broke in. “She won’t have a gown but she never wears them so…”

“Lady Brienne will not be there Arya.”

“What!” Her sister snapped at his words. “She belongs there! If anybody is calling her a traitor…”

“Easy.” He held up his hand to calm her. “Lady Brienne was invited, I did so myself. It was her decision not to attend. She has no love for Stannis Baratheon and will not be near the man.”

Arya seemed to be as surprised by this news as Sansa was. Jon had told her nothing of this, yet she could not be troubled by such now. Every moment they delayed was another Stannis would take as an insult.

“Tomorrow I would see the lady with you Arya. I want to thank her personally.” She said to her sister, urging her onward. “There’s much I wish to know about her.”

“You should meet her…it was you she was looking for when she found me.” Arya said softly. “She talks a lot about mother…”

It both pleased and saddened her to know so. To hear stories of her mother’s time with the lady would be a treat. Any stories of her mother were welcome in truth.

Memories and stories were all they had now.

As she looked to Jon, she thought of the memories they might make one day. That was a fate she wanted no matter how difficult the path forward seemed.

Arya’s arrival had saved her from a particularly difficult moment with Myranda.

The very day Arya was returned to them a raven had come from the Gates of the Moon by way of White Harbor. Nothing was amiss, Lord Nestor Royce had only felt it necessary to send word of a betrothal he and Lady Waynwood had just recently arranged. As unhappy as Myranda had been since the departure of Ronnel Stout with the forces for Torrhen’s Square, her friend had taken great solace in learning she was to be married.

“Do you think my husband will understand if I prefer to take a different title than Lady Myranda Hardyng?” Myranda had twirled about in her dress. “Lady Myranda the Heir has a much better ring to it!”

Sansa had been overjoyed to hear the news. As much for her friend’s happiness as the advantages it offered them. Sweetrobin was her cousin and now his heir was to be married to a dear friend of hers. Having Myranda in such a position would be invaluable in any further negotiations with Stannis.

While they discussed what to put in their reply to Lord Nestor, Myranda had surprised her.

“What do you think of sending for Mya?” Her friend had asked. “Of asking my father to arrange for her to come here?”

“Mya? Here?” She had not thought of Mya in some time but hearing the name had made Sansa miss her the girl so.

“You’re a queen and in need of a court. And a court needs women to make it truly interesting.” Myranda smiled but it faltered quickly. “And poor Mya was not happy when I left. I care for her as much as she allows me and there’s so little for her in the Vale. I can’t bear the idea she’ll spend the rest of her days as a mule herder at the Gates of the Moon.”

_Mya deserves better than that, she saved Jon and I both._

_I’m only here because of a dagger she handed me._

She had immediately wanted to say yes to Myranda’s proposal but something stopped her.

“So we’d bring Mya to Winterfell and offer her what Randa?” She’d asked. “As much as we both care for Mya, she’s still a Stone. Many here would shun her. Would we just be asking her to abandon the home she knows for a strange place that is little better to a lady of her status?”

She’d hated herself for saying the words yet Myranda had not been deterred.

“Mya may be a Stone but she’s the daughter of King Robert.” Myranda said firmly. “Her father had even told mine he thought of sending for Mya to join him in King’s Landing, once. Before that sour queen of his spoke against it. Now Mya has a true queen as a friend and I have to believe we can make something better for her here. Perhaps even find someone here she could love like she loved Mychel.”

The chance of saving their friend from a life of scorn and hardship was not one she could ignore. Nor would it sit right with Sansa to turn the girl away, for it would mean acting as Cersei Lannister would.

And finding Mya a husband here in the North might not be so hard to do. Her friend was a pretty young woman and true of heart. In only moments she’d quickly thought of a match that could be ideal.

“What of Ser Willem? I’ve been thinking of offering him a holdfast and some land…”

“He’ll never accept Sansa.” Myranda had said with certainty.

“Why not? He’s always been kind to Jon and I’ve heard him speak well of Mya.”

“It’s not because of Mya.” Myranda had sighed. “You’ve never heard that tale then…well it is not one I’d speak of and I doubt Willem will accept any marriage or lands you offer.”

That had confused her but she’d no chance to ask of it for Myranda laid bare a match she already eyed for their friend.

“Speaking of your half brother, he’s earning quite the name for himself.”

At the time Myranda’s words had gladdened her. More and more people saw Jon as she did, a brave and true knight who sacrificed to spare others. What he’d done at the Twins and here in Winterfell had not gone unnoticed and Howland said both lowborn and highborn spoke his praises highly and often.

_Every day he is more a knight and less the bastard of Winterfell._

“Yes, and he’s earned more than that. I intend to reward Jon soon with the lands and titles he deserves.” She spoke truly, it was a key part of her plan for making Jon more suitable to her bannermen.

“Then all he would need is a wife, and just as much as Mya is a Stone, Jon is a Snow.” Myranda clapped her hands together. “Think of it, the half brother of a queen and the natural daughter of the king. And just like that we match your brother to a girl you see as a friend.”

Thankfully a man had interrupted them with news of Arya’s arrival and saved her from the awkward moment.

And as they came upon the Great Hall she anticipated another awkward moment in her future.

Stannis and several of his entourage awaited them outside the hall’s large doors, the man watching their coming with poorly hidden annoyance. She could already hear shouts and laughter from within the hall yet the king acted as if he heard none of it. His attire was drab and his demeanor matched his dress. She had not expected much yet it made her wish all the more it was Howland or Jon leading her to the dais.

“My lady,” Stannis said without warmth. “I have been awaiting your arrival for some time.”

“Her grace was held up on my account.” Jon quickly put in. “I apologize for it.”

No matter how sweet the effort was, she wished Jon wouldn’t antagonize Stannis. The man had accepted the alliance but could not bring himself to style her as a queen. She did in fact hold the title of Lady of Winterfell so Stannis would often style her as such and it seemed to help him accept that he had no hold over her lands. Besides, her bannermen and thousands more still called her the Queen in the North, their voices could surely drown out Stannis’s pettiness.

“Apologies and excuses. I was under the impression you had more to offer Snow.” Stannis scowled at Jon.

“Ser.” Arya spoke up.

To hear the girl correcting Stannis shocked her as well as all the others present. Arya shifted her stance some under their gaze before doing so again.

“He’s a knight. You should say ser…”

“King Stannis!” She quickly intervened. “May I present my sister, Princess Arya. Only just returned to us after great hardships and years away from court.”

She had expected Arya to have forgotten some of her courtesies yet for her to act so was distressing. Stannis couldn’t even be bothered to look at Arya as he finally acknowledged her presence.

“Your arrival caused quite the disruption. I’m sure your family is happy at your return.” Then he gestured to the large brute of a knight standing to his side. “I’d have Ser Godry Farring escort you within.”

That wasn’t how Sansa had planned things and meant to say so as politely as she could when Arya spoke out instead.

“No he won’t. I’m walking in with Jon.” Arya eyed Godry dismissively, the knight visibly taken aback at the turn of events.

“I beg your pardons ser, I have not seen my sister for two years. It would do us well.” Jon said then, putting his hand protectively on Arya’s shoulder. “If the king would grant his leave.”

Godry looked like he’d argue the fact and she prepared herself for an awkward fight when Stannis waved a hand at his knight.

“My knights are for fighting, not for a girl’s decoration. If her half-brother wishes to play that role, I care not.” Stannis put forward and offered his arm to Sansa before giving Jon a curt nod. “You once fought as a king’s man, it would be good for you to act so again.”

The thinly veiled slight against her made the mood as uncomfortable as the positioning of his arm. She had to reach up much too high to match his height and he jerked forward so suddenly Sansa almost became unbalanced.

“All hail King Stannis Baratheon, first of his name and her majesty, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North!” Ser Kyle hailed from the doorway as Stannis stiffly marched her towards the hightable.

As they entered all those seated along the hall’s long tables rose to watch their coming. Northmen, men of the Vale and Stannis’s entourage, all standing and cheering as Stannis and she made their way to the high table. Jon and Arya followed after and she saw her sister’s eyes widen in delight as they found familiar faces among the crowd.

Beside Willem stood two of Arya’s companions and Sansa was impressed at how well they were dressed. Jon must have somehow provided them with appropriate clothing for neither looked too out of place, save Podrick for his many bruises and bandaged eye.

It still amazed her that, of all people, Tyrion Lannister’s squire had somehow managed to make his way to Winterfell. She had thought him such a shy boy in the capital, as terrified of her as she was the Lannisters.

Even now his eyes widened.

Just not in fear this time.

The squire was staring at Arya in something like disbelief, his mouth hanging open until the young man at his side nudged him. She knew him to be a hedge knight and, as he raised his cup high at Arya’s coming, he seemed familiar looking in a way Sansa couldn’t place.

Behind them Howland was leading Maege and Ser Symond leading Myranda, all to share a place at the high table as well. Stannis sat to her right, Arya to her left followed by Jon, Howland and Maege. Beside Stannis sat Ser Morton, Lady Myranda and Ser Symond.

_North and south._

_First Men and Andals._

_United against our foes._

Men were still cheering them and she took note how uncomfortable Arya acted, her eyes staring downwards at the table. She grasped Arya’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Their eyes met and Arya offered her a small, unsure smile.

With that she made to stand again, pulling Arya up alongside side her. Rodwell began beating his spear staff against the floor and his guardsmen did the same until the rancor died down.

“Good men!” She did not yell, rather she tried to speak so her voice would reach the rafters where the Stark banners hung once again. “Men of the North. Men of the Vale. Indeed all men of the south present within my hall. Let us celebrate the common cause we’ve forged together. Let us celebrate King Stannis, the true heir to the Iron Throne. Let us celebrate the return of my dear sister, a gift so sweet I can never state how much!”

The cheers went up again and she smiled down at Arya so her sister would not wilt before them. The gaze between them held firm until she decided they’d had enough time to bask in the attention, Stannis deserved time of his own.

Which he dutifully wasted.

The king followed with a speech as inspiring as mud. One of rights and claims, delivered in his harsh tones that moved quickly and tolerated no chance for men to cheer even if they wanted to.

She imagined everyone could feel the good tidings being drained from the room. Jon had told her that he thought Stannis a good battle commander, yet he offered little for his people to love and she could see the truth of that now.

Mors Umber followed Stannis, rising from his place just before the dais to toast both Stannis and her own victories over the Boltons and Freys. The cheers and slamming together of cups brought the mood back to where Sansa liked.

As they ate, others proposed toasts and the hall once again rang with laughter as well as song. It reminded her of the coronation at Greywater Watch and she was saddened with the thought of those who were not here to enjoy the merriment.

She thought not only of her parents and brothers but all the others who had helped see her home.

Jeyne Stark. Galbart Glover. Hallis Mollen. Jon Redfort, the soldier Torrhen, and so many more it gave her pause.

“Sansa, are you okay?” Arya asked.

“I am fine, thank you.” She shook off the sadness to look down at the handsome hedge knight that had cheered her sister, though he was almost hidden from view behind Mors. “The knight who escorted you home is very handsome.”

“Gendry? He’s not my knight!” Her sister’s face burned red and she mumbled something Sansa did not hear.

The words ‘stupid’ and ‘pain’ were clear enough.

When the food was largely gone, Howland waved forth some of his men, having them take up playing some music on their lutes and other instruments. Rodwell had some of the tables taken from the hall to clear a space for dancing.

Etiquette would dictate that Stannis lead Sansa to the floor but the man did not show any hint of doing such, so Howland rose to ask for the pleasure of the first dance of her. Maege took Ser Symond’s offered hand and Myranda did the same for Ser Morton.

As they made their way from the dais she turned to see Jon crouched beside Arya, whispering something in her. Her sister’s eyes were on the table again and her lips were moving and Sansa thought her voice would be but a whisper. Jon pressed on and as the minstrels began to pick up a tune, Arya nodded. He rose to offer his hand and, to Sansa’s surprise, Arya took it.

Some applauded as they saw the knight lead the princess to the floor as well.

As Howland danced with her she tried to watch Jon and Arya as much as possible. Arya had never enjoyed dancing much yet she appeared to be warming to it. Jon was a gentle partner and smiled warmly at her, making jests and causing the girl to laugh.

 _I’d have that be me_ , she thought _, if we were able, I’d have him dance with me this whole night._

She hated how such things were denied her. Yet a glance to Stannis’s grim face reminded her of why they were.

When that dance ended she was denied Jon again, for Myranda was quick to steal the next dance with him and Howland had offered his hand to Arya. Her sister looked ready to bolt back to the dais when the lord said something that caught her attention. As Ser Morton stepped forward with a wide smile and offered Sansa a dance she saw Arya accept Howland’s offer as well.

It went on like that for quite a while, the two Stark girls enjoying several dances between them. Arya would only dance with Jon or Howland but she could not be so discriminating. Even Mors led her through the steps at one point but when she saw Ser Lyn approaching she decided it was time to rest.

Long after Stannis had retired, Sansa and Arya were back upon the dais sipping on wine, the sisters laughing at the antics of Mors and Willem.

They had begun singing a boisterous version of the Bear and the Maiden Fair when Myranda, who never seemed to tire, approached their table with a devilish grin. The lady stopped just before where Ser Gendry and Podrick sat singing along before taking notice of the woman.

“I need a new partner for a dance! I can think of one no finer than the man who risked his life to bring our princess home!” She called out and men began to hoot.

Arya’s face fell a little at that while Ser Gendry nervously held up his hands in an attempt to protest. It was all for naught when Myranda revealed who she truly sought. The hedge knight was left in peace as Myranda grabbed the squire’s hands, pulling Podrick from his seat onto the floor.

Sansa had laughed and clapped with the rest while Arya almost shot wine out of her nose. The laughter climbed to the roof of the hall as the buxom, loud woman led the absolutely terrified squire about the floor.

It was later still before Jon and her would finally have their dance.

When he came forward and begged her leave for a dance she feigned exhaustion and made it as difficult for him as possible. When she finally relented and they came together on the dance floor she realized it would be the first time they’d danced since the bogs.

She thought one of the minstrels must have been there that day for he struck up the same song that had played during that sweet memory.

_I will have that man knighted._

Jon’s touch was gentle and his grey eyes were filled with warmth and tenderness. It was too cruel that he smiled so handsomely, she would have so loved to kiss him.

“You were so good to Arya tonight.” She said instead. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her enjoy dancing.”

“Am I so horrible a partner that you expected she wouldn’t?” He feigned insult and she laughed.

“You know what I mean.” She went back to staring into his eyes. “Do you remember this song?”

“Of course I do, it took my humming like a fool for quite some time for the man to figure out which one I asked about.”

_You cannot kiss him._

_Not now._

She was touched of course, she even felt a tingling sensation radiating throughout her body. Yet she blamed such on the wine. She blamed his boldness for her own as she began to tease him.

“You were so sure I’d save a dance for you? It’s so late, what if I was too tired?”

“I am surprised you aren’t!” He smiled. “I needed to learn the song anyways for I’d have it played at our…”

With that he halted, her knight almost blushing at what he had almost said. To speak so freely when others were about was a rare thing for him. Yet with the tingling warmth and wine flowing through her she couldn’t find a worry to spare.

Instead she let the hope for what Jon implied fill her heart as she smiled up at him.

“That dance will be yours as well. That and more.”

After that they spoke little more, letting the music speak for them. Sansa merely cherishing every touch they did not have to hide, and every moment she could pretend it was a wedding they danced at instead.

It was a dream she never wanted to wake from.

* * *

 

**ARYA**

“Arya, what if she is not awake?” Gendry groaned as he ambled behind her.

“Be quiet! Why can’t you be quiet like Pod?”

Pod hadn’t uttered more than five words since she’d called on the pair’s chambers but Gendry had been complaining the whole time. The two had followed after her in the end, but Gendry’s arguments continued the whole way. About it being too early and having drank too much wine at the feast and other excuses of the like.

All things that mattered less than what she had planned. She told Gendry to blame Pod for letting her know where they were being quartered in the first place.

The squire had also known where Brienne had bedded down and she announced that that would their next stop. They came to the doors of Brienne’s rooms quickly after.

_No thanks to Gendry’s whining._

“Hey!” He rasped at her. “I mean it. What if she’s still sleeping and we’re interrupting…”

She rolled her eyes at him as she knocked on the chamber door.

“This is Brienne. When was she not the first to wake?”

“The lady rarely sleeps in.” Pod offered as he balanced a number of training swords in his arms. “But I think…”

He let out a yelp as one of the training swords he carried tipped off and fell to the floor, clattering loudly. A man from another roomed yelled for quiet.

And then another voice called out from behind the door they were gathered around.

“Enter if you must.”

She wrenched the door open and saw Brienne putting the final parts of her armor on. The lady hadn’t gone to the feast, yet Arya was surprised to see that she was so exhausted that she looked little better than Gendry did now. Her color was drained, there were dark circles under her eyes, and overall the woman just looked like she slept little if at all.

“Arya…it is early.” Brienne shook her head.

“I know, but I wanted to show you the training yard and I hadn’t seen you since yesterday.” She said suddenly feeling less sure that this had been a good idea.

 _I hate when Gendry is right,_ she thought _, it happens at the worst times._

“The Queen gave her blessing for us to train?”

Brienne came to the doorway, taking stock of the pair without. Gendry was slumped against the wall in his armor and Pod was trying to balance the swords with only the one eye to check his progress.

“I talked to Sansa about swords and archery last night and she was fine with me doing so.”

It wasn’t truly a lie, she had talked about those things with Sansa and her sister had said nothing against her training.

“Besides, during the ride, you promised I could show you all the yards when we got to Winterfell.”

When Brienne closed her eyes and sighed she knew she’d won. All those years she’d watched Robb and Jon in the castle yards, wanting to join in, and now she could do so with partners of her very own.

Partners who deserved Winterfell’s yards more than most.

_The yards are the perfect place for Gendry to become the knight he wants to be._

_Pod will get stronger and no one will hurt him or take him away again._

_And Brienne can see how good we all get and won’t worry or cry at night anymore._

_Everything will be better._

Those thoughts echoed in her head as she led their way through the castle.

It was early, so there were few people besides guards and servants who were awake to stare as Arya’s group made their way to the training yard. She thought they probably looked quite fearsome. They surely looked strong with Brienne armored as she was and Gendry carrying his warhammer about upon his shoulder. She liked to think Pod and she added something to the view as well. With the one-eyed squire carrying almost an armory in his arms and her marching about in her tunic and breeches with Needle at her side.

She felt herself swell with pride.

 _No sewing circles for me anymore_ , she thought, _only the training yards._

Her hopes fell a bit as they neared the yard and she could hear the sounds of others practicing. She’d woken this early so they could have the yard to themselves and sharing didn’t appeal to her all.

That is, until she saw who was practicing there and her heart leapt.

For there were only two combatants in the yard and one was a knight she desperately wanted to impress.

Jon was sparing with the short knight who’d sat next to Gendry and Pod at the feast. The pair moving about each other so quickly they were a blur of armor and swords, small clouds of white mist erupting as the men breathed heavily.

Her brother had just knocked the other knight backwards and prepared to charge him when his opponent started favoring one foot and cursing.

“Oh you bloody cheat you stepped on my bad foot!” The knight cursed, his face twisted in pain.

Jon made no effort to lower his blade and shook his head.

“That’s the wrong foot and you know it.”

“Oh. Remembered that did you?” The man’s face changed quickly into a smile, raising his sword up again before his eyes flicked over to them. “It seems we have an audience Wolf.”

The knight bowed quickly and when Jon saw them he did the same, which annoyed her.

_That’s a silly thing to do. I’m his sister why should he bow?_

“Arya, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to continue my lessons, like you said I could.”

When everyone else at the feast had started getting up to dance, leaving her with that sore arse of a king, it had been Jon that came to her.

“Can I beg a dance of you, my princess?”

“Don’t call me that…I’m not a princess.” She’d whispered to him. “Princesses can dance…”

“As a knight in service to House Stark, I swear to defend you against any stumbles.” He’d replied before whispering something more. “And if you give me this dance I’ll talk to Sansa about letting you continue your lessons.”

She liked to think she would’ve said yes without the offer. Or that he would’ve still helped her with Sansa if she had said no. Either way they’d ended up dancing and it hadn’t been as bad as she feared. Jon’s steps were easy to follow, a lot like following your opponent’s moves in a duel.

Still, it had been nice to dance with her brother. He had never been allowed to do so before they left Winterfell.

When they’d finished, it had been Lord Reed to come ask her to dance next but he wasn’t Jon and she’d wanted to say no.

“I heard you’ve taken up the bow. My daughter always preferred the spear herself.” Lord Reed had said, gazing at her with his sad green eyes. “She was not comfortable dancing at first either. I taught her myself…I don’t know if she ever had a chance to dance in this hall when she came to Winterfell…”

That had made her sad for the lord. He didn’t have a daughter to dance with and her father was dead. It didn’t seem such a bad thing for them to have a dance then. He hadn’t stepped on her feet and asked about her archery training so it had been a pleasant thing.

Jon had smiled as he watched them.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“I did not have a chance to speak with Sansa last night about your training.” He said, sounding disappointed in her. “I will do so but…”

“Please Jon? I talked about this the whole way here.” She took a step forward looking about the yard. “It’s my home too…”

He frowned at that, sharing a glance with Willem. The shorter man was taking a long look at her group with an amused expression and when he met Jon’s gaze he merely shrugged.

“Sounds interesting. Never seen a princess fight before.”

With that Jon’s face softened and he came forward to hug her. It didn’t embarrass her that he did so. Gendry had seemed impressed at Jon’s handling of his sword and Arya was proud of her brother.

As Jon broke their embrace he welcomed her friends, singling out Brienne and giving her a nod.

“My lady, you were missed at the feast.”

“Thank you ser, for saying so but… the rest was needed.” Brienne sounded awkward. “Would you mind if I see to Arya and Podrick’s training here?”

“It is not my yard to control and I’m not one to argue with royalty.” He grinned despite her hissing at him. “I’d beg a favor though, if Ser Gendry is willing, I’d ask him to take my place against Willem. I think he’s become bored with me.”

Jon’s words caused Ser Willem to nod gravely.

“Can’t stand the man, it’s the smell.”

Gendry seemed to stand taller then and she was glad of her brother. Gendry was a knight. It would be good for him to practice with other knights.

 _And now he won’t have to spar with Brienne,_ she thought _, and she can spar with me._

That was hoping for too much though.

Brienne set Pod and her to sparring while Gendry faced off against the short knight. Jon’s eyes were on her match against the squire, who was doing well despite his injuries. She was torn between wanting to impress Jon and not taking advantage of her friend’s hurts. In the end she tried something in the middle, only attacking Pod from the side he could see from and it made her work all the harder to gain the upper hand.

Jon and Brienne watched the whole time, speaking softly to one another as the others practiced, calling out pointers or instructions now and then.

They’d been at it well over an hour before she stopped to watch Gendry have a go with Jon. She felt nervous about the whole thing, not truly wishing either would win but fearful of how they would acquit themselves.

Gendry was just as tall as Jon, maybe a little taller, yet thicker in muscle, able to wield his warhammer with great ease. If Jon was struck with it, he could be badly hurt but Jon insisted on Gendry using it during their bout.

Gendry was the one she truly worried for though. She knew Jon was fast from all the years watching him train with Ser Rodrik Cassel and Gendry hadn’t grown up in a castle with a master-at-arms.

It was a simple truth that became obvious during the match.

Gendry was mostly attack, using his size and power to try and force Jon where he wanted. It didn’t work though, for Jon was quick and evasive, staying ahead of most of the warhammer’s blows. Gendry didn’t lose heart though and after a great many misses, one of his swings finally bore fruit. The warhammer struck Jon’s shield soundly, smashing it half to pieces.

She gasped and she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s lost.” Brienne said quietly.

At first Arya thought she meant Jon had lost.

She hadn’t.

And Jon proved it but a moment later. The strength Gendry had put behind the blow had also thrown him off balance. By the time he’d found it again Jon had thrown off his shield and recovered. Gendry’s surprise at finding Jon’s sword pointed at his chest would have been funny if a dark thought hadn’t entered Arya’s mind.

_In a true fight he would be dead now._

“I yield.” Gendry let the hammer fall to his side before shaking his head. “I’m better at forging weapons than wielding them...”

“Don’t be so sure.” Jon reached down to pick up the remains of his ruined shield and held it in front of him. “If this had been a real fight, you would not have held back and I may have felt too exposed to attack as I did. Since it was only sparring, I chanced it. A good match ser.”

Gendry didn’t look convinced so Jon stood astride him and held his shield to his body.

“If I was on a horse, holding my shield like this, any number of your strikes would’ve knocked me off. And I imagine your down stroke is something to be feared.”

Arya beamed at how much a warrior Jon had become. Even more so because he wouldn’t let Gendry feel poor just because he’d never had a practice yard as a boy.

Jon and Brienne were preparing for a bout and Ser Willem was showing Pod and her a move to disarm an opponent when loud laughter echoed throughout the yard.

She jerked around to see three armored men coming towards them. It was obvious they weren’t Northmen and she quickly recognized the one laughing as the big idiot Stannis had wanted to march her into the feast.

_Ser Godry Far-from-I-give-a-damn or something._

“Is this the army we are to fight the Others with Clayton? Bastard knights, children and a maid?” Godry joked as another brutal looking knight joined in and laughed.

She didn’t like the way that one looked at her. It reminded her of how Rorge would look at her at Harrenhal.

Ser Willem began chuckling as he walked between her and the new arrivals. The knight appeared to be slowly counting on his fingers.

“Considering how few men you have left I’d think you’d be happy for any help you could get. Personally, I’m excited to serve alongside men such as Godry the Snarkstrangler.”

“Giantslayer.” Godry growled.

He stepped so close to Willem they almost touched. Godry had more than a head on the shorter knight who began laughing again.

“My apologies, I must have sounded foolish.”

Arya laughed and Godry’s face burned.

“Princesses should be playing with dolls not swords.” The brutal looking man said, suddenly taking a few steps towards her and something felt wrong about his movement. “The world is not a safe place for little girls.”

Without thinking, she raised her sword and the man stopped in his tracks. For the briefest of moments she thought him scared of her. Until she felt the hand on her shoulder and saw Brienne beside her. Gendry was moving to her right and Jon was circling around to her left.

“And knights, Ser Clayton, should know better than to approach a princess without the leave of her guards.” Jon said as he finished strapping his sword belt back around his waist, a real sword hanging from it now. “It is not safe to do otherwise.”

“I’ve no need of lectures on knighthood from a bastard.”

“He is Ser Jon the Wolf.” She snapped.

“Arya.” Brienne’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “Let your brother handle this.”

“We’re sorry to intrude, princess.” The third man finally spoke, his face was scarred and his shield displayed three moths upon it. “It has been some time since we had access to a proper yard.”

With men like this around Arya didn’t have to wonder why Stannis seemed so sour all the time. She hated that it was Thimble she held instead of Needle. If there was a fight, she wanted to be as much help as she could.

Yet Jon seemed to be doing everything he could to keep that from happening.

“Forgive me good sers, I’ve been remiss.” Jon gestured to the two men. “Arya this is Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Clayton Suggs, both in service to King Stannis, they missed the feast in their attempts to search for Ramsay Snow.”

“Someone has to set this land to rights.” Ser Clayton grumbled but Jon ignored it.

“Ser Richard, we’ve had the yard for quite a while now and I think the Queen would want us to allow her guests use of it.” He walked towards Willem, and leaning in to speak to the knight who continued to meet Godry’s stare. “Some of us have yet to break our fast and now is as good a time as any.”

_Why should we leave? Winterfell is our home._

_They can go out and train in the snow for all I care._

Arya started to say something when Brienne hissed and shook her head.

“If you say so Wolf.” Willem shrugged and turned his back on Godry.

“We appreciate the courtesy ser.” Ser Richard walked on by them with the slightest of nods in her direction. “Let’s get to this Clayton…you too Godry.”

Yet Godry had different plans, as Brienne and Jon made to usher their group from the yard the idiot reached out and grabbed her brother’s arm.

“Oh come now, stay awhile longer.” Godry crossed his arms before him. “Let me test the skills of Ser Snow.”

 _Jon should fight him_ , she thought, _big stupid aurochs deserves it_.

Once again Jon surprised her, and not in the good way.

“I fear not today good ser, enjoy your exercise.” He said before waving for the others to follow him from the yard.

As they walked by the intruders, she heard Godry saying something about how Jon truly did fear and Clayton’s laughter made her tremble in anger. Ser Richard said nothing, merely watching their going in his intense manner.

As they walked towards the Great Hall she was filled with anger. They had just been chased from the yard when they had every right to keep using it.

_It is our castle why should we leave the yard?_

_And Jon just let that man insult him. Let that idiot make a fool out of him._

Gendry and Pod were speaking with Ser Willem and Jon was once again speaking with Brienne in hushed tones. None seemed bothered except her and that made her even angrier. Jon slowed his pace to come beside her then.

“You’re upset about what happened.” He said quietly, as if reading her mind.

“I’m not hungry and I wasn’t done training. Neither were you.”

“I didn’t want Godry and Clayton to start something that could have made things very ugly here.”

“Why didn’t you just fight that idiot?” She stopped, staring up at him with her fists clenched. “You could’ve fought him at least!”

Everyone else had stopped as well and others in the courtyard were now watching them as well. She wouldn’t let them feel awkward and Jon didn’t act bothered at all. Instead he knelt to look her in the eye as he spoke.

“Because that’s what Godry wanted and I didn’t feel much like appeasing him. Besides, had I won, it would have angered him. Sansa has just made an alliance with those men, I would try to keep them pleasant towards us.”

His words angered her even more. He sounded like father when the Lannisters had come to Winterfell. Anytime those monsters insulted their home or did something horrible, somehow she was wrong for thinking they should be punished.

“Who cares if they are happy?”

“Sansa does and she’s right to do so.” He said. “If I must endure an insult or two to help her I will.”

_Help Sansa? After all the times she insulted and ignored him?_

_I’m the one who loved him no matter who his mother was._

“Since when do you care what Sansa thinks? She never cared what you thought!”

Jon started some at that and she saw something cloud over his eyes then. “Arya, that was long ago and you are acting foolishly. I’m a knight who fights for House Stark so I care very much what Sansa…”

The way he was shaking his head, acting disappointed in her, reminded her of father. Of a time before, when he didn’t fight and paid dearly. Her anger was already boiling and something exploded in her.

“Then act like a knight! Fight! You just gave up and looked craven!”

“Arya!”

Brienne’s words were sharp and she knew right away she’d gone too far. The hurt that flashed across Jon’s face told her she’d hurt him. She’d seen that look when her own mother or others would say cruel things to him. It was gone quickly but she knew how quickly Jon could hide what upset him.

He rose and backed away from her.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.” He said quickly, before pulling lightly on his tunic. “I am not in a proper way to take a meal anyways, if you’d excuse me.”

With that Jon turned and walked away. She should’ve said something then but she didn’t. She was filled with shame and knew the others were looking at her. Her eyes began to water and her hands were clutching her tunic tightly.

It hadn’t truly been anything Jon had done. The way he’d acted had reminded her of father and it had brought back something she didn’t like to think about. Of how father had seemed beaten and scared at the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. How Joffrey and others mocked him and made him beg. Deep down, she knew father could have beaten any of them if he was free.

Instead he’d given up and they’d killed him.

_And because they hurt father, you hurt Jon._

_He loves you and you call him craven on the second day of seeing him._

_They called you Darkheart because it’s true._

“He’s heard worse princess.” Willem broke the silence. “I promise you, your words were wind to him.” He sounded almost convincing. “Come, let’s go eat…”

Brienne cut off the knight’s words as she stepped in front of her. Arya looked into the woman’s wide blue eyes and saw no anger there.

“Go and tell him what you would Arya.” Brienne said softly. “It is not worth letting it go unsaid.”

“He wouldn’t want me to…” She wiped at her eyes. “I said too much already.”

“I saw how he held you yesterday and know how much you wished to be with him again. Go and tell him before you regret it.” Brienne turned then. “We shall leave the princess to her business. Ser, if you would lead the way?”

Willem hesitated for but a moment before Brienne held out her arm as if to bid him go forward. Soon enough he did so with Brienne and the others following after. As she watched them walk away she knew the lady was right. Even if Jon didn’t want her apology she would let him know she was sorry anyways.

When they were young, no one ever apologized to him and she could at least be better than that.

As she thought to seek him out it came to her she hadn’t seen which way he had gone.

_You insulted him… where did he always go when others would do such to him before?_

The answer was clear enough and in a way she was glad of it. Apologizing would be easier to do there and she had not been to see that place since returning to the castle.

When she arrived in the godswood her path took her straight to the old weirwood. It stood as it had since she was a child and she thanked the old gods for it. She was happy to see the godswood was untouched by the war unlike everything else about her home.

_And me._

It was a surprise to find Jon wasn’t where Arya thought he’d be. She’d expected her brother to be beneath the heart tree yet there was nothing there but a bit of snow. For half a moment the past came back to her. She could almost see father sitting there instead, cleaning Ice, looking up at her with his grey eyes.

Then she heard sounds of armor clanking from towards the hot springs and looked towards it. Through the steam rising from the pools of water she saw someone moving about. As she came closer she saw it was Jon. He’d already pulled off his tunic and armor and was piling it all about some rocks.

She began to call out to him when he lifted his shirt off and the cry died in her throat. Arya blinked in shock at what she saw.

Jon’s back was crisscrossed with long, ugly scars. She counted over a score of them at least and they looked just like the marks she’d seen on prisoners at Harrenhal.

_Those people were whipped… they screamed so all through the night…_

Before she could stop it, an image of Jon screaming out as a lash hit him came into her mind. When he turned to throw his shirt on the pile she saw more scars across his front as well. There were fewer of them but they were larger and more jagged.

Like the kind made by blades.

_Oh Jon._ _What did they do to you?_

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When he rode out for her he looked fine. Like no one had been able to hurt him. Except for the mysterious injury to his hand that he hid, she’d hoped he had seen no pain.

Not like what she had seen. She’d hoped they hadn’t gotten to him too.

Her eyes were filling with tears and Jon must have heard something because he looked back at her. He froze before her eyes and seemed surprised to see her.

“Arya…what is…”

“I’m sorry!” Arya cried as she ran over and wrapped her arms around him. “I didn’t mean it Jon! I’m sorry they hurt you! I didn’t know they hurt you and you’re not…”

“Hush girl, hush.” Jon said and he put his arms around her. “I knew you didn’t mean it. I know you well enough. I am fine.”

“No you’re not.”

She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. The scars were right in front of her and she glared at them.

Jon quickly reached down and picked his shirt up to throw back over his head.

“They’re ugly, I know, but they do not hurt. All have healed. I’d have a hundred more if it meant having some things back that were lost to me.” He said softly.

Arya thought she knew what Jon meant by things he’d lost but she wanted to know about who had hurt him. And how it had happened.

“You told me…you said you’d tell me about them…”

“I did.” He eyed her carefully for a moment. “I guess now is as good a moment as any.”

With that he pulled his tunic to lay on the ground and sat upon it, patting the spot next to him. She sat next to him and waited, watching him carefully as he looked out over the steaming water. His shirt was undone enough that she could see two of the scars upon his chest.

“How did you get those ones?”

He followed her gaze and reached to touch at them, as if touching them helped somehow.

“Bad memories.” He called them. “Gifts from Loras Tyrell.”

_The Knight of Flowers? The one Sansa had loved so much?_

_He acted so perfect and he almost killed Jon, how could she have been so stupid?_

Deep down she knew it was wrong to blame Sansa but she couldn’t help it. Her sister had loved that monster Joffrey and he’d killed father and she had said how handsome Ser Loras was and now apparently he’d almost killed Jon.

_The next one she loves won’t get a chance, I’ll see him dead if he even thinks it._

As she made that promise Jon did as he had promised. He pointed about on his chest talking about the scars she couldn’t see. The small scar was from an arrow at the Blackwater. The ugly one near his stomach from a Karstark man who had tried to gut him. The new one on his side from a Bolton spear as he took the castle. The whip marks and burned hand were from the Freys. 

She thought of the men begging in the cold and her whole body tensed.

“I’m glad I killed them.”

“What?” Jon asked.

“I killed some Freys and I’m glad I did, not just for what they did to mother and Robb…but for you too.”

Jon was confused so she told him the story of finding the men in the woods. He listened quietly and said nothing after she finished the tale. His silence made her worry he thought the worst of her.

“You did what needed to be done. You’re a lot like Sansa.”

She didn’t mean to laugh. And Jon didn’t find it funny.

“Sansa has taken lives. I would have thought someone would have said something of it during your stay with the Blackfish.”

Arya had heard what Sansa let Ghost do to Walder Frey at the Twins and that she’d had all the Freys who hurt their family lose their heads. Maybe it was the same as she’d done with the Freys but she had killed men herself as well. Sansa had only ever told people to kill for her, and that made them strong, not her. It wasn’t the old way of their father and the old gods to let others do the killing.

When she said as much Jon sighed.

“Sansa has had to do the same.”

“She killed someone?” She didn’t believe it. “Do you mean Joffrey?”

“No, she’s innocent of that charge. Sansa killed Petyr Baelish and she stabbed him herself. To avenge your father and save my life. If it was not for her, I’d be dead now.”

He told her then of Littlefinger and how the monster had arranged father’s death. And how Sansa had been his prisoner before learning the truth. By then Jon had come to the Vale and he told the story as if Sansa had saved them both.

Arya saw then how close Jon and Sansa had become. It had been obvious they were warmer with each other than they’d even been as children. They smiled at one another, she laughed at his jests and they had even danced at the feast. None of that would have ever happened two years ago. Back then, Sansa never had much to say about Jon and if she did it was usually what mother had said and that was formal at best and unkind at other times.

 _She never acted so kind to me either_ , she thought, _she’s changed a lot._

To her it was more than a change though, it was almost like the Sansa she knew hadn’t come back from the south.

 _Neither did Lady,_ she thought _, or the girl I was._

The thought bothered her and the silence must have spoken to it because Jon laid a hand upon her head with a sad expression.

“You’ve seen my scars Arya. You can’t see what was done to Sansa…and I’m guessing I can’t see what was done to you. None of us are innocent…nor are we guilty. We’re here and we’re together. That’s enough.” He ran his hands through her hair. “It was kind of you to let Sansa brush your hair, I was proud of you. It made her happy.”

_Not with all my tangles I bet._

“It wasn’t so bad…I mean she was kind about it. She was really nice at the feast too.”

She thought back and realized Sansa hadn’t scolded her once during the feast, even after the argument with the chesty fool. The old Sansa would have done so. She would have mocked her for her swordplay or for talking of archery as well. Instead of scolding Arya for her dancing or spilling her wine, Sansa had laughed with her.

“I liked it.” She admitted to both Jon and herself. “I had fun with her.”

“I’m glad to hear so.” Sansa’s voice came from behind them.

Sure enough her sister was standing there watching them and she wasn’t alone. To either side of her stood Ghost and Nymeria. The she-wolf wasn’t as close to her sister as Ghost was and Sansa was petting the white wolf’s head softly for it.

“A man can have no privacy in this castle it would seem.” Jon said as he collapsed back upon the ground with a noise of frustration. “I’ll have to go the bathhouse then, I can’t have Ser Willem joking about my smell again.”

Arya laughed some at that before she saw Sansa was looking at him with a bit of frustration.

“I had to follow the wolves to find you. You were not in your chambers when I sought you out.” Sansa said.

_Sansa had sought me out? What did I do?_

She remembered quickly enough what Sansa had said during the feast last night.

“Sansa I’m sorry! I forgot about you wanting to thank Brienne. I woke early to show her the yard and…”

“And wandered about the castle with no one knowing where you were.” She frowned. “You made me worry…”

“She takes after her sister then.” Jon jumped to his feet and went over to his pile of clothes. “I recall a queen wandering about the castle without her guards often enough. As it happens, she seems fairly unguarded at the moment.”

“Don’t do that.” Sansa said almost pleadingly. “You two always did this before when we had arguments…”

“Did what?” Jon asked with a teasing smile, so unlike any look he ever her gave Sansa before.

“You’d take each other’s side and tease me about all sorts of things behind my back, don’t think I didn’t know!” Sansa said with that turned-up ‘Lady’ look that Arya remembered her giving before. It was so nice to see, even if Sansa only ever looked that way when she was very annoyed by something Arya did.

“You always acted as if everything I said was silly and wrong…”

“It usually was!” Jon and Arya said at the same time.

With that and how Sansa was acting Arya’s heart was near to bursting. It felt that good to see not everything had changed. She smiled to see Sansa getting flustered with them.

“I was not always wrong!” Sansa put her hands on her hips. “And it was more than just arguments! You two would always gang up on me at games and…”

Sansa let out a shriek as a pile of snow struck her square in the chest. Jon laughed as he pushed together another snowball in his hand.

“Snow fights? That’s what you meant right?”

Arya was laughing at Sansa’s panicked efforts to brush off the snow when Jon let the second one fly.

Right into the side of Arya’s head.

“Traitor!” She yelled and bent down to make her own weapon as another sailed by.

It had been years since she’d made a snowball but it came back quickly. She packed it tightly until it fit her hand perfectly and she let fly at the knight who was rushing for cover behind a tree. The throw was good, her aim true and it struck him square in the back of his stupid head.

Sansa laughed loudly as she began collecting a handful of snow herself and Arya ran forward. Jon was still shaking the snow from his hair when she lunged at him, trying to knock him over. He barely budged until Sansa joined her and together they sent Jon tumbling backwards. The three fell together into a pile of snow and Sansa quickly shove her handful down the front of his shirt.

“Mercy!” He cried as Arya made to toss more on him. “This is not a fair…oh gods! That’s cold!”

The wolves were now wrestling about on the ground near them. Ghost’s attempts at rescuing Jon cut off by Nymeria, the two nipping and growling at each other.

It didn’t worry her though.

They were family.

They wouldn’t hurt each other.

No matter who else tried to, she knew that.

 

**BRIENNE**

_What are you doing?_

It was the hundredth time she had asked herself the question but still Brienne continued on to her goal. The hood of her cloak hid her face well enough whilst giving her a narrow view of her path between the tents.

She could not risk the possibility of being recognized. Some of Stannis’s men had defected to his side after Renly’s murder and might be able to name her by sight. It was a grim comfort to think that so few of those turncloaks still remained after the Blackwater but she would still not risk raising alarm.

Not with what she planned to do.

_You’re outside the walls._

_It will bring no shame to the Starks._

The king had been given bread and salt within the castle so he enjoyed the protection of the Starks within their walls.

_But I’m not a Stark, my oath is fulfilled and he is no longer in the castle._

How she would kill Stannis did not matter, only that she had this chance and would take it.

She had fully intended to join the others for a meal after leaving Arya’s side. Her hunger was soon forgotten though when she caught sight of Stannis riding across the courtyard and towards the gates.

There was little doubt in her mind he would return to his camp outside the walls and her decision was made before she fully comprehended the task in front of her.

Her excuse for leaving the others had probably been poor but she hadn’t cared. None had tried to stop her although Podrick had looked ready to try. No one else could be involved in this task, she’d not risk their lives for her vengeance.

 _It is justice_ , she reminded herself, _for the murder of a man you…_

_A good man and king._

Brienne knew moving freely through Stannis’s camp was out of the question so she’d set about acquiring a disguise. She’d found one at the stables, managing to convince a Florent guardsman to give over his cloak after she offered five times its worth in coin.

Which now left her quite poor.

_You’ll have no need of coin after this._

The camp was surprisingly easy to move through. No guards had challenged her entry, perhaps because she’d come from the castle and they feared an attack from the woods more.

There were also many northmen about. Men who now called Sansa Stark their queen. If there was any urgency to reorganizing the tents along those lines it did not show. When Brienne had first ridden through Stannis’s camp her eyes had scanned the men and tents along their path for any hint of threat against Arya. While doing so, to her shame, she had tried her best to seek out a pavilion larger than the others.

One fit for a king.

And she’d found it.

A sentinel pine and the smoke of a cooking fire was her cover as she stared at Stannis’s dwelling. Brienne leaned against the tree and made the wine skin in her hand as obvious as she could. To others she hoped to appear as but a drunken man-at-arms and not someone to give a second glance to. Two men stood guard without Stannis’s tent as stained banners showing the flaming stag flew limply in the wind beside them.

_Only two but there could be more inside._

_And the sounds of battle could draw others._

The king’s tent was set apart from the rest yet not so far as to stop men from running to his aid. She knew little enough of the men who followed Stannis except to say three who could offer her trouble were within the castle. If Brienne could deal with the guards quickly then there’d be time enough for just Stannis and herself.

She would strike clean and true so what happened after would no longer matter.

_Nothing about this would be clean or true._

_You’re acting more an assassin than a true warrior._

_Father would be disgusted with you._

Brienne shook her head against her own doubts. Her body was already taxed and she would not allow her worries to add to her burdens. What little sleep she’d had the night before left her feeling drained and the morning practice had not helped matters. Nor had skipping that meal.

As if on cue her empty stomach growled and she drank of the skin of water to calm it some. The hunger was nothing compared to the hatred she felt towards Stannis. The dark dreams from the night before had reminded her of that. In them she’d watched the shadow kill Renly over and over. Each time she had been helpless to stop it, as she’d been pinned down by a beast long dead. Trapped as she was beneath Biter, who took mouthful after mouthful of her flesh, she could only watch as Renly was murdered in a vicious loop.

The shadow eventually became Stannis himself who then laid his shadow blade against Arya’s throat. And then Pod was screaming as the shadows tore him away from her. Biter chewing the whole time. Stannis watching, his blue eyes cold and malevolent.

After that Brienne had given up on sleep. She had been awake long before Arya and the others arrived at her chamber door.

_I should have sent her away. I would not be standing so poorly if I had._

Yet the girl’s face had been so full of earnestness she could not bring herself to deny her a practice. The thought that it could be one of the last times she might ever have with Podrick and Arya had bid her to go with them.

_They are in a castle full of skilled warriors._

_Someone else can take up their lessons._

_They won’t miss you._

Four men emerged from Stannis’s tent then and she muttered a silent prayer to the warrior for having waited. As they walked away Brienne steeled herself for action. She would pull back her hood when she approached, to draw less suspicion from the guards. It would be better if she didn’t appear to be hiding anything. If they reacted before Brienne was close enough, it would be the sword then and everything after would depend on it.

She checked Oathkeeper and the sword slid up and down easily in its sheath. The blade would not stick.

_I have kept all my oaths save this one. A night without rest is the least of my worries, for I cannot rest until this is done._

_Arya, Podrick, you will do better without me._

_Jaime, we shall share the title of Kingslayer it seems._

With that, she began her act of murder. She had taken but two steps forward when something yanked hard on her cloak.

“No, ser.”

She spun at the quiet voice and saw Podrick standing there, her cloak in his hands pulling her back towards the tree. His bandaged and bruised face full of worry.

_He cannot be here._

“Podrick, get back to the castle.” She choked out, glancing back to see if the guards had noticed her yet.

They didn’t appear to have seen them so she grabbed her cloak and yanked to free herself from the boy’s grasp. He held firm. His battered face furrowed in desperation.

“Please ser, my lady, don’t.” He pleaded with her. “You can’t do this.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I have matters with the king so return to the castle right now.”

“You’re going to try and kill him…you’re going to die.” Podrick’s one eye began staring deeply into hers as he tightened his grip, stepping backwards. “I won’t let you. I can’t…”

“Podrick you must go!”  
  
“Not again!” He struggled as they both tugged on the cloak. “You can’t leave me. Tell me to help, I will. I’ll go in there with you but I won’t leave you. I’m your squire!”

“Pod, go!”

She shoved him then, harder than she meant to and something twisted within her. Podrick flew backwards and landed hard upon the ground with a pathetic grunt. The guards had taken notice of her now, both watching with their hands upon their weapons. The squire scrambled across the snow to grab her leg, she almost kicked out against him before his face tilted up to her as if to beg. He was weeping and holding her boot desperately.

“It would be better when I found you… they were always cutting… always screaming… but I knew I’d find you… I knew it would stop…”

“Podrick you must…”

“What happens there?” One of the guards yelled to them. “Give us your name!”

She watched as another man exited the pavilion and more emerged from nearby tents. Many and more of them already armed. There was no chance of getting to Stannis now. There may not even be a chance of Pod or her surviving this.

“Be it assassins?”

“Is it the Bastard of Bolton?”

“Protect the king!”

Men were closing in on them so Brienne reached down and yanked Pod to his feet, sheltering him behind her as she put their backs to the tree.

“Do not touch your weapon unless you have to.” She said quietly, counting as many as five and ten drawn swords approaching her. Perhaps as many as ten spears.

_Too many._ _Far too many._

Even if they ran she doubted they would be able to outpace these men. She hoped perhaps she could hold them off long enough for Podrick to make it but as she turned to look towards the castle she saw a group of men striding towards them from the same direction.

And when she turned back Stannis’s men were already upon them.

“Your name!” A man shouted as he lowered a spear at her. “Your name or your death.”

“Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

“Lady Brienne…” Another scratched his head. “You were Renly’s wench! What business do you have fighting some boy outside his grace’s tent?”

“Idiot, if she was with Renly she means the king harm!” Another put in and more grumbled agreement. “Kill the bitch.”

When she tried to speak, no words came to her. They were right and she could not think of any tale to offer them. It was a hard thing to go from resigning yourself to death to suddenly having to struggle for the words to stay alive.

“Hold.” A stern voice came from behind the men.

A chill came over her as the group parted before the coming of the man she’d come to kill.

For Stannis himself now stood before her. So close, she could see the outline of his skull through his taut skin and, more importantly, that he wore no armor. She knew the moment she reached for Oathkeeper would be her end so she stayed her hand. Stannis’s attention was on the men who’d threatened her.

“This is a highborn lady you speak to. You will remember to speak to her as such whenever you represent me. Or until you are told to do so otherwise.”

“Yes your grace.” His men demurred.

“I remember you.” Stannis turned his hard gaze away from scolding his men to regard her, something like recognition flickering across face. “You were Renly’s guard when he offered me that forsaken peach.”

“I was.” She said through gritted teeth. “And I was there when he died. A witness to his foul murder by sorcery.”

“Sorcery?” A man repeated with a chuckle.

Some laughed and others soon joined in, yet not Stannis. He seemed shaken, his eyes were no longer locked on her but somewhere else. Almost haunted.

_You deserve to be haunted, you deserve that and so much worse._

“I heard it was this lady herself that killed Lord Renly.” A man spoke and it broke the spell her words had put on Stannis.

“It matters not how my brother died, only that he died a usurper and a fool.” Stannis growled. “What else can be said of a man who attempts to steal the crown of his elder brother and names a woman as his guard.”

His words were met by laughter and Brienne’s sword hand trembled. Stannis must have seen it because he waved his hand and two men rushed from the sides to grasp her arms tightly.

“Stop!” Podrick shouted from behind her.

He reached for his sword in time for a guard to slam his fist across the youth’s face. Again he fell to the ground and Brienne wrestled hard to free herself when she saw the boot find his ribs.

“Leave him! He’s but a boy!”

“He’s old enough to carry a sword and old enough to do me harm if he wished.” Stannis ground his teeth as he watched Pod try and grab at his attacker’s leg only to receive a clout to his ear. “Tell me what you’re doing in my camp my lady. Do you mean me harm?”

_A thousand times yes._

Before she could speak another spoke for her.

“Pray hold your grace!” A voice broke in from behind them.

Brienne managed to wrench her head around to see the party of men she’d spotted coming from the castle almost upon them. At their head was the Royce knight she’d met in the practice yard, Ser Willem she remembered. Behind him came Gendry and a good number of northmen and men-at-arms bearing the sigil of House Royce. Stannis’s men arrayed themselves to block their king from attack and she saw that Willem’s party was outmatched.

“King Stannis! A word please!” The short knight shouted over the shoulders of the man blocking his path.

Stannis nodded and Willem was permitted to come forward, kneeling before the king. Gendry came to kneel before him as well, his head lowered the entire time. It felt like ice stabbing through her heart to see Gendry putting himself at the mercy of Stannis.

The sight of the shadow cutting through Renly’s throat jumped into her head.

“You begged a word so speak one. I may even allow a few.” Stannis stared down at Willem, ignoring Gendry completely and giving neither leave to rise.

“Yes your grace. We have not been introduced but my name is Ser Willem Royce and I beg you to see this all as a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?”

“Yes your grace. Lady Brienne is not in your camp for any foul reason. She came in search of her squire, as did Ser Gendry here and myself.”

“Her squire?” Stannis almost sounded incredulous as he left Willem and Gendry on their knees. “What kind of squire serves a lady?”

“That homely one right there.” Willem pointed to Podrick, who meekly raised a hand.

“And why would an errant squire be in my camp?”

“Forgive my language but the little bugger made to escape here after we caught him stealing from the stores.” Willem straightened up some to raise his fist towards the lad. “I’m guessing the lady thought to avoid further embarrassment by finding him herself.”

“I’m sorry my lords…” Pod mumbled, touching gently at his bloody lip. “I meant no trouble.”

“You expect us to believe that? She served a traitor!” One of the guards holding her said again and Willem shook his head mournfully.

“Considering the types sitting the Iron Throne these days, who can’t be named a traitor?”

Willem’s words caused some to laugh despite themselves and Brienne felt the grip on her one arm loosen as the man holding it chuckled as well. Stannis found none of it humorous. Instead his mood darkened all the more as glared at the short man.

“You were in the meeting with Lady Stark.”

“No…I don’t think…oh you mean Queen Sansa!” Willem exclaimed. “Yes, indeed I was.”

_He must not provoke Stannis more than he already has._

_This is not a man to joke with, not when Gendry and Podrick’s lives are at stake._

“You thought you were funny then as well. I have as much use for your jests as I do this foolishness.” He glowered at them all a moment longer before pointing to her. “Release her.”

“You grace!” One of his men protested but quieted under Stannis’s gaze.

“I see more folly than evil for this to be a plot. A boy squiring for a lady and a lady with a thief for a squire. You all deserve each other and I’d prefer your follies befalling the Starks rather than myself. Leave my camp before I forget you’re all under the protection of our host.”

At that she was released by her captors while Willem and Gendry both stood up. The younger knight immediately moving their way to pull Pod to his feet. The guard who’d pummeled the boy looked to block Gendry’s path for mere enjoyment when his mouth dropped open.

“Maegor’s Teats…” He backed away. “You’re dead…”

“I’m what?” Gendry asked as other men began to gasp and point at him.

 _No it cannot happen here_ , she prayed, _not with that murderer so close._

“Is there a problem?” Ser Willem asked as the rest of Stannis’s men all turned to look at Gendry now as well.

Murmurs rippled through the group and she imagined a good many of them saw what she had seen in Gendry the first time she met him. Stannis looked to be one of them. His eyes were locked on Gendry and widened for shortest of moments as he beheld the young man’s features.

_A hard thing to think your victim come back from the grave._

“What is that bastard doing here?” Stannis’s harsh voice broke through the chattering voices as he pointed at Gendry.

Ser Willem and Gendry shared a confused glance.

“Why is that bastard here?” Stannis repeated, taking a step forward.

“Ser Gendry is one of Princess Arya’s sworn swords.” She spoke up then, moving to put herself between Stannis and Gendry. “Part of the party that escorted her home.”

If Stannis cared for any of what she said he didn’t show it.

“A knight?” He narrowed his eyes at Gendry. “He was a blacksmith’s apprentice last I saw him. Until now I thought him a dead one. The Lannisters were killing all the others, last I’d heard.”

“The other blacksmiths?” Gendry asked, clearly confused as to why the king took an interest in him. “Begging your pardons your grace…I don’t know…”

“You were ignorant of it in the capital as well, something you shared with your father.” Stannis’s jaw clenched. “You were the eldest of my brother Robert’s bastards in King’s Landing. The one Jon Arryn and I thought to present as part of our case proving the queen’s infidelity. None who knew my brother in his youth could doubt who sired you.”

Pod gasped and Gendry looked stricken, his face almost paling at the words. It was painfully similar to the one etched upon Renly’s face as he died. An expression of utter and complete shock.

 _You knew this all along,_ she thought, _and you let this kinslayer reveal the truth._

“Are you saying he’s King Robert’s son?” Ser Willem asked, the man finally without jests. “Truly?”

“My brother’s bastard, nothing more.” Stannis gave Willem a hard look then. “A bastard you just happened to bring with you into my camp. One I last saw in the capital but now find in Winterfell…”

“I brought him to Winterfell.” She declared, staring right into Stannis’s eyes.

It was her turn to clench her teeth, speaking to the man almost made her retch. Yet Gendry was here because of her and she would protect him from her folly.

“He escaped the capital the same time Arya Stark did. The knight escorted us both safely to Winterfell, tasked by Ser Brynden Tully himself to do so…”

“So you say.” Stannis pointed at Gendry then. “I had one of Robert’s bastards under my protection but he was lost to me. I may have need of you in the future, you will be taken to a tent and guarded. From there I will…”

“You will not.” Her hand was on her blade then and soon after everyone else had done the same.

“Hey hey! We did this already!” Ser Willem shouted, his hand raised, while his other gripped his sword. “The king disliked my jests the first time so much, I doubt he’d want to hear them again. And we were about to be on our way…”

“And you may do so if you do not interfere. My words are my rule.” Stannis looked about his men, as if to remind them of their situation. “You will lower your arms…”

“I fully intend to. Your grace. We all will.” Willem held out his hands. “For you are right, your word carries more weight than mine. We were leaving your camp at your command remember? Our number, including the good ser here, are under the protection of your word now… as well as your current host.”

With that Willem looked back to the castle.

“Who I imagine is getting quite worried about where we’ve been off to. A great many men would probably come searching for us but since you have already given us safe… leave, I’m sure they won’t have to…”

As the knight trailed off Stannis’s jaw appeared almost ready to break clean off for how furious he bore down on it. He’d looked this way during the meeting with Renly and she feared whose death could come from it this time.

_Mine if there’s any justice, mine and Stannis’s._

“Be gone.” He choked out. “Be gone and if I see any of you in my camp again the fires will burn brighter for it.”

He strode forward then and pointed to Gendry.

“And you… Lady Stark said she had no hostages worth trading but I shall speak with her about her mistake soon enough.”

“She didn’t know m’lord.” Gendry said absently, his eyes far away. “I didn’t… I didn’t even know the king was my father… how could she?”

He finally raised his eyes to meet Stannis’s and had there been a peach in Gendry’s hand the situation would’ve been very familiar to her. Instead of Renly’s dashing smile though, there was Gendry’s face, clouded in doubt. He even reached up to touch it as if he forgot it was there.

“Do I truly look like him?”

The king’s face remained cold and impassive. The man either simply oblivious or uncaring to the hurt he inflicted with his words.

“Yes you do. The by-blows of my late brother’s forays with baseborn women often took after him. Among the bastards of the capital’s gutters, you hold a higher pedigree than most.” Stannis turned away. “If you take pride in such, I welcome you to it.”

With that Stannis left them, quite finished with the whole situation and Brienne was seized with a last powerful urge to end him.

Until she felt a hand on her arm and saw Podrick there, staring up at her, gently pulling her towards the castle. Even if she’d wanted to do differently, sense dictated that she abandon such notions. The king had left them but his men hadn’t. So, reluctantly, she showed the guards her back and joined the others in the walk back towards the castle.

As Ser Willem’s party made its way towards the gate she glanced to Gendry and saw him walking apart from the others. His head lowered and fists clenched.

 _He has learned so much_ , she thought, _and in the worst way._

Yet his wounds were of the heart while wounds of the body were the kind she worried about now. It was Podrick who drew her attention, his lip was split and from how he moved she believed it likely he’d bruised some ribs.

 _He suffered all that for me,_ shethought _, and Jaime lost a hand for you._

_I’m not worth their pain, their suffering, none of it._

“I’m sorry my lady.” Podrick said without looking at her. “I had to come. I had to.”

“How did you know I would seek Stannis?”

The boy mumbled something and her frustration grew.

“Podrick, if you must speak, remember that you are a squire, not a mouse. A brave squire at that.” She softened at the end.

“You hadn’t slept.” He said, more loudly but still with little confidence. “You never sleep well when you dream of Stannis… or Renly.”

She was shocked. She’d never spoken a word of her dreams to the boy, nor to any others. The dreams of Renly were shameful and the ones of Stannis too dark for her to want to share.

“How do you know of what I dream?”

“You talk in your sleep my lady. When it was just the two of us, you did it more often and you’d say things about Renly. I’m sorry for listening, I couldn’t help it.” His voice dropped again. “I know you hate King Stannis and I saw how you looked at him in the courtyard…how you left right after...”

The rest of Pod’s story unfurled before her.

Podrick had followed her to the stables and when he’d seen her buy the cloak and leave towards the gate, he’d guessed at what she was after. It angered her that the lad had followed her but she was happy he’d had enough sense not to try and stop her alone. Instead he’d run to Gendry and Ser Willem, who had understood little save that something might be occurring outside the castle that could lead to problems with Stannis.

Podrick hadn’t waited for them to gather men, instead he’d run after her.

“I knew where the king’s tent was. I’d seen it from the walls.” He looked up the walls then. “Ser Jon took me there when he let me loose. Arya…the princess I mean, she talked about the view so much. She said you could see for leagues from Winterfell’s walls…I thought I’d see you coming…”

She reached out to touch his shoulder then but pulled back quickly as he winced.

“I am sorry for the hurts today earned you.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes. “And for everything else you have suffered. My failures led to all of it.”

He tried to protest but she turned away and gazed back at the camp. More men than ever now stood at its approaches. Her task even more difficult than it had been.

_It matters not._

_For I’ve fulfilled all my oaths save one and I cannot fail to see this done._

_I will not fail again._

_I will see Stannis cold and dead._


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past comes back to haunt the present, truths shake the foundation of a kingdom and a battle of bastards.

**JON**

 

“My king did not send me to make a request.” Ser Lyn held his hand up to check the status of a gold ring upon his finger. “He sent me to collect a bastard knight and this one here is not the bastard he requested.”

The knight’s mocking and condescending tone raised Jon’s ire. Not because of the slight against him but rather for how much of the disrespect was aimed towards Sansa.

His queen kept her face as expressionless as a sheet of ice as she gazed upon the pair of men before them.

“While it is always a pleasure to see you ser, I would ask that you show Ser Jon the respect he is due as a knight in my service.” Sansa said coolly from behind her parchment laden table, her fingers grasping the edges tightly. “And as he is so fond of reminding me of the respect he is owed, I would ask that you remind King Stannis of the respect that I am owed.”

Eddard Stark’s solar was large and had more than enough room to fit the group of them within it. Yet the presence of Ser Godry Farring and Ser Lyn Cobray made it feel uncomfortably cramped. As tiresome as Godry could be, Jon knew Lyn to be the true threat and he wished nothing more than to throw the smug killer from the room. Or the tower.

 _Not the proper way to treat an envoy though._  
  
_No matter whom it is._

None could call it anything but swift how quickly the Corbray knight had moved himself and his men to Stannis’s side. Willem had been in the middle of informing them of the incident in the king’s camp when Ser Symond had burst in to inform them of the Corbray mens’ leaving Winterfell for the camp outside the walls.

Sansa had been as furious as Ser Symond at the underhandedness of it all.  
  
And considering how Godry and Lyn were provoking her now it was likely her fury would show itself again.

“I am not a messenger.” Ser Lyn offered a smile which did not reach his eyes. “My king set me to a task, Lady Stark, and if you are refusing him…”

“You will quiet yourself.” Howland interrupted. “Or you will be made quiet.”

“What did you say to me?”

“Do you threaten an envoy of his grace?” Godry took a step forward causing Marlen and Quent to come forward from their places behind the knights.

“The Queen cannot waste her time on discourteous butchers when there is a realm to be ruled.” Howland looked back to Sansa. “Your grace, I suggest we send a message to Stannis, to invite him to speak to you in person. For he has sent us no messenger it seems…” Howland angrily pointed a finger straight at Lyn. “Only an errand boy.”

Jon was surprised to be hearing such words coming from Howland. The man had not been in the best of spirits today, his manner withdrawn and sluggish, yet he had never seen the lord act so tersely. While Jon was busy reflecting on the Howland's behavior, Ser Lyn was taking offense to it.

“Why you bog dwelling frog-eater.” Lyn sneered, putting a hand to Lady Forlorn. “You chose a poor time to show how stupid you are.”  
  
“Hold ser.” Jon said, putting his hand to his own blade. “You have guest right in this castle and we are allies besides. It would be a poor time to show steel.”

_And I doubt Littlefinger has any payment to reward you this time from where he is._

“I would be closer allies then.” Lyn took another step forward and Godry turned to face Marlen and Quent.

_Corbray is mine then._

He readied himself as Sansa smacked her hand upon the table. The sound drew their attention back to her as she arched forward, eyes flashing in the firelight.

“Ser Lyn, you will do as you have done once before. Leave.” She snapped before picking up a piece of parchment and holding it in front of her. “You want to take something to King Stannis, this is what you may bring with you…”

“He did not task me to gather parchments-”

“Then you will take back nothing!” Sansa raged. “I will have my invitation delivered to Stannis by my own men. Good day sers. Guards!”

Lyn held his ground even as the solar doors opened revealing more men without, all ready to charge in at a moment’s notice. Both of Stannis’s knights looked at Sansa as if she was but an amusement rather than a queen.

“You heard my queen.” Jon said gesturing to the door. “Our men can walk you out or they can carry you out.”

“We would prefer the former, sers.” Howland added. “For the sake of our alliance.”

Lyn gave Sansa one last lingering glance before pointing a finger at Howland.

“You will be held accountable for what you said.”

“I have no doubt I will be held accountable for that, and more.” The crannogman said softly.

Lyn chuckled at the lord’s words as he made to leave. Godry did no such thing however, holding his place as he stared down his nose at Jon.  
  
“Carry me out is it? Do skirts make you so bold Snow?” The brute asked. “Stark skirts now but whose skirts before? You were a weeping bloody mess when we found you at Storm’s End. A little lamb at Dragonstone. Until the Lady Melisandre invited you for one of her visits…”  
  
_You bloody fool._

_You giant, thick headed, fucking fool._

To hear the man speak of Jon’s time with Melisandre sickened him. To know Sansa had heard it as well made him see red. Everything in him screamed to strike down Godry then and there. All save the firm voice echoing in his head. The voice of the man who had been his father and the countless times he’d spoken of the importance of guest right. Of honor and doing the right thing.

A few words from their last conversation rang out the clearest.

_‘The world is not about what we want. It is about what we must do.’_

So he stayed his hand, leaving his sword where it was and Godry unchastised.

“Leave ser.” Howland growled, having come beside Jon as he restrained his rage. “This is your final chance to do so willingly.”

“Emboldened by skirts.” Godry snorted once more as he followed after Lyn. “They’ll keep you safe for sure.”

When they were gone, Jon’s face burned in both anger and embarrassment. He hoped Godry’s meaning lost on the others but he doubted it had been. Even now, Marlen and Quent both eyed him with curiosity and when he met Sansa’s gaze he saw much worse.

An expression of disbelief mixed with hurt. He’d give anything to be back with the others discussing butchery and death.

Before being summoned to the solar, he’d been in a war council with most of Sansa’s battle commanders. A council focused on dealing with Ramsay Snow and his hounds. He’d brought together all those responsible for leading sorties out of the castle in the last few days. They were still unsure of the new strategy Jon had adopted lately and he was doing his best to reassure them.

“Ser, Mors and you already said you believe them far less mobile.” He’d said to Kyle, pointing about at the map. “How many horses did you find near the holdfast alone?”

“Five. Found even more the day before that, out to the west.” Kyle had admitted. “Just because the weather is doing for their mounts, doesn’t mean they’ll do as you think.”

“Aye, taking out the small numbers and fewer groups as we are is just delaying things.” Mors had grumbled, waving his much larger hand over the map. “We have enough men and horse now to cover a far greater area than we are doing. We should use them.”

It was an obvious plan and one they’d already tried and yet Mors Umber suggested it again every council meeting without fail and Jon had been patient and listened every time. He listened just as he had done during his time with the Lightning Lord so that now he knew just how Lord Beric would respond to Mors’s strategy.

“You’re right, if we sent out enough parties we might be able to ride down the hounds that are afoot. Maybe even put Ramsay himself to flight but that’s not what we want.”

“Really?” Willem had raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ve been riding about and freezing my arse off for the wrong reason?”

“We want more than that. Ramsay Snow captured or dead, not just run off. And he’ll flee if we do what Mors proposes. He’ll lose men and strength in doing so but Ramsay Snow will survive and will find some way to trouble us again.” He’d grimaced. “More will die.”

“More die already ser.” Lyra Mormont crossed her arms. “With our limited patrols, the travelers on the Kingsroad suffer most of all.”

The lady spoke the truth. Ever since he’d started this new strategy the Kingsroad had become more vulnerable. And people had died because of it.

_Because of me._

“Less will die after we put an end to Ramsay Snow. That’s the death we’re concerned with.” Mors had put in. “Can’t fight a war whimpering over every lost commoner. You protect what you can of yours. You strike at the weak of theirs. That’s how you win.”

“Exactly.” Jon had agreed but only in part. “Ramsay acts just as Mors says…”

“Watch yourself, I’d never get up to the kind of bloody horrors…”

“I did not mean it that way. I meant we saw how he acted at the Reaping. He was confident, he thought his enemy weak and predictable. Only then did he attack… only then did he come to where we wanted him…”

It had taken another cask of ale for the others to finally agree to continue on with what they’d been doing. By then a good portion of Sansa’s finest war captains were drunk and it was not yet midday. That was when Marlen had come to tell him of the meeting he was bid to take part in. One where he’d been shamed and embarrassed before the woman he loved. 

Yet as upsetting as that was, right now something else was troubling him more.

“We cannot give Ser Gendry over to Stannis.” Jon said, breaking the silence Godry’s announcement had ushered in. “It could mean his life.”

Sansa was wringing her hands before her and said not a word in reply. Rather she showed him her back and went to stand at the window. Her hands clutching the sill as she stared without.

“Leave us.” Howland commanded of the other two men.

Quent and Marlen quickly bowed before leaving the room. Jon was now alone with a queen who scorned him and a lord eyeing him curiously.

“Speak your mind Jon. It is not an easy thing for us to deny Stannis’s request.”  
  
“Of Gendry I know little, save what Arya has told us and what we have just learned of his parentage… but I have suspicions as to why Stannis wants him.”  
  
Willem’s tale of what had happened in Stannis’s camp had posed two problems for them. It had been a shock to learn that Gendry was one of Robert Baratheon’s natural born children. Easy enough to believe once it was revealed though, considering he’d already noticed the resemblance between Arya’s hedge knight and Renly Baratheon and Mya Stone. While Stannis had begrudgingly let Gendry leave his camp once, the coming of Lyn Corbray and Godry Farring showed the king’s determination in the matter.  
  
It made him all the more worried for Gendry.

“For I know more of Stannis… and the Lady Melisandre.” He felt sick having to speak her name but it had to be done. “I know how their red god covets the burning of men and they value some sacrifices over others. Those with kingsblood most of all.”

Howland nodded.  
  
“Blood magic often does. Ser Gendry has more than kingsblood though. He has Baratheon blood as well. Do you think Stannis capable of burning his own kin?”  
  
“From what Willem tells us the king does not think of Gendry as kin.” He struggled then to remember a name from Dragonstone. “But there were whispers on Dragonstone. Melisandre thought to burn his nephew… Edric Storm was his name, I think. A nephew who was born to the wrong side of the sheets but whose parents were both highborn, the mother even being kin to Stannis’s lady wife if I understood correctly, so I doubt he’d think twice of doing so to Gendry.”  
  
A cold feeling ran over Jon of what Stannis could have proposed for him had he known the truth.

_I never would have seen the Blackwater burn, yet I’d have met flames all the same._

“If we are to believe Lady Brienne, the man is already a kinslayer…”

Howland’s words brought back the unpleasant memory of how they’d dealt with second problem Willem had presented them with. To learn she’d entered Stannis’s camp with the intent of doing the king harm was not easy to believe. Until he learned Brienne held Stannis responsible for the murder of Renly.

_None save Loras Tyrell were more devoted to Renly Baratheon than her._

_Such devotion led Loras to kill a good man like Ser Robar._

_It could be within Brienne to do the same to a man like Stannis._

“Lady Brienne once helped me regain my honor when I thought to break a vow.” He spoke, the shame rushing back to him when he thought of that night in the orchard. “And she helped bring Arya back to us all because of a vow. If she swears Stannis did this thing I am inclined to believe her…”

“Her word is not enough.” Sansa spoke then, still staring out the window. “Nor any we could have to her character. The truth of what she attempted to do must stay as hidden as she is in her chambers. It is within my power to keep her safe but protecting Gendry is another matter entirely.”

“We must.” He urged. “After all he’s done for Arya, we cannot let Stannis and Melisandre have him…”

“I know what he has done!” Sansa finally whipped around to face him, her face twisted in rage. “I don’t want to think of it but I have denied Stannis so much already and our alliance hangs by a thread! To deny him Gendry could tear everything to pieces! Were it Willem or Ser Kyle, my lords would back me in such a decision but for Gendry…”  
  
“For a bastard.” He spoke softly. “That’s what you mean. Trueborn knights we can defend but bastards can be sacrificed.”

Arya’s words after the practice yard had troubled him. Not the harsh ones towards him. Those he forgave of her before he even reached the godswood. A place which had always offered him comfort from the barbs of others, a place Arya would usually find him to say kind things. What had bothered him was what Arya had said about Sansa. Of how she had treated him before they’d left the safety of Winterfell. Before they’d found each other again.

Before he’d been a knight. Before they’d learned the truth of his parentage.  
  
He’d wondered how much would be different had he remained but a bastard to Sansa. The godswood had reminded him of all the times she’d joined in the laughter at his expense. Or how she’d mimic Lady Stark’s behavior towards him when others would visit. Such things had often led him to hide among the trees. The talk with Arya had helped things some, reminding him of all the good Sansa had done and her arrival had come at the perfect time. Just the sight of her had been enough of a reminder of how much he loved her.

Yet the doubts continued to nag at him so that he gave voice to them now without even meaning to.

“You know that’s not how I view things.” Sansa choked out, her hands trembling in fury.

_I know how you viewed me._

“Gendry may not be trueborn but he’s done us more good than many trueborn knights ever have. Lyn Corbray may have thrice the skill and breeding Gendry does but I’d rather the man who brought Arya home at my side than that killer.”

“So would I!” Sansa yelled. “But what am I to say? That I risk war for the sake of a hedge knight because of a red woman who is not even here?”

With that Sansa started and took a step backwards, shaking her head against some unheard words. Her hand went to her stomach and for a moment she looked like she would be sick.  
  
“That’s why you wanted to seek Stannis isn’t it? You thought she’d be with him… you thought you could see her again…”

“What?” He glanced to Howland who rubbed the sides of his head, saying nothing. “No, of course not. I went for the reasons I said.”

“You never said what she was to you.” Sansa’s eyes filled with tears and she pointed at the door. “I saw how you acted after Godry spoke of her visit! It was as he said, isn’t it? That’s why she gave you those bracelets… because you two had…”

“Sansa I did not seek Stannis for Melisandre.” He wanted this conversation to fall away so he did his best to end it. “What happened between her and I was a mistake. I was very alone on Dragonstone and knew little of her ways. I am not proud of what I did but I never had reason to speak of it.”

With that Sansa stamped forward and flung what parchments lay upon the table at him.

“You never have reason to speak of anything!” She screamed. “How many more secrets do you have from me? How many more need I keep for you? How many more to keep us apart? If you’d just accepted who you are we wouldn’t have to hide and lie!”

She pointed at Howland then, tears streaming down her face.

“That’s all I’ve wanted! For us to be together! When you were looking for her I was threatening Howland to write your truth down just so we could be…”

“You did what?”

He had been feeling like a fool for ever letting it get this far in front of Howland yet now it was the lord he sought out. The man had dropped his hands from his head, shaking it as if in shame.

“It was no true threat.” He said. “And I did not accede to her request.”

Sansa continued on as if what had just been revealed didn’t matter.

“I would never have truly hurt him…”  
  
“That’s not the point!” It was Jon’s turn to yell. “I am not a puppet in some game! You asked him to do that? Without speaking to me first?”

He’d watched Sansa plot her way around rivals or enemies many times over but this was new to him. Not once had he ever considered the possibility that she’d go behind his back and plot against him. It hurt worse that she’d never told him she’d done so.

“I had to! We were about to go into a battle and should Howland fall… we have nothing to prove the story…”

Howland said something but he was too angry to listen.

“It was not for you to ask! It is not your truth to expose!” He slammed his hands upon the table. “You had no right!”

“We have no rights!” She sobbed. “Not with what people think you are!”  
  
“A bastard! I know what I am! You never let me forget it!”

Sansa cringed back like his words had struck her. For half a moment he thought to defend her against whatever troubled her in reflex. Then it was gone in the anger and the pounding of his thoughts within his head.

The pounding without the door came not long after.

“All is well!” Howland yelled, looking far from well.

The lord’s assurance was ignored by Quent coming within, the man halting mid step as he took in the state of them. Sansa was crying, Howland had his hand to his head again and Jon was barely holding himself together. A true struggle, considering all that had just broken loose between him and the woman he loved.

“I’m sorry to intrude in this way but I tried knocking and no one answered.” Quent scratched his head awkwardly. “And well… this is a matter I know the Queen had given orders about.”

Sansa used the sleeve of her dress to wipe at her eyes while trying to hide her face from the man.

“Unless this is quite urgent Quent I’m afraid…”

“It is.” Quent began nodding profusely. “Lord Manderly’s men sought us out. They say he’s awake and well enough to speak. He is trying to leave his chambers to seek you…”

“Lord Wyman?”

Sansa jerked about to look at Quent who nodded still. Howland stepped forward and put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, his grip so tight he thought the man trying to hurt him.

“We must go to him at once.” Howland said, looking to both Sansa and he. “We must know what he has to say before Stannis learns he is able.”

With word probably getting back to Stannis about being denied Gendry, Jon could imagine how poor the king’s mood would be.

_Wyman Manderly could not have picked a worse day to wake up._

Sansa must have shared the same thought as she quickly waved to Howland before making to leave the room. She gave Jon as much space as possible while passing yet Quent looked between them and cleared his throat.

“He asked for Ser Jon as well.” Quent gestured to him. “He’s heard the tale of the Guest House.”

He had little desire to take part in the questioning of their possibly turncloak lord and Sansa looked even less happy to allow it. Until Howland betrayed them both.

“Then he should come.” The lord said, meeting Sansa’s gaze straight on. “Whatever Wyman could confess to, it may be a good thing to set him at ease first.”

Whether Sansa was more angry or hurt by what had happened here Jon couldn’t tell. In truth, he couldn’t say which it was for him either. Yet she gave a curt nod and soon enough they were all on their way. They were well into the Great Keep before they came across a collection of men outside the lord’s chambers. A visibly drunk Willem stood with a score of Sansa’s men while just as many Manderly men-at-arms gathered about as well.

“The lord… awaits your coming…” Rodwell did his best to both stand and hide his shame at his shaky condition.

“Then we should not keep him waiting.” Sansa said quickly and a guard opened the door, announcing them as he did so.

“Lord Manderly, the queen has arrived.”

As they came within and he saw the monstrously fat lord upon the bed, the night in the Guest House came back to him. He could almost hear the sounds of swords and shouts, the smell of smoke in his nose and the taste of blood filling his mouth.

Since that awful night Lord Manderly had changed greatly. He had lost a good amount of weight during his illness while still remaining the largest man Jon had ever seen. Skin hung loosely from his face and a hideous scar stretched out across the lord’s multiple chins.

Lord Manderly had propped himself up in the bed and bent forward in a sort of bow.

“Your grace, forgive me my slow recovery, you must think the worst of me.” Wyman coughed some. “I had feared the worst for you before coming to Winterfell... had I only known… alas that time has passed. The maester has told me much of your deeds! Your parents would be proud.”

“Thank you my lord.” Sansa spoke evenly, staring down at the lord with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sure you remember Lord Howland Reed and this is…this is…”

“Jon Snow yes.” Lord Wyman finished for her, putting a meaty hand to his chest. “Ser Jon now if I heard correctly. A knight and a hero. One bastard wanted me dead and another… well you fought to keep me alive, I thank you ser. Your father would be proud as well.”

_Which one?_

Jon said nothing, Sansa would lead in this and he would help only if necessary. He had done enough for today in regards to Sansa.

“My lord father and royal brother considered you one of their most loyal bannermen my lord. Yet you added your strength to the Boltons and Freys.” Sansa said coolly as she moved to his side. “And for the Lannisters, you murdered the Hand of King Stannis. So what am I to make of you?”

“There is more to the story my queen and I think you know it. Please do not stand while I lay here, it is discourteous of me.”

Since the man could not, Jon grabbed a chair from the wall and brought it for Sansa to sit. An awkward moment passed before she reached out to move a pace more before sitting. She did not acknowledge him at all. The lord was all she cared about now.

“I know your son Wyllis was held captive by the Iron Throne and after the killing of Lord Davos Seaworth, he was freed. I also know that your army first marched with Roose Bolton and then helped us take back this castle. So what am I to make of this?”

Wyman Manderly nodded, folding his hands across his lap.

“Yes, I acted to see my son safely returned. I lost one at the Red Wedding, my brave Wendel and I could not bear to have another killed. For, an old man’s weakness, I apologize.” He coughed slightly but waved off Sansa as she made to pour him a cup of water. “Thank you no… where was I? Weakness was it? Yes, many thought me weak. I had a Lannister for a maester and spies amongst my men. I did all I could for the Starks in such a foul situation. I had to act a mummer my queen, pretend to befriend the Freys and offer them my granddaughters as well as my fealty to the dreaded Boltons. Lord Seaworth’s death was but one of my mummeries.”

_An act?_

Jon held back from gripping the back of Sansa’s chair. This had the air of something that could help her.

“His death was feigned?” Sansa’s voice was as hopeful as he felt. “He was not killed?”

“At my hands? No. I ordered a criminal killed in his place to convince the Lannisters of my fealty. I needed to have my son returned.” Wyman reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. “But I had need of the onion knight as well. Just as Stannis had need for my ships and men. So we struck a bargain.”

“A bargain?” Sansa asked, leaning forward. “What could that man have to offer you?”

“He was a smuggler once your grace and after my mummery none would be looking for him. Secrecy and skill were essential you see. I trust you have heard the truth of the Sack of Winterfell?”

She had. They all had. It was but another crime to place at Ramsay Snow’s feet.

“Yes, it was the Bastard of Bolton who put the castle to the sword. We heard it from Theon Greyjoy himself.”

At that the lord jerked upon his bed before beginning to cough in earnest. This time he did accept the water and drank deeply.

“The turncloak lives? You have him?”

Theon had been kept in the kennels with the rest of prisoners they had not seen fit to execute already. Sansa had hoped to wait until more of her bannermen arrived before taking his head. Neither had the urge to see him.

_He can rot there until his day before the sword._

_My sword if she’ll still allow it._

“He is our prisoner.” Sansa confirmed. “A condemned man.”

“You must ask him… if it is true… he can confirm it!” Lord Wyman sounded desperate, coughing his words out and Howland moved to steady him.

“My lord, take care. You have suffered much.”

“No! The turncloak must tell us the tale!”

“What tale? Lord Wyman…”

“Of your brothers!” The lord clutched at Howland’s arm. “We captured a boy, a squire to that traitor. He survived the sack and saw others flee the crypts after the Boltons had left. Two boys among them… boys with monstrous wolves!”

_Oh Gods._

_It can’t be._

He heard Sansa gasp and felt something grab his hand. When he looked down he saw Sansa’s one hand to her mouth and the other grasping his hand. Her eyes no longer filled with anger or hurt.

Only a desperate hope.

 _There is no hope,_ he thought _, they are long dead._

_Just the same as Arya was missing…_

“You speak of the boys? Of Bran and Rickon?” Jon choked the words out. He was the one who sounded desperate now. “They were alive?”

“They were! The Pyke boy followed one. The younger! They took ship to Skaagos… that is where the Onion Knight has gone, to find your brother!” Wyman descended into coughing and Sansa gripping at Jon’s arm.

Whatever was between them now could wait.

For where once was only loss there was now hope.

They were alive.

The boys were alive.

 

 **ARYA**   

“Of course we’re going!” She shouted.

She couldn’t understand how this was even an argument. Whether or not to wear dresses or how often she was allowed to train were arguments. But not this.

_How can going to rescue our brothers be an argument?_

“Arya, listen to her.” Jon said firmly.

His arms crossed as he leaned against the wall of her chambers. Sansa had wanted Arya to take her old rooms like she had taken their mother’s but Arya preferred her old room. There were more memories in here. Unfortunately there were a lot of people in here as well and her room had never been the largest. Sansa sat in the only chair and Arya was on the bed. Lord Reed stood near the doorway and she still couldn’t understand why he’d been let in on this obviously family discussion.

_This is a meeting for wolves, about wolves._

_Is he the one making Sansa and Jon act this way?_

“Fine, I’ll listen!” She crossed her arms in front of her. Playing along might make them see reason. “You were telling us why we couldn’t go save our little brothers. The ones who aren’t dead and could be in danger and need our help right…”

“Listen!” Jon snapped.

“I am!” She said, truly meaning to do so this time.

Sansa waited a moment longer, as if not believing her, before finally speaking.

“Arya we ourselves don’t have to go. We have an army near the coast, one besieging the Dreadfort. Men with ships who can sail to Skagos if we need them to. There are no ravens between us and we have had no word of them for some time so we don’t know how it fares. So asking White Harbor to send word to the siege will…”

“That’s not enough!”

Sansa was repeating things she’d already said. All her ravens and sieges didn’t matter. What mattered was Bran and Rickon were alive and they needed someone to come for them. Jon and her could leave tomorrow with Brienne, Gendry and Pod at first light. Ser Willem could even come too.  
  
_I’ll find them like Brienne found me._

_Wherever they are, no matter who has them, I’ll find them._

“A group of riders will not help matters, Arya.” Jon put in, his eyes still on the ground.

He’d been acting like that ever since Sansa arrived. He’d told her the truth of Bran and Rickon and she’d screamed so hard that a guard had come in to check on them. Her bed had almost broken from how hard she’d jumped upon it in her joy. Jon had smiled the whole time.

Until Sansa came in.

_What did she do to him?_

_And why doesn’t he want to go?_

“Then we take a hundred. Two hundred. A thousand!” She urged Jon to see it her way. “As many as it takes.”

“This will only raise questions about where they go.” Sansa sighed, not sounding happy at all, almost looking even worse than Jon. “Right now most of our enemies think Bran and Rickon are dead. So does Stannis.”

“So?”

“Arya, Stannis accepts me as queen because he has no hold over me otherwise. If he did, there’d be no Kingdom of the North and he’d be in father’s chambers as we speak.” Sansa made a face as if that thought bothered her as much as Arya. “He wanted you as a hostage and I said no. I’d not lose you nor give him the power to threaten me by having you.”

With that Sansa paused and looked to Lord Reed. He gave a slight nod and turned his strange eyes upon her.

“Should the king learn the boys live or worse, if somehow they came into his power, things would go very badly for us.”

It wasn’t hard to understand what they were trying to tell her. They didn’t have to play around with long, drawn-out explanations like she was a child. It was the same reason Brienne waited for someone to ride out when they arrived at Winterfell, they wanted to keep this secret from Stannis.

 _They don’t trust him._  
  
And neither does Brienne.

Brienne was another argument she meant to have with them. Whatever had happened in the camp, nothing could be so bad as to keep Brienne in her chambers with men outside the doors. If anything, she should have been allowed out, making sure nothing else bad happened to Pod. He’d had even more hurts after the camp and no one thought to make sure he was protected.

Gendry worried her even more.

Robert Baratheon had been her father’s friend yet she’d thought him fat, loud and stupid besides. What he’d let Queen Cersei do to Lady and the Hound to Mycah almost made him as bad them. So if it was hard for her to accept Robert as Gendry’s father she could only imagine how he felt about it.  
  
She’d found him in Winterfell’s forge. The buildings had been dark and empty since they’d arrived but the one Pod brought her to had been bright and noisy with the sound of work. Night had fallen but the forge lit up the yard better than the moonlight. It did little to brighten Gendry’s mood though. He’d been bare-chested save for an apron, the heat from the fires so great she almost found it unbearable within. His hair was slick with the sweat which drenched his body and he showed no sign of tiring as he brought a hammer down again and again upon a glowing piece of steel. He beat it so furiously Arya worried there wouldn’t be much left of the blade when he was done.  
  
“I heard about your father.” She’d said, Pod wincing to hear such. “I heard what Stannis said… he’s a bloody fool.”  
  
Gendry had barely looked up at them as he flipped the sword over, continuing to pound away, sparks shooting up and striking his exposed skin. He winced now and again yet never stopped. The hammer just kept falling.

“Gendry… you’re better than what Stannis says. Beric wouldn’t have knighted you if you were just those things.” She’d moved closer, the pounding continuing. “You’re a knight. A bloody brave one no matter how stupid you are sometimes. Brave and true! Being trueborn doesn’t mean anything... it doesn’t mean you’re not worth…”  
  
“Do you know who’s not worth anything?” Gendry had asked without looking up, his voice rough with disuse. “The Bolton blacksmith.”

He pulled the sword up and threw it into a pale of water. Then he grabbed another from the flames with his tongs and put it back down upon the black anvil, hammering once again.

“Most of the swords he left behind were shit.” He had scowled. “Most of what he made here was half-assed. Like he didn’t even care for what he created.”

“Better for our army, I guess.” She’d shared a worried look with Pod, who had begun to cringe with each ringing of metal on metal.

“Why make something if you’re not going to care for it?” Gendry slammed the hammer down again. “Why make it at all if you’ve already got everything you could want? Choosing just any mold, pouring some metal in it… only to abandon it for someone else to finish…”

The blade was bending before her eyes and Gendry’s chest was bloody from the sparks now. His eyes had been wild and unseeing and his arm brought the hammer up and down, up and down.

“It’s got no chance then! Anyone can just happen by and do whatever they want with it. It’ll never be of real use to anyone… it can’t be…” Gendry had taken a spark almost to the eye then and roared, throwing the hammer away into a pile of spear shafts.

Then he’d collapsed on the ground, clutching his arm and breathing heavily.

“It’ll never be anything that does good… it can never be anything someone can love… it’ll just be this broken thing…” He’d said between his great heaving breathes. “No one will ever want him.”  
  
Arya knew what they were really talking about. She wanted to go to him and show him differently. To show him that people cared about things that were broken. Jon and Sansa cared about her. Yet she’d just stood there, unable to put her thoughts to words.

Until Pod did so first.

“Broken things aren’t so bad.” The squire had spoken barely above a whisper yet Gendry had turned his glistening blue eyes up at it. Seeing them had made Arya find her own voice.

“He’s right.” She’d pointed to the outside. “Winterfell is broken and I still want it.”

Gendry had scowled and she’d fought the urge to snap at him and spoke softly instead.

“Don’t do that, please… I’m broken too… I’m supposed to be a princess but I’m broken.” She saw him ready to argue so she pressed on. “You know I am. Tell me another girl who does what I do…another girl who kills people...”

“Don’t try and say it’s the…”

“I’m broken.” Pod had reached up to pull on his bandage, beneath his eye was a swollen mess, the bone above it misshapen and wrong. “I was broken before this too. No one wanted me. Not my mother, not my uncle, not any of my masters… but I found all of you. Lady Brienne found all of us.”

“That’s right and she’s broken too!” She’d stepped forward then, kneeling to put her hand on Gendry’s arm. It was hot to the touch and wet but that didn’t bother her. “And I want her with me.”

She reached up and pulled Pod down beside them, ruffling his hair like Jon would do for her sometimes.

“I want Pod with me.” She’d slid her hand up to take Gendry’s in hers, his eyes and hers meeting in a way that felt warmer than his touch. “And I want you with me… all of us together…”

Gendry had squeezed her hand and then reached out to pull Pod against his sweaty chest, the youth crying out in disgust.

“I could’ve gone my whole life without hearing who my… what King Robert was…” He’d looked down to his burns and wounds while saying so. “I’d rather feel the burning than hear that again… but you two sots are right. I’ve heard it, I know what I am and I know what I want…” He’d leaned forward to kiss Pod’s head causing the squire to kick and curse before looking at her with his blue eyes shining. “I want us together.”

Those words came back to her as Sansa, Jon and Howland tried to convince her to trust others to save her brothers.

“We need to be together!” Arya jumped off the bed. “Bugger Stannis!”

“Watch your language!” Sansa snapped.

“Watch your allies!” She sent right back. “This is just like it was with the Lannisters. We all knew they were shit but we pretended they weren’t. If we can’t trust him, let’s just deal with him right now! Before we regret it!”

“That would be acting without honor.” Jon said begrudgingly. “Stannis has fought our enemies, defended the Wall, and he is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He has shared our food and joined us in alliance. Starks don’t break alliances, they keep their word. They don’t betray those who trust them.”

At the last part Sansa shot him something like a glare and Arya knew that they must have quarreled. Not like they had before the snowfight, it reminded her of how it used to be between them.

_Except they are both much more upset._

_They should be upset about Bran and Rickon._

“Bran and Rickon trust us. They trust us to find them. To save them and bring them home.”

“And we will Arya, I swear it.” Sansa reached up to fiddle with her crown, as if to remind her it was there. “But secretly. It must be secretly. If we were to do what you wanted, Stannis would take notice. This way, we give him no hint of what we are doing and he has nothing over us.”

“Why hide when we could just fight him?”

“So we fight the king, the Boltons, the Ironmen, the Lannisters and maybe even the Others?” Sansa had the tone she would take when Arya couldn’t follow what Septa Mordane had taught them of needlework. “Our kingdom would fall apart against so many…”

 _Kingdoms, kings, crowns…_  
  
Everyone cares so much about them, why doesn’t anyone care so much about the boys?

“So what? Who cares about a kingdom? We didn’t have one before!” She saw Sansa reach up to the crown again and she snapped. “Give Stannis the bloody crown if it gets them back! Don’t risk the boys just so you can stay a queen!”

As much as she hated being called princess, this wasn’t about that. They had grown up the children of a lord but this crown meant nothing to her. It hadn’t been worth Robb or mother and it wasn’t worth her brothers. 

No one spoke. Sansa’s face was frozen and her eyes bewildered. She knew Sansa loved their brothers, there was never any doubt of that.

_I’m just worried how much she loves that bloody crown._

Suddenly strong hands were on her and she was pulled up off her feet. Jon’s face was right in front of hers and there was an expression on it she’d never seen directed at her. He was enraged.

“I love you very much.” Jon said carefully. “And if you were anyone else I’d-”

“Jon, don’t.” Sansa tried and she felt Jon’s grip tighten on her arms, Arya’s attention moving back to him.

“You are wrong.” His eyes bore into hers. “As wrong as you’ve ever been about anything. Complain about whatever you want but don’t for one moment think that she would put that crown before the boys.”

He glanced to Sansa then and she saw hurt flash across his face, as if someone had punched him.

“She’s already lost her crown Arya.” He sighed, releasing her. “Everything she’s doing now can mean nothing less.”

“What are you talking about?” She asked. They’d just gotten through telling her why they had to protect the crown and the kingdom and yet now Sansa had already lost it? “How can it be lost?”

Lord Reed came to stand beside Jon, his face more lined than she remembered it.

“Sansa became Queen because we believed King Robb had no brothers…” The lord said before pausing awkwardly and clearing his throat. “Trueborn brothers left alive. Since that might no longer be the case and if either one of your brothers still lives, they become the heir to Robb’s crown.”

She hadn’t even thought of that.

 _Sansa took the Twins. She took Moat Cailin. She took back Winterfell._  

_Now one of the boys would be king and she’d be nothing._

_That’s not fair… she earned it…_

Sansa’s eyes were downcast and she saw a tear trace its way down her sister’s cheek. She figured she must be crying over her lost crown. Then Sansa reached up to gently grasp the crown, as if it would break at her touch, before pulling it off her head.

Sansa held it before her eyes, as if inspecting it before her gaze fell upon Arya. Her sister holding the crown out to her.

“Take it.” 

Arya just stared at the bronze thing. She didn’t want it and didn’t know what to do with it. A strange moment followed as they both looked at the crown between them as Sansa shook her head.

“I was a silly girl who dreamed of knights, dances and being a queen. After father died… no, after they killed him… I would rather have died than be Joffrey’s queen. Afterwards he… I almost did kill him…” Sansa trailed off before shaking her head and wiping another tear from her eye. “I would give the crown away to have father back. To have mother or Robb back. I would give it away to have Bran and Rickon back, but I can’t. If they’re alive, it’s theirs now and Robb wanted someone to have it and I can’t just let someone else take it…”

Sansa stopped as her voice broke and a sob racked her body. Her hands gripped the crown tightly then, as if trying to break the bronze thing. Arya was trying to understand a lot of what her sister had just said when Jon moved to kneel before Sansa. He grabbed the crown from her hands before she could stop him.

“It was never yours to give away, it was put upon you. Because you are strong and true.” Sansa’s tear filled eyes closed as Jon rose up and placed the crown back onto her head. “You are a good queen. A great queen… worthy of our trust… worthy of that and more…”

Arya liked to think that if Jon hadn’t moved so quickly she would have done the same. That she didn’t think the worst of Sansa all the time. It was hard though. So hard. She’d come back to Winterfell to find her sister in charge, sleeping in their mother’s rooms, with everyone cheering her and complimenting her somehow even more than they did before.

Worse than all of that though was that Jon seemed suddenly as close to Sansa as he had been with her. It was hard not to be angry at that.

_It’s like the war made her better, and ruined me._

Sansa offered Jon a weak smile which he answered by backing away and heading back to his place by the wall. Nothing made sense.

“I trust us more than anyone else.” Arya said quickly. “That’s all I’m saying. We’re the best ones to take care of each other… we’d be the best to find the boys.”

“I couldn’t risk you… or Jon…” Sansa said wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “With Skagos so ill-omened I couldn’t send either of you to such a place. We don’t know even know if they still live.”

“They’re alive.” Arya said. “I know it. I saw Shaggydog and he didn’t seem far at all or in danger so…”

“What do you mean Arya?” Sansa was confused but Jon looked startled. “Where did you see Rickon’s wolf?”

In a dark forest with men wearing many furs on tired horses. They’d come from the sea, she could smell it and him. The savage brother had been there. Happy to be moving through the trees and snow covered ground. Free to hunt and run again.

She’d felt him and he felt her too.

_That doesn’t mean you tell them._

_They won’t understand!_

“I didn’t mean it… I just meant I believe they’re alive is all…”

“You dreamt it didn’t you?” Lord Reed said with a confidence she didn’t like. “You saw your brother’s wolf in a dream?”

She didn’t answer and just stared at the strange crannogman. She couldn’t tell them. They would think her a monster from Old Nan’s stories.

“Was he with men Arya? Did they smell like the sea?” Jon asked in a quiet tone, his eyes far away.

_How can he know that?_

_No, please, he can’t think I’m a monster too. Not Jon._

“It is alright child.” Howland raised his hand to pass before his eyes. “I too have dreams most would not understand. As does Jon, I believe.”

Jon was taken aback and glanced at Sansa worriedly. She just sat watching the three with a confused expression on her face.

“Jon, speak to it, do not let Arya stand alone in this.” Howland said wearily. “It’s not in you to allow such.”

Jon closed his eyes and nodded then.

“I dream of Ghost sometimes. I dream I see things through his eyes or even of things he cares about. At times I think I even see his dreams.” He paused clenching his fists before pushing on. “They tell me things… like how close Arya was to Winterfell… or of the savage brother’s coming.”

 _He dreams too! I’m not alone!_  
  
_I’m not a monster!_

Jon wasn’t a monster. He was a good knight. He was her brother before everything else. She went to him and wrapped her arms around him, looking up into his unsure eyes.

“They were covered in furs weren’t they? It was snowing and he was there. And he knew us.”

He nodded, his arms wrapping around hers as his brow furrowed in thought.

“There was someone else I knew… I smelt him, a man from before...”

“How could this happen?” Sansa broke in. “How did you dream the same dream?”

She sounded scared, Arya could hear the fear in her sister’s voice and that’s when she became scared herself. It was stupid to talk of this. Lord Reed and Jon were safe but Sansa wouldn’t understand. She would think them evil.

“It is something akin to my knowing of your brothers’ survival or… other matters. We must not speak of these things beyond us four for now.” Howland’s voice was grave. “I’m sure all here capable of keeping a secret.”

Sansa’s face darkened some at the lord’s words, yet when she met Arya’s eyes she composed herself.

“We must not speak of the boys to anyone. Lord Manderly has sworn himself to silence on this as well.” She reached out then, not to Howland or Jon, but to her. “We shall find them Arya. We are together again despite everything and I have to believe we can bring the boys back to us.”

She took her sister’s hand, wanting to believe her words. Yet all of a sudden feeling scared.  
  
“What if they’re not like they were?” She asked. “They were so young…”  
  
Sansa squeezed her hand, smiling a sad smile.

“We all were, Arya.”

She knew that was true yet something bothered her all the same.

_Are we all broken?_

 

 **SANSA**   

“The repairs are going well.”

Even from beneath her hood Sansa could see the truth of that.

The Winter Town looked nothing like the ruined collection of buildings it had been when they’d retaken Winterfell. Instead of a collection of abandoned or burnt hovels an actual town now stood in its place. Most of the ones made of stone had new roofs and doors while others had either been rebuilt with logs and thatch.

The work went on even now. All around Sansa and her party, people moved to the fro, moving livestock down the muddy roadways or pulling ropes to lift logs into their proper places.

“Your grace.” Ser Willem warned her as he moved her back from the middle of the muddy street.

A group of men were doing their best to urge some sleighs pulled by oxen past where Sansa’s horse had been standing. Both man and beast groaned and cursed at the heavy loads of stone and timber they brought forth.

“They risk the Wolfswood?” She asked as they passed by. “Even with the hounds about?”

“A week ago, there was a good chance doing so would mean their skins. Not so much anymore.” Lyra’s hooded head inclined towards a company of clansmen on shaggy horses following behind the sleighs. “Ser Jon had the Wulls take charge of the escort to and from town. The Norreys set up a camp where they log, the Liddles where the stone is quarried...”

“As bloody savage as the bastard’s men are, a few hundred clansmen dug in and ready keeps them at bay.” Maege added. “Hard men the clansmen, living in tents and all they hope for is a fight.”

“I’d name them good men for it.” Sansa decided to seize the chance to do so, getting off her horse and walking out into the mud as the clansmen came by, throwing her hood back. “I give thanks to you men of the mountains! House Stark gives its thanks!”

The riders all gaped to see her there. Others around soon joined them, one man dropping a log on his companion’s foot. As the man howled others dropped to their knees in snow or mud, the clansmen all slamming fists to their chest and lowering their heads.

“Your grace!” Men and women called out. “Queen Sansa!”

“The Queen in the North!”

 _Not for long_ , she thought, _not if I can find my brothers._

It was a bittersweet thing to think of. Since learning that sweet Bran and baby Rickon had survived the sack, her greatest worry was making sure they still lived. The realization had dawned on her not long after what it truly meant.  
  
For a foolish few moments she had forgotten how she ever became Robb’s heir in the first place. With the boys gone it had fallen to her, fourth in line of succession. Bran came before Rickon and Rickon before her.

A shameful feeling of jealousy and anger had come over her for a time. Her army had taken the Twins, the Moat, defeated the Boltons and returned the Starks to Winterfell. The crown had fallen to her and she had forged a kingdom from the ashes of Robb’s. Bran and Rickon hadn’t done anything.

 _Except live_ , she’d thought, _two little boys escaping that horror and braving the world beyond._

The fear for their fates out there in the unknown had soon dwarfed such selfish feelings. She was queen for now and would be so until Bran and Rickon were returned to them. The belief inspired her to move forward with a great many of her plans.

_For when they return they’ll find a crown and kingdom waiting for them._

_A home as safe and stable as I can make it._

As more and more people from the town took notice of her and knelt she turned back to seek a key part of her plan for the North’s stability. The hooded party that had escorted her into Winter Town had been meant to give her a quiet, honest view of the town.

And to help Sansa make a point to one of the newcomers to her group.

“I thought we were making to be discreet.” Willem sighed as he pulled back his hood and waved to the onlookers. “Yes hello! Sorry for the surprise!”

“Aye. Lads, make sure there be no surprises.” Mors grumbled as he flipped his own hood back and waved the guardsmen among them to fan out her sides

Maege and Lyra revealed themselves soon after with her special guest going last. The young man’s eyes darted about nervously at all the attention they were getting. It reminded her of how Jon once acted.

_How you once made him act._

The hurt deep in her chest drove Sansa to distract herself.

“Rise!” She called out to her kneeling subjects. “Rise please! For the snow is too cold and the street too muddy for hard working people like you to kneel so!”

With that she pulled at her skirts to show all who looked how muddied the bottoms had become.

“And I won’t have you looking like me!”

A ripple of nervous laughter went up from the crowd and many began to gain their feet. Few made to move about their business again and others looked like they expected something more of her.  
  
_Everyone always wants more of me,_ she thought, _all save the one who should._  
  
She could not speak to these people of such yet. After seeing how far they’d come, some words did come to mind though.

“We should be beaten.” Sansa spoke suddenly, her eyes moving across the crowd. “We should be defeated. Scared and hiding. Victims, after all we’ve endured.”

Clansmen, guards and commoners all shared awkward glances. She held out the palm of her hand to the crowd before she continued.

“We should be all those things, but we’re not.” She closed her hand into a fist. “I need only look about this town to see strength where there should be weakness. Where others would lose heart, Northmen fight on. Where others bend to evil we stand up. Where most would expect the worst of us, we become all the better. This town, you people, Winterfell… the North itself! However bad it gets we rise up above it! We can do nothing less! For winter is coming!”  
  
“The north remembers!” Maege yelled, Lyra soon echoing her followed by Mors and the clansmen.

“The north remembers!” The townsfolk took up the cry and she let her fist lower before her.

She allowed it to continue a while longer before she set her people back to their business. Some came forward to beg a kiss of her hand, or to ask for her touch to a child’s head.  
  
When they were moving back through the town again she turned and waved forward her guest. Hoping he’d heard all that had been said.  
  
“Come, walk with me Larence.” She asked as he came beside her, his eyes to the ground.

Larence Snow was of an age with her yet that was almost all the two had in common. His features were sharp, his body wiry. He was handsome in a plain sort of way, save for his hair, which was a thick mane of curls, the color of cedar.

 _His hair could be his finest feature, if he didn’t offer me so much more than that._  
  
Another way in which they differed was in their birth, for Larence was bastard born. Whether trueborn or not, he was the last son of the late Lord Halys Hornwood. Since his loss, the death of his son Daryn, and the murder of Lady Donella Hornwood by Ramsay Snow, the lands of House Hornwood had been without a proper lord.

_Something I mean to rectify._

“What did you think of the Winter Town?” She asked, taking stock of how he still kept his eyes lowered.

“It is a fine place, your grace. Almost as fine as I remember it being before.” He answered and she was surprised by it.

“I hadn’t known you ever visited here. I don’t recall having you…”  
  
“Whenever my father and Daryn would come to Winterfell I’d stay in the town.” He gestured at the inn ahead of them. “The Smoking Log was a good place to hear tales from the old folk.”

 _Of course he had to stay here_ , she thought, _there were foolish, ignorant girls in Winterfell who would’ve scorned him._

“I’ve heard tales as well Larence.” She changed the subject. “Lady Sybelle Glover spoke very well of you in her letter. Of how comforting you were to her at Deepwood Motte when the ironmen came. Of the strength you offered her, and of your bravery when you marched with Stannis here.”

Larence shook his head.

“I should’ve stayed at Deepwood. The lady needed all the men she could get and with Gawen and Erena prisoner…” Larence curled his hands into fists. “They are sweet children. I couldn’t help them but I could fight for the man who fought the krakens. I thought I could get revenge for what the Boltons did to my father’s lands… for what the Lannisters did to my father and brother…”

“It was a noble thought.”

“It was stupid.” He grumbled. “Stannis didn’t want me to fight. Some knight told me they were only keeping me around so he could get the Tallharts to declare for him when the time came, that he’d threaten to name me Lord of Hornwood instead of Beren Tallhart if they didn’t.”

“Had they refused, he very well may have raised you up. Why not stay with King Stannis when the others came over to me?”

Larence finally met her eyes, giving her a strange look. Almost as if he thought her mad.

“Because you’re a Stark. You’re the Queen in the North.” Larence’s face darkened. “My father and brother fought for King Robb. They died for House Stark. I honor them and I know who I serve. My father taught me well.”

“I see that.” She smiled. “All say the Lord of Hornwood was a brave and fine man. I can only hope his successor follows in the man’s footsteps nobly.”

Larence gave little reaction to that, save for adjusting his gloves some.

“I met Beren Tallhart a few times. He seemed a nice enough…”  
  
“Beren Tallhart is three years younger than I am and is being raised at Torrhen’s Square where he is now trapped by the ironmen.” She spoke firmly before saying a silent prayer for Ronnel Stout and his army. “The man I’d name to succeed your father knows Hornwood well, is free to act, and capable enough I think to help pull those lands back from darkness.”

She stopped then, reaching out to grab Larence’s arm. His eyes widened at her touch and he looked about in fear, as if he expected something terrible to come from such.  
  
“Larence, I’d see you follow in your father’s footsteps. I’d legitimize you as Larence Hornwood and name you lord of Hornwood and your father’s lands.” She paused to let her words sink into the shocked youth. “If you swear fealty to me and promise to rule justly, I will declare it done as soon as we return to the castle.”  
  
_And then Jon will see how little I care of such things._

That was not truly why she did this. What she said to Larence was true. She needed someone to take charge of Hornwood for the sake of the kingdom. Lady Sybelle, Big Bucket Wull, and Alysanne Mormont all said Larence had wits and courage. In truth, there was no guarantee the Tallharts still lived and she had ways of satisfying them if they did take issue with her decision.  
  
A decision born partly out of a need to deny Stannis certain options in the future.  
  
The horrible scene in the solar had come at the worst time. She’d feared for how to deal with Lady Brienne, a woman who served her mother and rescued her sister. She feared for how many more Vale men could follow Lyn Corbray’s example by breaking ranks, or if any secretly had yet continued to reside within her walls. More than anything else Sansa had feared that all she believed Jon felt towards her was a lie. That what he’d done with the red witch meant more than their secret embraces, her childish kissing and awkward fumbling whenever the moment allowed.

It had been too much to think on that and face the spectre of Stannis possibly breaking their alliance if he did not receive Gendry Waters. The fight itself had been too much. Their words to each other so harsh she could scarcely believe it had been her who was saying such words. Her fear had driven her to act little better than a child.

After learning the boys lived, something had changed. Thinking that she protected their kingdom, rather than her own made her fear of Stannis lessen. Her hesitation to stand her ground fell away. Her message to Stannis had still been an invitation, but not to speak of matters between them. Instead it clearly laid out how matters were between them.

_‘My dear king,_

_I must apologize for how my meeting with your knights went. My men acted as poorly as yours. Mine will be chastened as I’m sure yours will be. You should know Lord Wyman Manderly has recovered enough for me to allow the trial you wish. I have sent for Lord Yohn Royce to attend as judge. As a staunch foe of House Lannister and stranger to the North, he shall surely act in a just way in this matter. I hope his coming quick and timely._

_As to your request for Ser Gendry, I’m afraid before I ever knew his lineage I offered him both my thanks and hospitality for all he has done for my family. I cannot offer one and deny him the other. He is free to leave though should he ever find my hospitality wanting._

_Any who find themselves wanting in such regards are free to leave and seek welcome elsewhere._  
  
Your ally,

 _The Queen in the North._  
  
When the maester had seen the letter his reaction had told her what to expect from Stannis and the king had not disappointed. Within the hour of it being sent, the large sprawling camp beyond her walls had split, Stannis reorganizing his men in a strict, orderly encampment, stakes ringing it at all sides.

Beyond that, it had been silence from the king. And from Jon.

If any of her actions had restored his faith in her he hadn’t shown it. It was like the time after the Twins again. Jon was almost a ghost to her now. When he wasn’t leading patrols, he was meeting with fighting men or walking the battlements. Whatever kept him far from her side.  
  
_His anger at me is over things I had done as a stupid child._

_And for what I did as a queen._

As Larence swore his fealty to her, promising to be as leal as his father and brother had been, she’d tried to share in his happiness. Maege and the others did a better job of it though, crowding about Larence, clapping him on the back and laughing at his reddened cheeks.

A cold breeze kicked up then, causing a shiver to tear through her body. A stone building to her right lacked a roof still, likely due in part to the eastern wall having collapsed. As another breeze rattled her, she left the others to their happiness and walked within the building. It was empty save for bits of its old roof which had collapsed within.

Yet the walls sheltered her from the wind, and from her sadness.

“He’s seems a good lad.” Ser Willem’s voice came from behind her, the knight walking within to lean against the wall. “Larence that is. He could be a good man one day.”

“I hope so.” She said softly, looking about the ruined house. “The North has a great need for good men to tend its lands and peoples.”

“I’ve met many of those good men.” Willem smiled. “Not enough of the women though…”

“You’re dreadful.” She laughed some, her glance to the knight reminding her they were alone and of a matter she’d meant to deal with for some time.

 _An offer Myranda warned me not to make, but for all he’s done I must._  
  
“I rewarded Larence with a castle and lands so that he may one day prove himself to me. Yet for the knights who have served me so faithfully I’ve offered little.”

“Not true.” Ser Willem shrugged. “Until you've threatened to hang me or introduce my face to the business end of a battering ram, you're still better than Yohn in my books.”

She laughed despite herself.

“You're quite safe with me, yet I should offer you something ser.” She cupped her hands in front of her in anticipation. “A title and lands I think. To make you as happy as you are loyal.”

Ser Willem’s smile fell away then. Where she’d expected a jest or perhaps even thanks, all that came forth was the whistle of the wind without.

_Tell him more, let him see what good news this is._

“I chose the place carefully.” She continued. “The lands are rich by northern standard and close to Winterfell. I’ll admit the holdfast is in somewhat of decrepit state yet it stills stands. It could be strong again once it is rebuilt. You can have something of your own.”

“Your grace.” He shook his head. “It is not for me.”

She was somewhat taken aback at his ingratitude.

“A holdfast is all I can offer for now… there are few castles to claim unless you wish to marry into…”

“No, Sansa, please it’s not that." His eyes more grave than she’d seen. "I want no wife. No lands. None of it.”  

“I don’t understand. You have no title in the Vale…” She truly didn’t understand, this was not how she’d expected things to go. “I don’t think Jon or I would even be in Winterfell had it not been for you. You have given us a chance at a life… a chance to rebuild. To make it our home again. I only want to offer you the same…”

“By the seven you sound like Yohn.” Willem rasped, his eyes meeting hers and to see Willem upset was a strange and rare thing. “Take some lands, find a marriage… rebuild what was broken…”

“Ser.” She said evenly, unsure of how they’d ended up in this situation. “Myranda warned me against offering you this. To see how you react, it makes me think I should have heeded her… but if something troubles you, I wish you would speak to it. There are few I depend on as much as you and I must ask you…”

“Depending on me, that’s your first mistake.” He spoke softly, his eyes far away. “Can’t say I ever depended much on that place. It wasn’t a grand thing you know, that keep of ours. A small, ugly thing truly. Some of the archways were so low, even I could crack my head on them. It was ours though. My father’s and my father’s father’s. Though none of that ever made it a home to me…”

The knight scowled, rubbing at his jaw.

“Your parents sound like a good lot. True people I think, like Yohn and Howland. My parents were a different kind. Miserable, grasping people, always more interested in telling folks they were Royces than than acting like Royces. Still don’t know why Yohn suffered to let me squire for him. He did it anyway and I left those wretches behind me the first chance I got. Didn’t go back 'till after they were dead… I think Yohn was getting sick of me.”

He laughed in a dark way then, reaching down to his side and pulling a skin of wine from beneath his cloak, drinking quickly.

“Even after my parents were gone that place didn’t feel like home. Just being born there wasn’t enough. It took more than that.” He smiled, closing his eyes as he did so. “Marrying my wife in its little hall, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her… that made it home.”

He drank of the wine without opening his eyes.

“Hearing my boy cry for the first time... carrying him up and down those stairs… seeing him with his mother. Just having them both there, that made it home.” Willem opened his eyes, focusing on the wine skin in his hand. “My boy was a good lad. Handsome and kind to all, took after his mother he did. Little one was but four when he told me he’d be a knight like his papa. Begged for a sword every day after, so he could help me when I rode about our lands.”

Willem laughed again, looking at her and for a brief moment she saw genuine happiness across his tired face.

“Do you know what I did?” He kept laughing, raising his hands up as if to show something in them. “I got him a sword, no tourney or blunted thing, a fine blade. His mother was so wroth… as only I could make her. That was until I strapped the sword on my own belt. I told him when you’re older, this’ll be yours. I’ll just keep it warm for you and it’ll always be there to help me…”

His voice fell away at that, his outstretched hands curling back into fists which he put against his chest.

“Seven hells.” Willem choked out. “I said that… and I wasn’t even there to help him… or her…” He reached up to touch at his eyes, her heart dreading the end of his tale already. “Bloody fire. I’m off, tending my lands, seeing to my folk when I should’ve been back at home.” He shook his head. “I got back in time to watch it burn though. To see the flames, to hear them… there’s no way worse for a person to…”

“Oh Willem.” She went forward to the knight, cupping his face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I couldn’t be there after… it wasn’t home then. Not without them.” Willem almost pleaded with her. “Yohn took me in but always wanted me to go back. Take a new wife, rebuild, have a life but what if all you would rebuild is not made of wood and stone?”

Sansa didn’t know what to say and just stood trying not to let her own sympathy for the man break her strength. He grasped her hands then and pulled them away, holding them gently.  
  
“Some are strong enough to do such things. To face the fear of losing it all again. You and Jon, even that little she-wolf… you lot are strong.” Willem’s eyes were glistening, his hands trembling yet his eyes gazed deeply into hers. “I’m not. I had my chance. I had my wife and boy. I won’t have anything as good as them again. I can fight, I can jest, I can even bed a woman but I won’t marry again. Not after my Tess.”

“Your grace?” Maege’s call from without caused Willem to straighten up, releasing her.

The woman stepped within the doorway, her face full of concern as she took in what she saw. Sansa was shaken and Willem had his back to the lady.

“Is all well?” Maege asked, her eyebrow raised.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Willem spoke steadily enough. “Queen made a fine speech, lad was made a lord and found a house with a lovely view.”  
  
With that they all glanced up towards the missing roof, towards the grey sky above.

“As charming as the king.” He added.

“Bah! Fool!” Maege put in chuckling before glancing to Sansa. “We should be moving on though your grace. There’s the matter Ser Jon would speak to us about regarding the…”

“Yes.” She nodded. “We’ll be right out.”

As Maege left them alone again Willem had turned and looked only slightly less troubled.

“Not a word to the Wolf.” He said. “He’s hard enough to make laugh as it is. I beg that of you, your grace.”

“If that is all you will have of me, I will do as you ask.” She imagined she sounded as foolish as she felt.

“I’d escort you back as well.” Willem stepped forward and offered his arm. “There’s always the small things.”  
  
As she wrapped her hands around his arm the knight began to lead from this house which now seemed to echo with loss. Something drove her to stop suddenly. With his story still so clear in her head she found herself dwelling on one unanswered your question.

“Your wife was named Tess?”

“She was.” His arm trembled some at that. “A beautiful name for a beauty.”

“I’ve no doubt.” She squeezed his arm gently then. “But what of your son? May I have his name for my prayers?”

The knight looked to almost smile then, his eyes even seeming to do the same.  
  
“We gave him a good one. A good name for a good knight.”

Then Willem did smile.

“His name was Jon.”

 

**BRIENNE**

Brienne pulled the coverings around her face tighter as the wind lashed out with its icy breath.

Frostbite could take hold quickly here in the North. She’d been warned often enough and seen the scars for herself to heed the warnings about being prepared with proper clothing. In the south, such injuries could happen but it took take time and was rare enough.

 _But we are not in the south_ , she thought, _in this land the cold is our greatest enemy._

 _Just another one for me to face today._  
  
Her horse protested some at the deepness of the snow here, the wind probably not helping either, whatever soothing sound she offered likely lost to it. So she merely kicked the poor, cold mount to urge it forward.

 _For we must go forward,_ she thought, _I must if I am to do what needs to be done._

Her enemy was somewhere in all this cold and snow, waiting to for Brienne to find him. Deserving of the fate her blade would offer. If death came to him today she could name it both justice and vengeance.

Her horse was moving again and the miserable ride continued.

“Miserable bloody…” Gendry’s cursing came forth from just off to her side. His horse was of the south as well and bucked at the path ahead. “A sweet, obedient, as-you-please horse. That be the horse for me. Not this difficult, biting, stubborn…”

Podrick was having no such trouble as his northern garron continued onward, almost boldly. His pace was much like the other northmen among their party. Several times they’d had to pause to allow their southron allies to catch up.  
  
Brienne was doing her best to spur her mount to catch up with the leader of the company. He was just ahead, having brought his mount to a stop upon a small snow covered hill

 _You rode to catch him once before, long ago and in a much different place._  
  
When he was but a green squire, out of place in a land of flowers and orchards.  
  
Now I see a knight, as at home in this harsh land as I am a stranger to it.

It was not a foreign feeling for her to have. Wherever she went Brienne was often treated as a stranger or outcast. At times her treatment was even harsher than that, some people even acting as if she was a threat.

She was shocked Queen Sansa had not been one of them. She’d been kept in her chambers several days, much like it was at the Twins save what visitors she had been permitted. Podrick and Arya came the most often. The squire doing his best to put her at ease with what went on in the castle while Arya raged about Stannis and her sister.

Hearing such talk of Stannis only compacted her guilt for having failed at her task. Hearing Arya speak so of Queen Sansa had bothered her more. For if anyone had ruined things between the two it had been Brienne herself despite Arya’s protests.

When the young queen had come to her, Brienne had once again been struck by how much of Lady Catelyn she saw in Sansa Stark. Her expression had been serious yet there was also a sad, concerned nature about it all the same.

It had been hard to look upon.

“Is it as Ser Willem tells me my lady?” The queen had asked. “Did you go into the king’s camp to do him harm?

“I meant to see him dead.” She had not balked, nor lied, having done enough of that already in the camp. “For as I swore to see you and your sister home I also swore to see Stannis Baratheon answer for his crimes.”

Sansa had sat upon her bed, to Brienne’s surprise, and bid her to tell her tale.  
  
So she’d done so. Everything from the melee at Bitterbridge to Renly’s murder at Storm’s End, to being taken into Lady Catelyn’s service. She made no mention of her feelings for Renly, nor for Ser Jon’s flight from Highgarden. Neither were matters she thought it proper to discuss.

When it was finished Sansa had appeared unsure, perhaps even upset. Yet the anger Brienne had expected never came.

“I have met few who put such stock in their oaths.” Sansa had said, a smile pulling at her lip. “True knights I’d name them.”  
  
“I am no knight, I am a lady and a poor one at that.”  
  
“Perhaps… I think not though. What you attempted to do without my walls… it is something I must think on some more.” Sansa had reached out to put her hand upon Brienne’s, the touch as warm and comforting as Arya’s embrace the night on their ride to Winterfell in their tent. “I would stay a little longer though… I would hear of my mother if you would tell me. Her last years were not mine to share in, but you did.”  
  
To speak of Lady Catelyn, whether to Arya or to her sister, was a task she would never shy from. The lady’s courage, strength, even how she loved, was worthy of a better teller than Brienne but she tried anyway.

Sansa had left and the night had come. She’d actually prayed to the seven before sleeping that night. Despite her troubles it had set her mind at ease and no nightmares came for her.

Ser Jon had come instead.

Dawn had not shown itself when the knight had woken her, calling upon her chambers and begging a word with her. From how Jon was dressed, he appeared ready for a ride beyond the castle walls. In his hands he’d held Oathkeeper, and it was to her he offered it.

“It’s early, I know, but the hour helps us.” He’d said gravely. “I believe there will be a battle today my lady and I’d have you join my party. There are few swords I’d want more than this one to see justice done. Few warriors as worthy to hold them.”

Whenever knights acted as kindly to her as Ser Jon did she was suspicious. Deep down she thought them mocking her. Jon did not seem the mocking type, he made a jest now and again but often was as serious as he was solemn faced. Save for when he was with his sisters.

“Is it Stannis?” She’d asked with worry. “Has something happened? Is it because of what I…”

“It is none of that.” He’d answered, his expression darkening some. “Whatever evil Stannis has been guilty of it is a different type of evil we face today. For we seek the hounds and their master, to capture or kill them. To have justice for all they’ve done.”

She’d accepted Oathkeeper back into her care at those words. Her hands clutching the sword tightly.

 _Ramsay Snow_ , she’d thought, _the bastard who flays before he kills._  
  
The monster who steals children away in the night.

_The one who threatens them still._

Though Brienne had never met him, Ramsay Snow had earned himself a place in that dark part of her soul where only her hatred dwelt. His men had twice meant to kill or take Arya and whatever had befallen Pod in their care, Gendry said the lad still woke screaming at times. The monster was still at large, still terrorizing the Stark lands and bringing him to northern justice held great appeal to her.

Besides she had no desire to sit idle in her chambers while she knew such a task being undertaken.

“You have my sword ser.” She’d nodded.

When they’d come to the courtyard one large party of mounted men were already leaving the stables and heading towards the East Gate. A great many more men and horses were being readied and she spotted familiar faces among them.

“Ser…what are they doing here?” Brienne had asked and Jon had raised an eyebrow.  
  
“I believe they have the right to take part in this as much as any.”

Gendry and Podrick were both in the midst of pulling thick woolen cloaks over their leathers and bits of armor. Gendry taking part she accepted well enough, he was old enough to do so but Podrick had given her pause.

“The squire is too young.” She’d said. “His wounds are…”  
  
“Close enough to healing.” Jon had answered. “And from what I’ve heard he’s no green boy.”

The days had melted much of Podrick’s hurts away. His one eye was no longer bandaged and she thanked the gods that it still saw. Whether he still wore a bandage upon his brow she couldn’t say, for his head was covered by a thick woolen cap. Even without Gendry and Podrick, the party Ser Jon had collected was a mixed one indeed. She counted a good many northmen and Vale warriors either readying horses or already mounted. Ser Morton Waynwood was among them, already well bundled up himself.

One man gave her pause though.

As soon as she recognized Ser Richard Horpe her sword hand twitched. The knight stood next to a black horse, his demeanor as dark as his mount. His eyes were wary and she thought his stance marked him a dangerous man.

“That is one of Stannis’s men.” She’d whispered to Jon. “A man we should be fearful of.”

“Then Ramsay Snow should be terrified.” He’d answered. “The Queen wanted this to be a united effort, a battle to bind all our men together. King Stannis allotted several knights to us and I asked for this one myself.”

After that Jon had gone on to the pox-scarred knight and shook hands in greeting.

“Ser Richard, I am glad the king was agreeable to you joining us.”

“The king himself wanted the bastard’s head when we marched on Winterfell. I told his grace I would bring it to him and I aim to keep my word.” Richard said before he inclined his head towards her. “The lady warrior. We could not share the practice yard but perhaps we can share in victory.”

The man said no more and moved to mount his house. No matter his words she had decided to keep Podrick and Gendry away from this man.

Ser Jon had given the command for them to ride out not long after, his large white direwolf leading the way.

When they rode from the castle it had been the first time she’d done so in a week and a sense of relief washed over her. At times during their journey from the Neck, Brienne had become so uncomfortable that she wished for a time where her body could go weeks without having to ride.

Only a day or two into her stay at Winterfell though she had found herself yearning to return to the saddle. A knight unpracticed at riding was poor indeed and the only two things in life she did well was ride and fight.

Their party departed from the Hunter’s Gate and ridden out into the Wolfswood a ways before Ser Jon had them swing south. Ghost led them through the pines and bare trees for some time, hours she thought it, before their party came to a break in the great forest. The only open lands she saw lay to the west and that was where the knight sent two sets of outriders. Then their party did much the same so that it seemed a great amount of time was spent doing nothing but maintaining a well-manned patrol.

_Not the battle I had hoped for._

It was those thoughts which drove her up the hill to Jon’s side, the knight’s eyes searching the rolling hills and patches of trees ahead for something.

“Ser, forgive me.” She managed to say between her chattering teeth. “But if we follow some trail, I have not seen it…”

“Ghost has.” His cloak muffled his voice but she heard him well enough over the wind. “Wasn’t sure he would. I had no idea which direction the hounds would come from… save the north. The clansmen kept them far from there. What few patrols we’ve sent to the south have found more and more signs of our foe. Usually days old and often enough close to the castle. Watchers I’d name them. Men who spot the comings and goings of the castle and report back to their master. The attacks come too quickly and often for them to be far.”

She had heard talk in the castle that while Ramsay Snow had not dared to attack Winterfell or the Winter Town he had not been idle. Several attacks upon smallfolk travelling to the town had been recorded. The victims suffered their belongings and food stolen, women raped and more flayed. Others who stayed to their hovels or farmsteads faced the same. Even wagon trains of supplies guarded by armed men had been attacked and there was a sense of unease at Winterfell.

The Bastard was staying ahead of their scouts, defying Winterfell’s forces and striking fear into the smallfolk. Brienne knew this could not look good upon the Starks and men would blame it on the Queen.

_What they’ll forgive in a man they’ll hold against a woman._

“I believe they had eyes on the Kingsroad as well.” She felt her anger rising. “The two attacks we faced were launched from it or nearby.”

“The kind you faced have been rare since.” Jon gestured to their party closing around them. “More and more they scorn fighting armed men in favor of poorly guarded travellers or defenseless smallfolk.”

“They’re likely weakened then.” She thought back to the night Podrick was taken. “They suffered a good many losses against us.”  
  
“And more since, not all to battle either.” He looked to one of the northmen, who was doing his best to fix his hood to better fend off the wind. “We’ve only been out in the elements for a few hours. The hounds have been enduring this for weeks.”

“They will lack for food and horses then.” Her eyes moved about the barren lands. “These lands offer little enough of that.”

Jon nodded.

“Attacks on wagons travelling the road have become quite common.”

“Surely there’s enough men to patrol it in force?” Brienne asked, trying to remember how many horses she’d seen at Winterfell.

“There is, but we’ve not done so. I cautioned against it.” There was no wind now yet she barely heard Jon’s voice it was so quiet. “To do so would drive the hounds away… perhaps away from our grasp. Away from what we have prepared for them.”

“You’d hope to surprise them?” Brienne thought the idea had its merits.

“We’d hope. This morning a great many wagons, as filled as we could make them look, went south on the road. Few enough guards for such a party and one of the wagons is meant to break. The whole group held up while repairs are being made and then the wagon reloaded.”  
  
With that he waved the rest onward and their horses began moving down the hill, still moving east.

“All the watchers would have seen today was a tempting prize heading south and two patrols heading east and west. I’m guessing they saw Ser Kyle take a company south to Cerwyn two days ago… he and his men will form our net to the south. Willem and Mors will have swung south as we did, they close upon the Kingsroad from the east, we from the west.”

_So when the hounds come for their meat they find the wolves all around them._

The plan had cunning, that was plain. Even if one of the forces was spotted it might drive their enemies into the other. Brienne reached to ensure Oathkeeper had not frozen within the scabbard and the blade lifted smoothly.

Suddenly she did not feel so cold, instead feeling eager to press on through the snows.

“I’m glad you haven’t tried to seek Stannis again.” Jon said as they rode on. “It was not a wise thing to try in the first place.

She had assumed he’d know of what happened but it still didn’t keep her face from burning beneath her coverings. Her embarrassment came from being reminded of her failure and how unlikely she was to get a second chance to avenge Renly.  
  
_For the camps have split,_ she thought _, and Stannis is warier now._

“I’ve sworn no oaths to House Stark ser.” She pointed out. “And I did do no violence within their walls…”

“And had the Freys massacred King Robb’s army outside the Twins while sparing the ones inside the castle, would the deed have been less foul?” Jon jerked to gaze at her. “Stannis’s army camps in the shelter of the walls and eats of the Queen’s stores. The spirit of guest right would be tarnished if one of her swords attacked the king.”

“I am not one of her swords.” Brienne reminded him again. “But I take your point. I will do no harm to Stannis while he camps at Winterfell. You have my word on that.”

“And when Stannis leaves the castle?”

To that she did not give an answer. She may have failed in the camp but her thoughts had turned to leaving Winterfell if and when Stannis did. To follow his march, seek him out, and see justice done for his vile sorcery.

Or die trying.  
  
_A death for a death, I have little else left to offer this world._

“My lady, it’s not my place to judge your actions. Or to tell you how to live your life. But I owe you a debt.”

“I rode with Arya as part of my vow to…”

“I don’t speak of that ride my lady.” Jon interrupted. “I speak of the ride you joined after a foolish squire so thirsty for vengeance he forgot his honor. You helped remind him of that, brought him back from a path that led to certain death. And because of that he walked a path that brought him home. It is debt I hope to honor.”

She had never thought of that night like Jon spoke of it. The woman she’d been had only seen a young man blind to the opportunity before him. They had both been part of the grandest army the realm had ever seen, in service to the truest ruler it would ever have. It was not lost on her that, in a strange way, they had found themselves once again in such a position.

“You owe me no debt ser.”

“I do and because of it I must warn you from the path you wish to take. The Queen has forged an alliance with Stannis, if he marches and you leave to do him harm… I serve House Stark.” He leaned in closed to her then. “Do not make me ride after you my lady.”

“Stannis is an ally to none but himself, he had his own brother slain through sorcery and…”

“And I believe you.” His voice sounded queer all of a sudden, the wind had shifted to blow from the west and his eyes moved there. “You and I know what Stannis is capable of better than most and that’s why the Starks need you. Your life could serve more than seek a suicidal quest for revenge… it could serve a crown again.”

_He wants my oath to the Starks._

Before Jon had asked her to join this party she was acting as naught but a trainer to a princess and another’s squire. It would not serve, no matter how much joy she took from the pair. Brienne was proud of her students but she was no master-at-arms nor had she ever wanted to be one. She could never be a knight no matter how much she aspired to it but the pleasures she took in training were not the same she took in service.

“I fulfilled my oaths to Lady Catelyn and Ser Jaime, am I to forget the one I made to myself? To see justice done for Renly?”

“You can take pride in your service to Lady Stark but as for the vow you made to the Kingslayer, it has not been fulfilled.” Jon’s face darkened to match his eyes. “Had you found Sansa would you have borne her to these walls and left her outside, confident your duty done? Would you abandon Arya to the same?”

“Of course not!”

If he’d meant to insult her it was done. She cared for Arya, so much so she chided herself for it. Despite her better judgement Brienne saw much herself in Arya, the girl becoming more than just a charge.

She was in her heart.

“I defend Arya in all things but I am a warrior ser, not a trainer or a septa. And I cannot act as one.”

“Nor should you. With so much danger about, I fear for them constantly and as much as I wish to be, I cannot be with Sansa… or Arya at all times. So I’d see others I trust do so in my stead. Warriors sworn to no other duties than the safety of her and her sister.” Jon turned to look at her then. “I’d see you a part of such a guard my lady. You were the first I thought of in truth.”

What Jon proposed now sounded like a position she had not seen here at Queen Sansa’s court. One she’d held before with Renly.

_A duty I failed at._

“I am honored ser…I would think on the matter though.” She did not have the words to respond beyond that and Jon did not press her.

For his direwolf had appeared ahead of them, before a cluster of trees upon a ridge. Jon led them towards it and among the trees they found a camp.

The remains of a camp in truth. Long dead fires and even a few bodies, men stripped bare and covered by a fine layer of snow. The bodies were thin and showed signs of exposure, the bones of animals near the fire had all been cracked open.

All signs of depravation.

Despite the stillness of the camp Jon claimed it had not been abandoned long, the direwolf sniffing all about. And while tracks were scarce because of the wind, those they found headed west.

So they rode on, doing their best to keep to the path Ghost led them on, one she believed brought them closer to the Kingsroad every moment. When they heard the horn, some of the men started and drew swords.

Then it came again, closer this time.

“Only one blast. That would be Ser Kyle. Either he found them or they him.” Ser Morton pulled his gloves away and quickly blew upon his hands. Gendry looked to her, hefting his warhammer to his side.

“Should we ride to them?”

“We should form a strong line to meet them!” Ser Richard answered, ripping his cloak from about his shoulders before riding out to the front of the group.

Jon soon did the same and the rest of them arrayed themselves as Richard suggested before riding quickly towards the horn blast. The snow covered ground made progress slower than Brienne liked but the hills and scattered trees obscured any sign of their approach.

Then two quick horn blasts sounded, much closer and just to the left of them.

“Our outriders! We are on them!” Ser Jon called out and drew his sword.

Soon enough, from over a cusp of a small hill, three of Jon’s own men rode towards them.

And they were not alone. For following behind came even more riders.

The men giving chase were ragged, wearing mismatched cloaks and coverings upon starved horses. She thought some to be wearing cloaks of a much more sinister material as well.

Whatever their appearances though, the sheer number of their foes more than made up for it, soon enough twice the number of their own party mounted the hill. The enemy paused there, perhaps surprised at the sight of Brienne and the others.

She took the chance to place her helm upon her head and glance to ensure Podrick was far to the back of their line. The squire had donned a half-helm himself, his eyes wide and sword shaking in his hand.

_May the warrior guide him through this._

In that time another rider had appeared in the middle of the hounds. His armor was dark save a red helm, rounded and resembling the screaming face of a skinless man. Upon his shoulders flew a pale, retched looking cloak of skins.  
  
The skins of women.

“The bastard.” She rasped.

The man bellowed as if in answer, raising a spear up in hands with his men raising their own weapons in reply.

Then the fiend Brienne named as Ramsay Snow charged down the hill with his men following after.

“Someone make sure to kill that man!” Jon called out as he kicked at his horse. “Winterfell!”

Ghost was the first to break forth from their line, Jon and Richard not far behind.

Gendry snapped at his own reins, eager to join the front of the charge. She did her best to stay parallel to his shield side. He was powerful and quick enough but poor with defending with his warhammer.

As the two forces converged on one another, kicking up snow and shouting the whole way, her heart began to pound with the excitement of battle.

She spotted the man coming for her right away. His spear was pointed at her chest and had the length to run her through before Oathkeeper could do for him.

The two groups met in a clash of metal and screaming men and horses, her attacker letting out a war cry as he come on to kill her.

_He’s noisy enough for a dead man._

_And he sits his horse poorly._

She shifted her body and the spear glanced off her shield rather than stabbing through it. The rider had not been able to follow her movements and swore as he passed by, her eyes already on a new foe.

Oathkeeper was in her hands and the second man who came before her felt its bite. His first cut was tired and sloppy, hers was not. His sword hand was stilling flying in the air as the Valyrian steel blade cut through his gorget to spill the man’s blood across his mount and the snow.

The battle was well and truly on around her then. Ghost was playing havoc with the enemy horse and dodged hooves and spear points alike. Some of the combatants had fallen or lost their horses and now fought on foot. Ser Richard was one of those men, the knight fighting two men at once and just as quickly fought only one as the other sprawled unmoving on the ground.

As the man she’d killed fell to the ground as well, Brienne’s original challenger had returned, waving a flail and riding hard.

_His arm is too high, low and fast should be…_

Gendry was there suddenly, riding his mount clumsily beside the man. Yet what the young knight lacked in horsemanship his hammer made up for in accuracy, the blow striking squarely against the Bolton’s chest. The rider was thrown backwards upon his mount from the force or it and his horse rode on by her. The rider flopping about limply across its back, spewing blood.

She saw Ser Morton was in a bad way, favoring his sword arm as a man with a mace battered away his shield. Riding to his aid she found his attacker quicker than expected, the mace blow numbing her shield arm. She feigned a high slash before stabbing low, Oathkeeper piercing deep into his leg.

As he jerked, she struck out with her shield knocking the rider sideways toward Ser Morton before landing hard upon the ground. The Waynwood knight did not need his sword to end it, instead bidding his horse to rear in the air and bring it’s hoofs crushing down.

It was scene repeating itself across the battle, their enemies faltered and fell while the Winterfell party stood strong. She had no doubt that the Bolton men were once able fighters, yet now they appeared weakened and worn.

Victory was still far from certain though.

For the hounds’ numbers swelled as stragglers appeared over the hill and the Starks forces still faced the threat of being overwhelmed.

“Bastard!” A voice called out hatefully and a horse screamed.

She whipped about to see Ser Jon’s mount with a broken spear buried in its neck. The knight was leaping from the dying beast even as his attacker circled about, the Ramsay looking to finish his dark work.

The monster drew an ugly, cleaver like blade as Jon hit the ground hard.

“That’s where you’ll die Snow!” The monster laughed. “In the snow!”

She was leaving Ser Morton’s side to aid him when Gendry rode forth to Jon’s defense instead.

As Ramsay cut down at Ser Jon, who barely had time to meet the attack with his own blade, Gendry kicked his horse faster. The Bastard must have seen the charge coming for he rode forward towards it, costing Gendry the time he needed to swing his hammer. It cost him his horse as well.

For Ramsay cut cross the poor beast’s face, causing it to scream and fall sideways.

Gendry’s mount slammed bodily against Ramsay’s, the two beasts crying out. Gendry cried out as well as he lunged forward and tackled the brute, the two of them entangled as they fell from their mounts.

She was close now and could be there in time to help. Her haste to do so made her ignorant of what awaited her coming. The horses had blocked her view else she would have avoided the cut that took her mount’s leg from under it.

Suddenly her horse was pitching forward and she was flying through the air. She hit the ground so hard she saw stars beneath her eyes, the impact driving the air from her lungs. Brienne tumbled several times before finally coming to a stop.  
  
Her body throbbed in pain, her hand empty where Oathkeeper should be.  
  
_Get up. Get up or you never will._  
  
You’re not done yet, others still need you, it is no time to rest.

Moving her arms and legs half in a daze she fought to gain her feet once more. She had only half-risen when the blow came, jarring her helm so that a ringing sound burst through her ears.

The world flashed brightly and her legs stumbled beneath her, Brienne barely staying on her feet. Her helm had taken most of the force of the hit but she could see little from it now. Only enough to see the Bastard’s mailed fist coming forth once again, it gave her the time needed to steel herself before the blow landed.

This one struck her chest, as padded and armored as she was it was a foolish place to strike. This strike had little of the power the other had so she had enough sense to spin away and yank her ruined helm free from her head. She needed to see and the cold wind stung against her face.

“You’re that cunt!” Ramsay laughed. He’d lost his helm too and she saw him an ugly man. The tip of his nose darkened from frostbite. “The one who brought the other Arya here! I’ll have them both. You first though.”

The Bastard grabbed at her cloak before pulling hard to bring her in for a cut from his blade. Instead of fighting it she added his strength to her own, throwing her shoulder into him and knocking him off balance. She was freed from his hold and quickly rolled upon the ground to retrieve Oathkeeper from where it lay.

“Me first?” She yelled, regaining her feet and raising the blade before her. “I will be the last! The last face you ever see in this world!”

“You’re just another bitch!” He roared back, bringing his sword above his head with both hands. “Another to make a cloak of!”

Then he came at her and it was to be a sword fight, just as she wanted. The Bastard was more a brawler than a warrior, how he’d struck her with his fists and grabbed at her cloak betrayed that truth clearly. His wild cuts and furious lunges could have been countered with a soup ladle and using Oathkeeper against such a foe almost seemed insulting. She deflected his cut, more like a butcher’s than a swordsman’s.

Then another.

And another.

The man was fierce to be sure but all attack while she was as tempered as her blade. And her cool manner seemed to enrage him all the more.

“I’ll fuck your corpse! Whatever holes I cut into you will do!” Ramsay screamed. “The Stark bitches too! Arya Stark is mine! I’ll ruin her just like that other one…”

 _Never_.

As Ramsay raised his sword up again she struck quickly to his side, slicing through his armor and drawing blood. It was but a cut but he favored it long enough for her to move sideways from his view. She was about to end it when the sounds of hoofbeats made her spin to avoid an attack.

Yet it was too late.

The blow made a crunching sound where it landed, the pain from her left shoulder felt like some great jaws had clamped down upon it.

She saw the plate there wet with blood and feared to look lower still, yet she did. The relief she felt at seeing her arm still attached was short lived though.

Her attacker pulled his horse around and readied the poleaxe to swing again. This was bad for her, his reach was wide and she had no shield to defend with. She prepared to dive from the attack when another ran between them, a spear clutched in his hands. The horse fell screaming as Podrick drove the shaft into its soft underbelly with his own savage cry.

“The lady!” The squire screamed as the spear was wrenched away.

Horse and rider fell then, the man trapped beneath his struggling mount as it died and screamed. Podrick ran towards him, a dagger in his hands but she did not see the rest.  
  
For the Bastard was on her again.

“I’ll flay the Arya cunt!” His shout warned her of his coming, giving her time to brace herself.

His ugly face was red with anger. Injured as she was, he pressed her back, throwing his strength against her with two-handed cuts.

“She’ll have it worse than all the others! All my girls! I’ll make her scream for…”

“You will not.” She rasped as his blow sent pain surging through her. “You will die here today…”

“Bitch! Just die!” Ramsay hacked again. “Just fucking die!”

“You will hurt…” She avoided his next blow entirely, him sputtering in rage. “You will hurt no more. No more women, no more children…”

“Be quiet!” He spat and swung too wide and she knew it was at an end.

“I am your death Ramsay Snow!” She yelled. “This lady is your death!”

As he raised the sword above his head to cut down Oathkeeper thrust forward and sideways into his exposed underarm. The fury upon his face died quicker than he, changing to a look of pain and shock as she drew closer.

Brienne stood almost face to face with the Bastard of Bolton when she gave Oathkeeper a final, hard twist.

“Arya Stark.” She rasped as she felt his last foul breath against her ruined cheek. “Sansa Stark.”

When he went limp, the weight of his body against her shoulder set off waves of agony. She wrenched Oathkeeper free and sent the corpse falling face first into the snow.

Her eyes swept the battlefield and saw the fight was largely done. Another party from Winterfell had arrived during their fight and the Boltons’ numbers had meant little after. She glimpsed Ser Kyle himself as he gave chase to riders trying to flee. Ser Richard had gained a horse again and still battled yet there were others she would seek out still.

Brienne watched as Jon brought a tall man to his knees before delivering a blow that took half his head. Podrick stood near him, a bloody sword held before him like she’d taught him, ready for any new foe that came to him. As she came upon Jon he knelt down towards a body lying prone between the pair.

As if sensing her approach Jon turned and pointed his sword at her, as if to guard the fallen man. When he lowered it Brienne glanced to the figure and her heart fell as she recognized it.

“Gendry…”

“He lives.” Jon said quickly.

Podrick bent down to pull Gendry onto his side, the young knight’s face bloody from a long gash across his forehead and his eyes closed. Yet Jon told the truth, she saw Gendry’s breath in the cold air and knew he lived.

“He fought well, the fall knocked the sense from him and Ramsay battered him some.” The knight shifted his stance and groaned. “He will recover.”

“And you ser?” Brienne heard the pain in the knight’s voice as he spoke. His hand went to his side and he grimaced.

“A hoof of all things.” Jon said simply as he regarded her shoulder and lifted some the smashed plate. “Can you feel your arm?”

“Yes…it will have to mend though.” She winced, wondering how many days of pain awaited her. “The day is won.”

From what she saw of the bodies laid upon the ground she guessed that for every man they’d lost their foes had lost three. Despite the victory, Jon did not look pleased.

“If they weren’t so ragged, we’d be dead.”

“They did not heed the Stark words. Winter did our work for us.” Brienne grimaced. “I did as you asked ser.”

The knight seemed confused and she pointed to the fallen form of Ramsay Snow, his blood staining the snow red around him. When she looked back Jon offered his hand to her and she grasped it.

“That’s one less foe the Starks have to fear.” His eyes did not leave hers and he’d held her hand tightly. “There are more out there though my lady. I fear there are more that we don’t yet know…”

“It is the Stark’s enemies who should have reason to fear.” She slid Oathkeeper back into its scabbard as Ghost sniffed about the corpse of Ramsay Snow.

_Any who would threaten those children should fear more than just that wolf._

_A threat to the Stark girls would mean their end._  
  
For I would be their death.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking some light in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a shoutout to A Cold Wind for the much needed help.

**SANSA**

“Victory.”

Stannis spoke the word with a reverence she’d only ever heard him use in regards to his rights. The word carried far though, down from the stone landing where they stood high above to the courtyard full of people below.  
  
“Victory over false lords and a false throne. That is what today’s battle has brought the realm. Ramsay Snow’s death means another Lannister puppet falls.” Stannis’s voice rang out against the walls. “With his death, the North is now free of accursed Freys and bloody Boltons.”

A small ring of cheers went up but died out as soon as Stannis’s firm gaze fell upon the noisemakers. The king was not done and soon the rabble waited for him to continue.

“The abomination sitting the Iron Throne depends on those houses as pillars of his rule. Crushed and toppled as they are, it weakens the pretender. Our enemies suffer defeat after defeat and with each victory we build the foundation for our next victory. And the one after that. And the one following that. Until the final victory, where we stand upon the ruins of Lannister rule!”

With that, Stannis turned to the squire at his side. In the boy’s hands was a sheathed sword, which the king pulled forth. A brilliant shimmering light burst forth from the blade as he hefted it high above his head, Sansa and many others gasping to see it.

“False men will fall! A great army will march! The true king will march with them! The natural order will be restored and justice returned to this realm! The path to the true battle lies before us and I will guide us to it!”

Sansa stared at the shining blade yet it did little to warm her against the cool breeze moving along the walls.

Stannis’s speech did better on that count.

For the first time since she’d met the man, Stannis Baratheon had inspired her, and she was not the only one who felt so. The enthusiasm with which both the king’s men and her own cheered Stannis’s words was as sincere as it was loud.  
  
_Were he to propose marching straight to capital at once many might actually go._

_So ready for battle, they could very well tear down the city brick by brick with their bare hands._

Howland raised an eyebrow at her from his place to the other side of Arya. The three of them shared the landing with the King, his small entourage and a handful of her guardsmen behind them. Down below, the courtyard was packed with all sorts of people. Laborers stood with their families, knights alongside lords and there was no lack of warriors present, many veterans of today’s battles.

 _All save the one who should be here_ , she thought, _the one who should be making speeches._

_The knight who truly guided us to this victory._

She had been standing above the gates when the war parties had returned to Winterfell. The brave warriors had brought more than word of their victory. They had brought the body of Ramsay Snow.

The men along the battlements had shouted loudly to see the bastard’s corpse dragged behind Ser Kyle’s horse. His head had been claimed by another though. The blood-spattered Ser Richard Horpe had ridden through the gates holding the foul thing by its hair for all to see.

The whole spectacle had been ignored by Sansa as she looked out at all the returning faces for the one she missed most of all.  
  
Among the victors she saw no sign of Jon and a cold feeling had crept up her back. When Willem came to her, his eyes downcast and expression grim Myranda had held out a hand to steady her.  
  
“Where is Jon?” Sansa had asked, her mouth dry with worry. “What happened?”  
  
Willem had shaken his head and pointed back out beyond the walls.  
  
“You mean Ser Jon the Stubborn? Oh he’s riding about with Mors Umber, trying to track down the rest of the bloody hounds.” The knight scowled. “Our group didn’t even see a fight and when I finally get the chance for some glory, Wolf steals my horse and takes off with my men! I’ll see him…”  
  
“Oh you fool!” Myranda had snapped. “Coming up here! Looking like you did! Did you think how it might appear to us?”  
  
Willem had actually been abashed when he took Myranda’s meaning but his apologies were the last things on Sansa’s mind. For a few moments she’d feared Jon lost to her, the relief of knowing he still lived coursed strongly through her. It even pushed away her annoyance at the opportunity he had scorned to ride back victorious for all their people to see.  
  
Jon’s strategy had worked as he hoped. The hounds had taken the bait. Ramsay Snow’s force had been caught preparing to mount an attack against Jon’s false supply carriages just as Ser Kyle’s riders mounted their own. Just like at the Reaping, Ramsay had taken his mounted strength and fled, leaving his infantry to the mercy of Ser Kyle and the Cerwyn men’s charge.  
  
That flight had led them straight to Jon’s party and the bastard’s death.

Which in turn had led to this impromptu ceremony. She had wanted to wait until Jon’s return but when Stannis heard of the victory he had visited the castle himself.  
  
The king thought a delay was out of the question.

“Victory is not about dinner parties and dances.” Stannis had frowned, looking out at the mingling of his men and hers. “It is about moments like this, the ones between the tedious marching and burying the dead. You do not let such things wither away. You use them to urge your men forth, riding the tide of triumph onto the next victory.”  
  
“This victory belongs to Ser Jon, not us.” She’d argued and Stannis had given her a look of intrigue bordering on respect.  
  
“Hmph. In my experience, lords young and old alike are often loathe to credit their lessers for victories. When I have Randyll Tarly captured and brought before me, you can hear the truth of that from him. Mace Tyrell will boast that he pushed back Robert’s army at Ashford, giving Robert his one defeat in the entire war, but it was Lord Tyrell’s van that did all the fighting. In truth, Mace Tyrell couldn’t fight off a bout of the runs without the Lord of Horn Hill leading him to the privy.”

The king had gestured then for his guards to clear a path between him and Sansa through the celebrating rabble before inviting her to join him.

“Lord Stark raised you well it seems if he taught you to give credit where it is owed. Your half brother’s deeds honor him even more. So let the knight do his duty as we shall do ours. For this is not a time to wait, it is a time for men to be led.”

His words had rung with a hard truth she couldn’t ignore. Besides, their relations still needed to be strengthened and their men would benefit from a bonding experience like this.  
  
And with the men in such high spirits, it offered Sansa a platform to follow Stannis’s announcements with one of her own. After the king had returned his blade to its sheath, she nodded to Howland who came to stand at the fore.

“Good men!” The crannog lord hailed, gathering the crowd’s attention. “While there are surely more victories to be had in the future, we must give today’s victors their due! Ramsay Snow is dead along with most of his men! The Queen would have us honor those brave warriors who brought an end House Bolton’s stain on the North! Queen Sansa would now like to call forward those who did great deeds in this battle! Deeds to be recognized and celebrated.”

Sansa stepped forward, drawing Arya alongside her, her sister resisting some against the attention. Men-at-arms and knights, smallfolk and highborn alike all gazed up at them, and again she lamented Jon’s absence in this.

“Ser Richard Horpe, please step forward!” She called out and saw the surprise on Stannis’s face at the mention of his knight. “Step forward and be honored.”

Rodwell and his men cleared an open space below the landing and soon enough the battle-hardened knight presented himself there. She’d heard Stannis himself call the man Slayer and from his bloodied clothes and reputation, the name seemed well earned. Ser Richard did not lack for courtesy though, he knelt before any bid him to.

“This knight is not in my service yet he served the North greatly today! He fought bravely against our enemies and did great damage to their forces! As told by those present, Ser Richard slew six men with his own blade. Six!” Her pronouncement led to approving sounds from the crowd. “Ser, I ask you to rise.”

When the knight did so she offered her widest smile, the man staring blankly back at her in return.

“As King Stannis is my ally, I hereby name you a friend of House Stark. Any gift that is within my power, merely name it now and I will grant it to you happily.”

“I am a knight, your grace.” Richard put a hand to his chest. “I have only ever wished to serve well and fight even better. I ask only to go on doing so in R’hllor’s name.”

The mention of the red god did not go over well with most of her men yet a few of Stannis’s offered shouts of encouragement.

“Even still ser, should you ever have a need, my family will fill it. Go forth with my thanks.”

Ser Richard bowed and made to take his place amongst the crowd again. With that Howland called out the name of another person she would honor.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth! Please come forward!”

A murmur of disquiet reached her ears and men began to move aside at the lady’s coming. The woman’s shoulder was heavily bandaged but showed no sign of strain upon her scarred face. Arya watched her approach with concern, yet Sansa spotted something of a smile pulling at her lips.

It was a far cry from how things had been earlier today.

Arya had not been pleased to learn both Jon and her strange party of friends had ridden out to face battle. Sansa had faced her own battle with her sister afterwards. Just another clash in a war she feared would never end.

_What happens here will mean some peace between us, some happiness for Arya at least. I can only hope._

Others appeared upset though. She saw derision and disbelief on many of the faces in the crowd.

_No matter how great her deeds she’ll always be but a woman to them._

_But she will be my woman soon enough._

As Brienne knelt Sansa waved her hand down at her.

“This lady, sworn to my mother’s service, helped return Princess Arya home to Winterfell. As if that deed was not grand enough, today she slew the beast known as Ramsay Snow with her own blade!”

Many cheered her declaration but not as many as she had hoped.

_It will do for now._

“My lady, I owe you so much.” She put a hand on Arya’s shoulder as she spoke and prepared herself for what would come next. “I offered Ser Richard anything he would ask, yet I would ask something of you instead. You served my mother faithfully and I’d ask you to serve her daughters the same. I’d ask you to be more than just a warrior in my personal service, but to have your oath. To serve as a protector of House Stark. The first of a Sworn Guard to our royal family.”

There were shouts of shock and disapproval from the crowd at her words and even Brienne started some. She once again cursed Jon’s absence, for Howland had admitted to her that this was his idea as well.

The lord did as he said he would, addressing the crowd with his arms outstretched.

“The late King Robb surrounded himself with a guard made up of loyal and true warriors, who swore to die for their king rather than let him fall!” With that Howland gestured towards some familiar faces below. “And among those brave warriors served Dacey Mormont! Would any here question her courage at the Whispering Wood? At Oxcross? Was the lady was any less brave than the men who fought alongside the Young Wolf, our King in the North?”

Sansa thought none would, not with Lady Maege, Alysanne and Jorelle present in the courtyard.  
  
“Would any question that Lady Brienne returned the princess home? That it was her blade which killed Ramsay Snow?”

When naught but silence followed Howland’s questions, Sansa made to seize the moment. Until Brienne herself raised the lone objection.

“Your grace I’m not worthy. I wouldn’t…” They lady spoke loudly at first but her words fell away.

The woman was clearly uncomfortable and would not even raise her eyes from the ground. Arya’s grip on her hand tightened and Sansa shared in her sister’s worries.

_No, she cannot reject us. We must have her._

“Pray wait for one moment my lady, so that I may look upon you.” Sansa called out before making to leave the landing, pulling Arya with her. Together they walked down the stone stairs to the courtyard and came before the kneeling lady.

“Lady Brienne, my sister and I would have you enter our service. To pledge your sword to our care as you’ve done before in others’ names.”

Brienne was shaking her head and Sansa fretted some at what the lady would say next.

“Your grace… I was a Kingsguard once and my king was killed. I swore myself to your lady mother… and she fell as well.” She paused, her arm trembling upon her knee. “I fear myself ill-omened, that I will only bring death…”

Someone in the crowd muttered agreement and Arya’s hand jerked in hers, her sister searching the crowd to find the speaker. Sansa ignored it, pulling on Arya’s arm to remind her of their plan.

“How can you be ill-omened?” Arya asked haltingly, too quietly for others to hear and Sansa whispered for her to speak louder. It earned her an angry look but Arya did as she was bid. “You found me Brienne. You brought me from the Quiet Isle to the Twins. To Winterfell! I’m alive and home… because of you.”

Something was said in the crowd and this time Arya jerked free to point down at Brienne.

“It’s the truth! I’m here because of her! No one else came for me!”

“It is my right to choose my protectors!” Sansa declared, wanting this to end. “It is my sister’s right as well, and I’d ask any who have doubts to put them aside. To trust in me as I trust in you.”

While she made her case to the men, Arya made her case to Brienne.

“We’re not done yet….” Arya’s voice was not it’s usual strong and forceful tone. She sounded like the girl Sansa had remembered when asking father for a story or Jon to carry her on his shoulders. “We have so much to do, I want to show you what I can be… please Brienne…”

Those words bid Brienne to gaze up at Arya. Her eyes, her one truly beautiful feature, were all the bluer with the emotion there, a tear breaking free from one. Then the lady slowly drew her sword and offered it pommel first towards them.

“Queen Sansa, Princess Arya. I offer my sword to your service. To House Stark’s service.” Brienne spoke even louder now. “My sword is yours, my life is yours, my oath is yours. I will serve you honorably until the end of my days.”

“Then rise Lady Brienne, henceforth you shall be our Sworn Guard, our trust is with you.”

The words were an answer to her prayers, the end to a lingering fear since Brienne had spoken of her hatred for Stannis. In one of the brief moments Jon had deigned to be near her, he’d shared his worries that Brienne would leave Winterfell to claim some vengeance upon Stannis. Besides being indebted to the lady, Sansa was also growing fond of her and could not allow Brienne to throw her life away on nothing but an oath to a dead man.

Nor could she allow her to kill their new ally.

Or worse, die trying to.

Bringing Brienne into their service seemed the ideal solution. Yet when Howland came to her proposing that they form a Sworn Guard it had worried her. The politics of it were tricky and her own experience with the Kingsguard disposed her little to such orders. When the lord had betrayed it as Jon’s idea, it had done much to raise its worth in her eyes.

A deep grey cloak was brought forward then and Sansa saw that Arya was practically beaming as she fastened it around Brienne’s shoulders. Arya had asked for the honor herself and Sansa was happy to grant it. The woman rose to tower before them and took a place at Arya’s side, her eyes still glistening. Sansa let the pair enjoy the moment a little longer before nodding up at Howland above.

He knew his part and stepped forward on the dais.

“Your grace, I’d offer you another sword if you’d have him.”

With that, he beckoned a lithe young crannogman from the side of the hall. He was the warrior who had escorted Arya from the Neck all the way to Winterfell.  The man was small in stature like many crannogmen but with a tall spear in one hand, a shortsword at his side, and a bow slung across his back, he made an impression. An impression that was fierce as well as dignified.

“I present Marlen, son of Derren, styled the Bog Devil by his friends and enemies alike.”

Arya’s face was alight as the man knelt before them as she’d known other guards would be named but not who. It was good to make Arya happy, and this would no doubt do so. When Howland had proposed Marlen for the guard Sansa saw the value of it immediately. Her family gained a skilled warrior and it showed their respect for the crannogmen and their abilities in but one act.  
  
_They deserve more for all they’ve done. For all their lord has done._

_And when the time is right Howland will be rewarded as he should be._

She allowed Arya herself to fasten the cloak upon his shoulders and noted sourly the cheers for Marlen were louder than the ones for Brienne had been.

The next man she named would do honor to the clansmen. The quarrelsome lot rarely agreed on anything yet somehow one man had found broad support. Even the chieftain lord of House Liddle’s most bitter clan rival, Hugo Wull remarked on the man’s ability with a broadsword and his slaying of many ironmen at the taking of Deepwood Motte.

Morgan Liddle, second son to Torren Liddle, was rumored to be fierce in battle and his love of fighting was only eclipsed by his loyalty to House Stark. Middle Liddle, as he was called, would never feature in any maiden’s tales. He was big, bald, bearded, and fearsome to look upon with harsh and weathered features. 

Yet when Morgan accepted the cloak from Sansa, he did so with a blush that made him look almost a green boy.

When the last man stepped forward to be named, she struggled to keep the smile from her face. This man had needed neither recommendation nor any deep consideration. As Ser Willem dropped to his knee, he placed a hand upon the pommel of one of his swords.

“Lord Yohn ordered me to be at your service but I was never sworn to it. He has enough knights about him to holler at, so I offer my sword to you now, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.” He then shifted his hand to his second sword before winking at Arya. “And I offer the other to you, Arya Stark, Princess She-Wolf.”

Arya tried her hardest to hide her grin while Ser Willem’s expression quickly became gravely serious.

“I have never served a cause as just as yours. I have seen few rulers as noble as you.” The knight made no jests and he did not smile. “I’d swear to keep your family and home safe before all else. Before all lands, titles, or wines, I serve the Starks.”

There had never been any question of whether she would accept such an oath. He had been with Jon and her since the Vale and few had done more for them. Since he would not accept a home from her, she would gladly make a place for the knight in hers.  
  
“Then I welcome you to the Sworn Guard and furthermore name you First of the Guard, captain of our protectors.” As she draped the grey cloak around his shoulders, she leaned close and whispered the rest. “And this is one title you cannot refuse.”

He didn’t argue as he rose to a rousing bit of applause from both northmen and Vale warriors. The knight went on to join his fellow sworn swords and she spared a glance back to Stannis. The king’s face was stern as he watched in silence from his place above her. His expression as hard as it was unreadable.

Soon after Maege gave a shout and a wagon was pulled amongst the crowd, who began to forget themselves when they saw it laden with casks of ale. In truth, they didn’t have much left of ale or wine but with the supplies from White Harbor expected soon Sansa believed they could spare it. With the shadow of Ramsay Snow gone from her lands they deserved some merriment.

When the casks were opened and the men flocked around, the courtyard took on the feel of a festival. Men clapped each other on the backs and brought tankards together laughing.

The castle was filled with good cheer, everyone finding someone to share it with.

And she felt alone. Empty and alone.

Arya was walking with Brienne, the two heading towards the maester’s tower where the wounded were being tended to, no doubt to visit Podrick and Ser Gendry. Myranda was taking great pleasure in making Marlen laugh and Morgan Liddle blush. Stannis had left the landing to stand amongst his men, sharing neither in ale or laughter but standing among his men as they celebrated nonetheless with something akin to approval on his stern face.

Even Howland had disappeared from her side.

_Likely gone to share today’s tidings with Lord Wyman._

_Poor man is likely going stir crazy in those chambers_.

Lyra Mormont had left days ago, ostensibly to lead reinforcements to the Dreadfort and summon Lord Royce. The truth, of course, was she carried word of Rickon to the Greatjon and Bronze Yohn and orders for the pair to seek him upon Skagos.  While Stannis had gritted his teeth and accepted the delay of Lord Wyman’s trial, she knew it would not do to push him by parading the lord around before them.

A parade of a different sort caught her eye then.

Mors Umber was bellowing loudly as he pushed his way through the revelry, waving a bloodied Bolton banner about his head the whole while.

“That’s the end of the flayed man!” Mors roared as he yanked a tankard from a man and downed it in one go.

“And the start of the drunk man!” Willem laughed from his place beside Jorelle before quickly ducking as an empty tankard flew over his head. “Hey! Where’s the Wolf?”

“Eh?” Mors waved forth for another tankard. “The beast took off before we got back to the castle.”

“Not that wolf! The good looking one!” Jorelle called and men hooted.

Such behavior was probably why Myranda had taken such a liking to the lady most called Jory. Far more forward and brash than Maege’s other daughters, Myranda claimed Jory had stories that even made her blush.

Her words caused Sansa’s face to grow hot but not in embarrassment.

“Handsome? That skinny man!?” Mors drank before pointing to the keep. “The ser went to his chambers! He prefers bandages to drinking!”

“He’d prefer me to both!” The Mormont wench’s claim brought a round of bawdy jests.

She barely heard them, for Sansa’s feet were already taking her towards the keep.

It was beyond belief. Even with the distance between them, Jon still found a way to irritate her. She’d heard from Brienne that Jon had suffered some wounds and to hear he sought his room rather than the maester’s tower infuriated her.

Almost as much as Jorelle Mormont’s words.

 _Jon wouldn’t want her_ , she thought, _no matter what she offers him._

 _And would he want you? Coming to his chambers to scold him like a Septa?_  
  
She knew the answers to those questions but continued on anyways. No matter their problems, or the status of her crown, Sansa was still his queen and Jon was still her knight. She could not let him act so foolishly.

Her now having a reason to see him alone had nothing to do with it.

 _Perhaps he’s forgiven me… if he loves me like he says, he’ll see me and take me into his arms and…  
  
_ She shook her head against such hopes.  
  
_And forget the years of hurt you helped cause him?_  
  
Forget the pleasure a woman offered him that some silly little girl can’t?

Sansa did her best to push those thoughts away. It would do her little good to start crying before she even saw him.

When she arrived at his chambers no one was about and her knock was a furtive rap, answered just as quickly by a grunt from within.  
  
Sansa opened the door expecting Jon to be standing there, looking like he did the night of the feast. Dressed in finery and awaiting her coming like he did in her dreams.

Instead her knight had his back to her.

And he was barely dressed at all.  
  
Jon wore breeches that rode low past his hips and save for the cloth he wound about his middle, his back and chest appeared bare. She shut the door quickly and found herself leaning against it, sheltering them from being caught in such a moment.

Much had changed since the last time she’d seen him undressed. Where Sansa expected to see angry, red lines crisscrossing his back, there only pale scars now. An urge to touch them gripped her, as if to do so would somehow ease them into fading even further away.  
  
“You’ve could’ve left the bandages until the morning Leum.” Jon said as he turned around. “Just leave them- shit!”

He almost jumped, he was so startled to see her, his face shifting into a grimace of pain as a hand went to his side. A darkening bruise poked up from beneath the parts he’d bandaged. She was almost thankful to see that that was the extent of his hurts.

“I would say I’m indisposed Sansa.” Jon grumbled, looking about the clothing strewn around the room.

“And I would say you should be with all the other wounded men being tended to by Medrick.” She did her best to sound angry. “Those bruises look poorly ser.”

She tried to look only at the bruises but her eyes rebelled, wandering to take in more of Jon’s body. His chest was firm and strong yet trim and graceful too. His other scars didn’t mar his lean form in the least. Where muscle carved lines here and there across his body she wondered how it would feel to run her fingers along them.

It was a wicked thought.

“I am fine.” He shrugged wincing. “And there are others far worse off than me…”

His eyes fell on a shirt by her feet and he moved to grab it. She saw the movement though and before he could, she blocked his path, her hand landing upon his chest.

“That is not the point.” She said firmly as the feel of him sent a wave of heat through her chest. “You are missed at the celebration, the one for the victory you brought us. Even Stannis is speaking highly of you.”

He grunted, enduring her touch for only a moment longer before taking a step back, their connection broken.

_He can endure riding about with such wounds but not your touch._

_He let her touch him._

“Why didn’t you come back after the battle?” Her anger got the better of her. “Why would you suffer to ride about like this?”

“The task was not done.” Jon said quietly.

“Then someone else could have finished it!” She almost shouted.  “It is foolish to risk yourself so!”

Her hurt feelings only added to her anger. He hadn’t just scorned her. He’d scorned the chance to ride victorious into the castle. A victory won because of his strategy and leadership, one a castle full of people celebrated. It was a chance for him to earn the admiration and respect he deserved.

Things she’d denied him for so long.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Jon kept his gaze on the wall beside him rather than her. “You shouldn’t be in here Sansa.”

_But I want to be._

Everything in her screamed that she belonged here with him. She wanted to scream it at him. To grab his face and make him see how sorry she was for all she’d done.

Fear restrained Sansa from doing anything of the like. To even try meant opening herself up for him to reject her. For him to prove that he knew her for what she was.

A little girl pretending to be a queen. Pretending to be a woman. Pretending to be anything but what she actually was.

“You’re right.” She heard herself say. “I only wanted to make sure you were well... I’m sorry ser.”

With that she turned from him and walked to the door. Each step felt heavier than the last and it was a horrible how badly she wanted to cry. She was about to rip open the door when Jon said something. His words too quiet to be heard.

She didn’t want to cry in front of him yet she stopped. Looking back, she saw Jon facing her again, his fists clenched and eyes closed.  
  
“Jon? Did you say something?”

“I said don’t.” He almost whispered. “Don’t leave… don’t apologize…”

He opened his eyes and met her own.

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear this but I am. I wish what happened with Melisandre never happened.” Jon took a step towards her. “I was a scared, lonely fool and I’d never known a woman…I would take it back if I could. You have to know, I didn’t love her then and I could never love her now… I could never love anyone like I love you…”

“Jon…”

“Please just hear me.” He pleaded as he took another step forward. “I’d change it if I could. I’d change so much. I wish you didn’t have to be burdened with the truth of my mother. I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you the truth about Melisandre… the lie… but it’s not worth losing you over…”

“Losing me?” She choked out.  
  
_What is he doing? Why is he apologizing to me?_

“I dishonored myself and I sought to escape my shame by trying to blame you for things that are not your fault. That you had done as a child.” He said all this running his hand through his hair nervously. “I never wanted to hurt you… I don’t want to keep hurting you and I stayed away as long as I could but you coming here…”

_He didn’t._ _He couldn’t have forgiven me._

“Forgive me.” Jon’s shoulders slumped. “I beg it of you…”

“Shut up.” Sansa said shaking her heard. “Oh please just… shut up.”

He was taken aback at that. Even more so when she rushed at him, grabbing his face and pulling it down to hers.

_He’s a fool. A brave, handsome, wonderful fool._

_And he loves me!_

She had no restraint, her lips pressing against his, her fingers moving through his hair. He didn’t struggle against it and soon enough his mouth was open and his tongue was out, seeking hers. That drove Sansa to push herself against his body, to try and feel even more of him. Jon jerked suddenly and gasped in pain. She remembered his injuries then and tried to pull away yet it was his turn to grab her. One hand on Sansa’s hip, the other on her back, holding her tight against him.

The warmth she’d felt in her chest now bloomed forth through her breasts as they pushed against him. The warmth continued, coursing throughout her body, moving lower and then lower still until it reached her womanhood.

Her hand moved lower as well, from Jon’s face to his chest. His skin was hot to the touch, the feel of it against her hands almost made her fingers want to clench and try to grab even more of him. The tips of her fingers traced their way across one of his scars, the thought of Jon hurt driving her to comfort him. She broke their kiss all of a sudden, Jon groaning his disapproval until she kissed the scar Loras Tyrell had given him. She just wanted to have more of him, to taste him, to make him feel as she did.

“Sansa…” He gasped when she kissed him at a spot just higher.

The hardness in his breeches ground against her hip as she kissed a line up to his neck. Her lust was so powerful her tongue chanced to join her lips there. That was too much for Jon, he jerked her so that they were kissing again, his lips all the hungrier. Then he broke their kiss and his mouth was at her neck.

She almost cried out at the feeling of his hot breath and lips against her skin. When his tongue licked at her neck she shivered. Her strength left her and she sagged into his arms yet he did not let her fall. He pushed his hips against her own and when she felt that hardness again she suddenly found the strength to meet his thrusts in turn.

When she moved her legs apart to balance herself, she felt wetness between them. It was a feeling she never wanted to end. It was one she wanted more of.

_No wonder people lose their virtue._

_No wonder Jon lost his._

They’d begun swaying about the room and somehow had backed upon his bed. She let herself fall backwards, pulling him with her. His mouth was on hers again as his body slid back between her legs. Her skirts were forced upwards now and she felt his hardness pressed right up against her mound. With the skirts out of the way there was only his breeches and her smallclothes between them and it sent a spasm of desire unlike any she had ever felt course through her whole body.

Before Sansa knew what she was doing she cried out.

“Sansa…” Jon broke away for a moment, gasping for air. “We should stop…”

“No.”

_He didn’t stop with Melisandre._

_That red witch wouldn’t stop._

_Myranda wouldn’t stop. Jorelle wouldn’t stop._

Everything Jon said came back to her then.

He had been apologizing for things that weren’t his fault, thinking that he was somehow unworthy of her. One day he would realize he was wrong to forgive her, that she didn’t deserve him. Jon was handsome, brave, a prince even, and she was the girl who tittered and snubbed him for all her life and betrayed her father.

Cersei Lannister’s words came back too. Sansa was a fool who didn’t understand the power of the thing between her legs, she had said. The woman was only half right, for she was also scared of her sex as well. Men had threatened her because of it, hurt her over it, so many terrible things had happened for what pleasure men thought they could take of her.

A real woman grown wouldn’t be scared. Myranda, Mya, and Jorelle were all real women, and worse, none had hurt Jon like she had.

Her true knight deserved a woman. A woman who could give him nothing but the love and joy he deserved but more than that…a woman who could be with him in the way men and women were supposed to be together.

The way her friends wanted to be with him.

_They can’t have him, I won’t let them._

_I can’t lose him. I won’t lose him._

_They don’t love him like I do. I would give anything and everything of myself to him._

So she did.

The true knight always got the maiden in the songs anyways. She kept that thought in her mind as she cupped Jon’s face and kissed him again. She steeled herself, pushing all her fears down before making her choice.

“Take it.” Sansa kissed him again. “Take my maiden’s gift.”

He looked down at her, his eyes wide. He made to speak again but her lips cut off his protest. She felt earlier how he enjoyed pressing against her mound so she rolled her hips to thrust against him again. Jon moaned in her mouth as he struggled to pull away, yet only for the smallest of moments. Then with a grunt he was the one thrusting against her, his hands running down her sides, his mouth finding her neck.

Sansa made to undo the front of her gown when Jon suddenly reached down to hike up her skirts. Then his hand was at her woolen stockings pushing them down to her thighs before moving to her small clothes, his fingers clutching the garment tightly before he jerked at it.

The tearing of it sent a wave of terror through her.

Suddenly she was back in King’s Landing during the riots. When filthy, horrible men clawed and grabbed at her with their rough hands. The fear of what they’d meant to do to her surged through her. She was with Marillion, his drunken hands groping at her, pushing her hands away from stopping him. Even the Hound came to her then threatening to cut her throat before asking for a song. She began to panic, her hands clenching into fists and a scream building up in her.

“Stay with me.” Jon rasped suddenly, his grey eyes gazing into hers. “You have to stay with me.”

_I have to stay with him._

_He protects me. Everything is better with him._

“I’m here…” She said, letting him kiss her again as he finished sliding the smallclothes down her legs, past her knees until they pooled at her feet with her stockings.

His kissing helped ease her back from those dark memories. When his hand moved over her mound, it did even more to drive away reason itself. His fingers slid across the thatch of hair above her womanhood, until they touched across the wetness itself. She shuddered to feel his touch there, forgetting the riots in King’s Landing, the hungry looks of Marillion, Petyr’s touches. She forgot her crown, Winterfell, even her own name. There was only Jon and her and the feeling his hand gave her.

And when his fingers dipped within her she shattered beneath him. She had to bite her lip to keep from making noise and thought for a moment that she tasted blood. Then Jon’s hand was gone and he lifted up from her and she thought he was pulling away only to see that his breeches were down. She saw his manhood then and remembered how Tyrion’s looked. It had looked bulbous and discolored and scared her but Jon’s was different. It was comely like the rest of him, hard and smooth, but most importantly it was his. That was all that mattered.

The feel of it against her thigh made her start. It was warm and stiff against her skin yet soft as well.

As it pressed against her sex she clutched at his back in fear. When it entered her she bit his shoulder at the pain. While Jon cursed she did her best not to cry out. It wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever felt but it was intense and foreign and she felt tears coming to her eyes. She thought of Jon to get through it. 

Their embrace in front of the weirwood at Greywater Watch. Their first kiss at Moat Cailin. The day he came for her out of the snows.

His smile, only for her. His eyes.

Then she focused on the present instead. Jon was doing his best to remind her that he was there for her despite his apparent discomfort, like he always did and she was never more thankful. The skin of his chest against hers. His kisses along her brow. His hand massaging her thigh. His thumb wiping across her cheek.  
  
All the while she took him deeper and deeper within her. When his groin pressed against hers Jon grunted, as if he was the one suffering through the ordeal.

“Oh gods… Sansa…” He looked down at her, his brow furrowed, his eyes wild. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She lied. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He kissed her. “I want you to be mine…I’m yours…always yours…”

As Jon spoke he pulled back and then thrust within her again. She grunted at the hurt but his words mattered more. As he thrust again and again she wrapped her legs about his hips and clawed at his back.

With every movement in and out of her sex, the pain dulled some, her fears and worries falling away with it. Soon the sharp agony turned into a dull roar and then a soft ache.

The hurt was dwarfed though by the knowledge that she was no longer alone. The empty feeling was gone and he had said the words she needed to hear.

He groaned to bury himself in her again and when he raised himself up then to look into her eyes and Sansa felt warmth flood through her again. They were together as man and woman were meant to be. His body and hers, joined in love.

She reached up to his jaw and traced it lightly with her fingertips.

“Say it.” She begged, her fingers at his lips. “Say it again.”

Jon drove into her faster than before and the bed moved with his efforts. She shivered as she felt him breathing on her neck before he whispered it again.

“Yours, I am yours…” he said with a desperation that she heard in his voice as much as she felt in her sex. “You’re mine.”

_Yes, he is mine._

_I am his and he is mine._

**ARYA**

“Hey, that’s mine.”

“And I’ll give it back.” Arya smiled at Pod’s protest before she lowered the half helm over her head.

It was much too large for her, wobbling as soon as she let it go. Still, with the helm and the cloak pulled tight about her, it would do for what she needed.

“This is a bad idea.” The squire shook his head.

“It’s a good idea and be quiet. You got to go out and fight today while I had to sit here and do nothing.” She scowled, looking around the corner of the alcove they’d hidden themselves in. “And I missed out on you all coming back too. I’m doing this.”

The courtyard beyond was still filled with people drinking and celebrating Ramsay Snow’s death. The mood was so good that many still braved the cold as night descended on the castle.

Which was fine by her, darkness only helped them.

“The Lady said to go back to the keep.”

“And we will.” She reached back and grabbed Pod’s tunic, pulling him with her back into the open. “After.”

With that they were on their way straight into the crowd of revelers. Torches were being lit and great braziers hauled out which made Arya think this whole thing could last quite a while.

_And I’m supposed to miss this, just like the battle?_

_Not bloody likely._  
  
She was still angry over being left behind. Brienne and Jon going out to fight the Boltons, she could understand that. They were warriors now and she believed in them and their abilities.

Gendry was a little harder to accept. He was a terrible rider, but if he got to use his war hammer she thought he’d be alright. He was almost a man grown and a knight besides.

She’d almost screamed in rage though when Sansa had said Pod gone too.

“I’ve been in just as many fights as him!” She’d yelled at Sansa. “We helped each other at the Crossroads! And when we spar I can…”

“You can accept that Podrick is a squire and you are a princess.” Sansa had interrupted. “Your place is in the castle while the others are out in the field. Be happy I still allow you your practices… the other lords frowned to hear of it.”

“Which is silly.” Lady Myranda had chimed in, as she reached to fiddle with Arya’s hair. She’d slapped away the lady’s hand for the effort. “How many of those men accept Lady Maege and her daughters fighting? They accept a queen to lead them to victory, why not accept a swordswoman for a princess?

“Because it is not proper…”

“Oh trust me dear Sansa, men forget propriety soon enough when they find a woman who knows how to handle a sword.”

“Randa!” Sansa had gasped and Arya had an idea that she knew what they were talking about.

Sansa’s friend could talk about men’s cocks all she wanted as long as she was on Arya’s side.

“I could have helped! You said Jon took Ghost out to track the Boltons, I could do the same with Nymeria!” She’d gotten angrier as Sansa sighed and turned away. “You can’t just send my friends into danger like that! Or Jon! He deserves better than…”

“Stop it!” Sansa had yelled, almost running from the room. “Just stop!”

As her sister had fled down the corridor Myranda had called after her, sparing but a moment to turn around and scold her.

“This was Ser Jon’s idea, not hers, and your friends all volunteered. As strong as you think you are, trust me Arya Stark, your sister is stronger.”

The lady’s words had shamed her a little. Knowing that the others had left her behind on purpose spread her anger out amongst all of them but then she had felt bad being angry at them while they were out fighting the Boltons.

She’d felt even worse later when Myranda brought Sansa back. Apologizing to her sister was never the easiest thing to do for Arya. She’d done it though, and it had been worth it to hear Sansa’s plan for keeping Brienne.

Arya had been shocked to hear that Brienne had even thought of leaving Winterfell. She’d always just assumed the lady would stay with them.

That Brienne would stay with her.

None of that mattered now though because Brienne had joined the new guard Sansa had made. It meant she wouldn’t be going anywhere and that they would be together.

Taking care of each other.

After they’d named Brienne to the Sworn Guard, Arya had gone with her to see the maester. She’d needed more tending to and it was a chance to visit the others. Gendry had been getting his fool head bandaged again while laying back in a bed, his ribs bruised and his arm sprained.

“I should’ve practiced my riding more.” He’d groaned, somehow managing to smirk at the same time. “Or my falling.”

“You fought well and did your duty. Rest is all you need concern yourself with for now.” Brienne had leaned back in her chair by his bedside, cradling her own shoulder.

A woman’s high pitched squeal had made its way through the window and a chorus of laughter had followed.

“Sounds like we’re missing all the fun.” Gendry looked forlorn out the window. “You should get out there Pod. Enjoy yourself, you earned it.”

“Podrick will be escorting Arya back to her chambers first.” Brienne said, shaking her head when she began to protest. “Medrick asked to see to my bandages again and Gendry is not going anywhere until at least tomorrow. Our night is at an end.”

“Then I’ll stay here…”

“It would not be proper for you to do so.” Brienne had winced as she shifted in her chair. “Go on now. Podrick, after you have escorted the princess you may enjoy the festivities. The ser is right, you’ve earned it.”

Brienne and Sansa’s words had burned in their ears as she left.

_Everything I want to do isn’t ‘proper.’_

_Help fight? Not proper. Stay by my friend’s side? Not proper._

_Being a princess is like being a prisoner, except everyone keeps trying to tell you how great it all is._

In her mind, she had just as much right to take part in the fight against the hounds as anyone.

Winterfell was still under repair from the damage Ramsay Snow had done to it during the sack. There were still wounded people who survived the hounds’ attacks being tended to by the maester. Then there were the people that weren’t here. Beth Cassel, Old Nan, Joseth's daughters Bandy and Shyra, and so many others. All taken by the bastard and Theon had told Sansa that they were either dead or still locked below the Dreadfort.

Ramsay Snow had caused all of this destruction and she wasn’t even allowed to celebrate him dying with everyone else. She hadn’t even got to see him die and justice be done.

That’s when the idea came to her.

The one Pod was still complaining about as they pushed their way through the crowd.

“Princess… Arya, if someone sees you...”

“That’s why I’m wearing a disguise!” She hissed back at him, sidestepping a drunken guardsman. “So stop calling me princess and start using my bloody name!”

A group of Vale men were singing along with some serving women and drowned out Pod’s complaints for a time. There were southron men loyal to Stannis in the crowd here and there as well. She figured that that was why she still saw Stark spearmen lining the edges of the yard. Not one of them had a tankard in their hand and Rodwell was among them, moving about warily.

 _That’s smart_ , she thought, _at least he’s not pretending we’re all best friends now._

_Stannis is the reason why we can’t have the whole North looking for the boys._

That thought drove her to remember the weird feeling she’d had earlier. Not long before the war parties had returned, Nymeria had left the castle. The direwolf, who rarely left the godswood, had run to the East Gate and howled and snapped until she’d been set free. The guards had told her that the direwolf had disappeared off into the distance.

Nymeria hadn’t returned yet, which wasn’t altogether strange. The direwolf sometimes went hunting without the walls but she never howled or threatened the men to do so. Arya hadn’t been there and had barely heard the howls from within the keep yet somehow she knew Nymeria was seeking something different than food.

Just like Arya was seeking something different than a party.

They’d just made it by the wagon full of ale when a huge number of Mormont and Umber men in their way made her seek a way around. When she saw Lady Maege and Mors Umber talking ahead, she lowered her head to pass.

“If none could force me to marry, what makes you think I’ll force one of my daughters to?” Maege thumped Mors on the chest, the large man grunting.

“Did I say force? Open your ears woman. I said offer.” Mors grumbled as Arya passed by. “My sons have been dead for years now, our dear Smalljon is lost and my nephew’s other bastard lads lost to the war too. Last Hearth lacks for a lady and an heir. My house needs both to survive so…”

A gale of laughter cut off the rest but she didn’t care, the staircase they’d been heading towards was just a ways ahead. When they’d gained it Arya hurried her way up, the battlements above awaiting them.

“Look at that.” Pod exclaimed excitedly from behind her and she stopped.

The squire was staring down into the courtyard and she saw a great circle of people forming around two men. People were cheering and shouting at the two and she recognized one as Morgan Liddle. The large man stood shirtless against the cold, squaring off against an equally large House Templeton man.

“It’s just a fight.” She said. “You’ve seen enough of that today.”

In truth it would’ve been fun to watch but they had places to be. She had to yank at Pod to keep him going as the two fighters collided with the loud smack of flesh on flesh.

That same sound awaited them when they reached the darkened archway at the top of the stairs. There was little enough light in the passageway they entered but at the far end, just beyond the reach of the torches, two figures were rutting in the dark.

The woman was up on a ledge, her bare legs wrapped around the man, whose pants hung around his ankles. He was slamming into her so hard he was grunting almost as loud as her.

 _It’s cold as anything up here_ , she thought, _gods, ale makes people do stupid things._

Pod and her must have lingered for a bit too long for the woman took notice, giving a cry.

“Hey!” She yelled. “Get on!”

The man whipped around and Arya slapped the helm with her hand, forgetting it was there as she tried to stifle her laugh.

“Podrick Payne?” Ser Willem roared. “Gods boy, get out of here or I’ll make you live up to your name!”

“Come on!” She yelled to her friend, who needed no urging to flee.

As they ran down the passageway she found it hard not to laugh. Pod wasn’t laughing though. He was looking behind them as if expecting a chase.

“Was that… I mean… was that lady…”

“I think so. He’s lucky her mother is being distracted by Mors Umber!”

Her laughter eventually died away as they moved toward the cold darkness of the battlements. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to themselves.

Nor was what they sought truly a laughing matter.

They were on part of the inner wall, which looked down onto the courtyard. The people were much smaller now, their noise all the quieter. Up here it was only the wind and the darkness, torches burning at regular intervals.

Save at one place.

For where a torch should have stood, a spear had been put in its place.

The head of Ramsay Snow sitting atop of it.

_If I couldn’t see him die I’ll at least see him dead._

_For all he’s done to my home, for all he’s done to our people._

“Arya.” Pod spoke suddenly, this time he grabbed her, pulling her back.

“Hey! I said don’t say my name!” She tried to yank free but Pod shook his head.

“There’s someone there.”

She whipped back around and squinted into the darkness. Eventually she saw Pod was right. In the faint light she made out someone standing directly across from the bastard’s head. The figure was pressed so far against the side of the walkway that they were almost completely shrouded in the crenels.

Whoever it was had taken notice of them as well. As they backed away, Arya saw that whoever it was had a hood over their face and wasn’t very tall at all. Barely taller than her.

“Who goes there?” Pod asked, trying to push his way by, as if to protect her.

_Like I’ll let him do that._

Arya shoved him aside and went forward herself.

“Come out into the light!” She commanded. “Now!”

“Please don’t hurt me.” The cloaked figure spoke in a scared voice, a scared girl’s voice. “Please, I’m sorry, I just wanted… I didn’t mean to…”

As she walked into the light Arya realized she knew that voice. It was a voice she remembered well. One she hadn’t heard in a long time but recognized it clearly from all the times it had laughed or sang… or neighed like a horse as Arya walked by.

“Jeyne?” She asked. “Jeyne Poole?”

Jeyne almost shivered to hear her name, holding up her hands up as if to protect herself from their coming.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Jeyne pleaded. “I’ll leave… you don’t have to hurt me.”

“We won’t hurt you.” Arya shook her head, lifting the helm up off of it. “It’s me Jeyne, it’s Arya.”

Jeyne jumped at that, stumbling backwards and falling upon the walkway. Pod and her rushed forward then and Jeyne let out a cry as they reached down to help her. Her hands swatting at them as if she was under attack.

“Stop! We’re just trying to help!”

Jeyne sobbed then, her knees tucking up to her chest. The girl rocking back and forth and muttering the same thing over and over again.

“Arya Stark… Arya Stark…”

Pod exchanged a confused look with her and for a moment she felt just as lost. Until she remembered why Jeyne Poole was even in Winterfell.

_The Boltons forced her to be me. To be their Arya Stark._

_They made her marry that monster._

Sansa had told her that Jeyne was in the castle but Arya had not seen her once. The girl rarely left her chambers and Sansa said Ramsay Snow had done horrible things to Jeyne.

No matter how much the girl had teased Arya growing up, when Arya had heard what that bastard had done to women, and probably to Jeyne, she had felt terribly for the girl. No one deserved that.

Looking up at Ramsay’s frost covered head, she thought he deserved worse.

“Jeyne…. Jeyne…” She said softly, holding out her hand to the hooded girl. “You’re Jeyne. Not me remember? I’m Arya… Arya Horseface…”

Pod made a face at that and she fought back the urge to cuff him, because Jeyne’s hooded face had risen just a bit. She could almost see the girl’s brown eyes. She slowly reached out to the trembling girl, pushing back her hood.

It was Jeyne alright. A bit older, paler and skinnier than she’d ever been, but it was the girl she’d grown up with. Arya almost gasped to see the tip of Jeyne’s nose was gone but stopped herself from doing so.

Jeyne must have caught a hint of it because her hand went up to cover her nose and her eyes began to water. Her nose wasn’t so bad. Brienne’s scars were worse and she looked fine to Arya. Pod was going to have that busted up bone above his eye and she didn’t think he would be any uglier than he already was.

Yet Jeyne was treating him as he was some sort of monster. The girl was cringing away from the squire, shuffling along the ground to put some distance between them.

“This is Podrick.” Arya said quickly. “He’s my friend. He helped kill Ramsay Snow.”

Jeyne looked at Pod with shock, an expression he shared with her. Taking part in the battle was help enough in her eyes so she figured he should take the compliment. Arya ignored them both, reaching down to gently touch Jeyne’s hand.

_She’s been through enough, don’t be harsh to her._

_You can be kind, you can be gentle. You’re not a darkheart._

“Can we help you up?” She asked quietly. “Pod and me, we didn’t mean to scare you. Let us help you up.”

Tentatively, slowly, Jeyne’s fingers closed around hers. When Pod offered his arm too her grip tightened some, as if he scared her. Yet after a moment or two Jeyne’s other hand grasped his arm and, together, they helped the young woman to her feet.

“Podrick, this is Jeyne Poole.”

“My lady.” Pod put gave an awkward smile, bowing some.

“Her father was our steward.” Arya watched Jeyne’s face fall some. “I’m sorry for him Jeyne… I know he didn’t make it…”

“Your father didn’t live either... I didn’t think you had.” Jeyne spared a glance to Ramsay’s head then. “He said you were dead…”

The wind rustled the dead man’s hair, as if the gods themselves mocked the monster.

“That’s why I had to be you.” Jeyne continued. “I had to be you…so I’d always be his.”

“Well he was wrong about all of it.” Arya pointed to the head. “And now he’s dead. My friends killed him. Lady Brienne of Tarth killed him.”

Jeyne gazed up at the ugly thing as if she expected it to argue, her lip quivering, a tear running down her cheek.

“I heard he was dead but I didn’t believe it… I had to see…” She sobbed softly. “I wanted to be able to sleep again. I wanted to be me again but he won’t let me… he’s even in my dreams…”

“It’s alright.” Arya tried to think of something else to say, looking desperately at Pod who was staring at Jeyne with concern. “It’ll be okay now…”

“It can’t be okay. It can never be okay.” Jeyne shook her head violently. “He took everything. He ruined everything. They made me do so much and they hurt me, told me what I’d have to do, but it was nothing compared to what he did… they never told me about the monsters… about what he’d make me do… I was his wife and he made me…”

Jeyne looked as if she was about to retch but when Arya reached for her she jerked away.

“I’m ruined… I can’t be you and I can’t be me. Not after what he did. I begged him, I screamed… I couldn’t make him stop.” Jeyne’s face was desperate. “I just want it to stop.”

She didn’t know what to do. Jeyne had always been Sansa’s friend, not hers. She’d barely heard anyone speak of the girl since coming back, even Sansa had only mentioned her to warn Arya against bothering her. Once her sister and Jeyne had been the best of friends.

_Now Sansa’s royalty and has Myranda to be friends with._

_She doesn’t need this broken girl anymore._

“Then make it stop.” Arya spoke the words without really thinking.

“What?”

“You make it stop.” She repeated. “You stop him.”

In her head she’d been picturing how it would’ve felt to be Jeyne. To have Ramsay Snow coming after her, for him to try to hurt her like he did others. It had mixed with the thoughts of Pod and the others fighting today. Then slowly shifted to when Hyle had tried to take her.

His hand on her in the dark.

“I couldn’t…” Jeyne sniffed. “I try to think of other things before I sleep. I try and pray…”

“No, bugger praying.” Arya said fiercely, her eyes fell on something a ways behind Jeyne.

She pushed passed Pod and Jeyne then, heading towards exactly what they needed. This part of the castle was being repaired and laborers had left a pile of stone there. Arya reached down and picked up a stone in each hand.

“Pod got to fight today.” She said, as she came back to them. “The hounds hurt him and he got to hurt them back.”

When she offered a stone to Jeyne who stared at it with confusion.

“When a man tried to take me… tried to use me…” Arya struggled against the memory of Hyle’s dying eyes. Her sticky, bloody hands. “I killed the bastard.”

She forced the stone into Jeyne’s hands then, the girl uttering a squeak. Arya hefted her own stone in her hand and let if fly with a yell. The rock flew through the air, smacking across Ramsay’s brow with a sickening thud.

Arya faced Jeyne, the poor girl’s eyes were wide and terrified, clutching the stone as if it was diamond.

“Stop him Jeyne.”

“I can’t.”

“You couldn’t!” She snapped. “But now you can! You’ve got a weapon! He’s got nothing! He is nothing!”

“Arya…” Pod tried to interrupt but she waved him off.

Jeyne was staring up at the head with both fear and hatred, the hand clutching the stone shaking violently.

“Stop him Jeyne!” She yelled again. “He can’t hurt you anymore! You don’t have to be afraid! You can fight! Fight!”

With that Jeyne let out a strangled cry as she ran forward. Instead of throwing the rock like Arya expected she swung the stone through the air, striking Ramsay’s eye. Jeyne cried out again as she slammed the rock into his nose, and then she did it again, and again. When his nose was but a mess of gore Jeyne still didn’t stop.

“Jeyne!” She screamed through her rage. “My name is Jeyne! Jeyne!”

The young woman hit the head again and again. Each blow was followed by Jeyne yelling her name.

It reminded Arya of a time long ago, when she’d been with the Hound. When she’d had the chance to face the Tickler again.

And had made him pay for it.

Jeyne’s final strike cracked across Ramsay’s jaw so hard it almost tore loose at the one side. That’s when her knees gave way and she collapsed, the bloodied stone still in her hand.

Arya went to Jeyne’s side, dropping down beside her. She took her wrist in hand and gingerly took the stone away, made soothing sounds the whole time.

“You did it Jeyne.” She whispered. “You stopped him. He won’t hurt you anymore.”

Jeyne whimpered as Arya tossed the stone away and called Pod forward, taking a cloth from his sword belt. She dabbed it about in some nearby snow. As the girl wept Arya began to clean the mess from the girl’s hand.

_They wanted to make her into me._

_They took who she was and broke her, just like me._

She was about to tell her it was okay to be broken when someone shouted in the night. It wasn’t the joyful, happy shouting from the celebration.

This was someone raising an alarm.

“Arya.” Pod warned as he pulled his sword. “The guards.”

He was looking down the battlements to where a bridge linked the inner wall to the outer wall just below them. A good number of men with torches were moving across it, the sounds of shouting and boots thudding across stone echoing up to them. As she rose up to look over, she saw the guards were dragging someone along with them.

She could barely make out anything of the figure from where they were and she saw nothing more when they made it within the inner wall.

“What’s going on?” Jeyne asked, wiping at her eyes.

“It’s okay.” She said, helping Jeyne to her feet and pulling her back towards the stairs. “Pod…”

“I’m behind you.” He nodded, his sword still in hand as Arya and Jeyne ran back the way they’d come.

When they were in the passageways again, shouting was echoing off the stone walls. Whatever was going on, it was coming straight towards them and Arya could’ve kicked herself for leaving Needle in her chambers.

They only had the one blade between them so when she spotted the lights coming towards them she shoved Jeyne behind a darkened archway. Then she hid there as well and Pod almost ran right by them until she hissed at him and he rushed to join them too.

“I’m an envoy!” A voice cried out as the boots drew closer. “I’m not armed!”

“What kind of an envoy climbs the walls rather than using the gates?” Another voice shouted back.

Arya risked peeking out from the around the corner to see what was happening. She recognized Quent easily enough among the score of guardsmen dragging about a bloodied man in filthy clothes. They were coming straight towards them so she made out more of the man’s face.

He wasn’t an ugly man and in fact was somewhat comely, despite the dirt and blood smeared across his features. He had messy hair and large eyes. From how scared the man appeared she didn’t think he was a warrior though.

“I couldn’t use the gates!” The man pleaded. “I told you! I must speak with the Starks!”

“He’s probably a bloody Bolton come for some dark work.”

“Slit his throat and spare the Queen the worry.”

“We’ll take him to Rodwell first and then… hey!”

Arya jerked her head back around but it was too late. One of the men had spotted her.

“Someone’s ahead! Hiding in the shadows!”

 _Oh hells,_ she thought _, how I am going to explain this?_

She could barely see Pod but she gave him an apologetic look. The squire looked ready to sink into the stone.

“Don’t worry!” Arya yelled, holding up her hands and stepping out into the late. “It’s just me and my friends… um… we got lost?”

“Princess!” Quent said in comically high voice. “By the gods what are you doing out here without…”

“Stark!” The captured man gaped at her before he started to struggle. “You’re a Stark! I must speak with you!”

“Shut it!” A man named Ulroy slammed a fist into the man’s gut, almost doubling him over.

The man collapsed, the guards barely holding him up, yet he kept trying to speak to her.

“Please… the Iron Bank… Greyjoys… a trade…”

 _The Greyjoys?_ _Is he from the Iron Islands?_

_I thought they had an Iron Fleet, not an Iron Bank_

“Who are you?” She crossed her arms, trying to pretend she was in charge. “Why are you climbing our walls?

The man sputtered some, finally catching his breath.

“My name is Tristifer Botley.” He spoke as if that meant something to her. “And I bring greetings from the Iron Bank of Braavos…”

 

 

**JON**

“Your grace? You look out of sorts.”

Myranda eyed Sansa curiously as she entered the room and to Jon’s dismay he thought the lady right.

Sansa wore a new gown yet it had obviously been put on in haste, her hair was not styled as it usually was and a few messy strands fell across her face. His only solace was that, however stiffly the queen moved, she gave no other signs of discomfort.

In fact Sansa’s face almost glowed as their eyes met. Just that alone made him ache for her again and he had to shift his stance and think of horrible things to hide it.

“It is just the late hour Myranda.” Sansa said tiredly before letting her eyes fall on the subject for this meeting. “And the reason we have been called.”

Quent and Ulroy held the prisoner firmly between them, his hands and feet already in irons. The man was filthy and unkempt and he’d looked to have gone a long while without a good meal or proper bed.

So he looked just slightly worse than the rest of them.

Maege had clearly been drinking but was doing her best not to show it, leaning forward against a chair to keep from swaying. Lord Manderly’s sweaty forehead and deep breathing made the journey from his chambers look like a climb up the Wall.

Howland had a foul expression borne across his face, his arms were crossed as the lord glowered away at nothing.

These were the only members of the council who they’d been able to summon. The rest were either too drunk or not in their own beds.

 _Like we were,_ he thought _, where we would likely still be._

_To my shame._

Jon knew he should have said no, like honor and propriety demanded of him.

He loved Sansa so completely that his dishonoring of her made him feel like there was a dagger twisting inside him. A good man would have waited. A true knight would’ve taken her before the weirwood and made an honest woman out of her in the eyes of gods and men.

Yet he’d already made a liar out of her moons ago. Taking her virtue with no thought to the consequences was just more evidence of who Jon’s father truly was.

He’d wanted to resist the temptation but everything about Sansa had driven him to take what she’d offered.

Damn the consequences, damn honor, and damn all good sense.

Her full breasts straining at her grown. The feel of her tongue and lips against him. The way her sex had felt hot and inviting, even through their clothes. When he tried to remember his honor instead his eyes stared down at Sansa’s beautiful face. Her cheeks had been flush, standing out even more against her pale skin. Her sweet, torturous lips slightly parted.

Those blue eyes of hers were looking at him with such care that all reason had fallen away. He’d wanted to tear her gown to pieces, see every inch of the woman he loved and to have every part of her touching him.

As crazed with want as he’d been, he still wasn’t so foolish to try such. Nor was he willing to wait for the gown to come off lace by lace. Once her small clothes had been shoved out of the way he’d had to struggle to keep from burying himself in her right then.

Instead he tried to remember the words that Tyrion had told him on their journey south that he, at the time, had tried so hard to ignore. About what women liked, about how to guide a woman to a pleasure before you took your own. Her sex had been hot and wet, her gasps and moans had been signs that his fingers were not unwelcome. When he’d chanced to dip his finger within her the tightness it had been too much to bear any longer.

Jon couldn’t have gotten his breeches off any faster. The pain along his side was screaming against his efforts yet he pushed it away. His eyes had fallen to the thatch of auburn hair about her sex. Many nights he had spent lying awake, thinking of what it would look like. A terrible need had bid him to climb atop her again.

When his cock delved within the hot tightness of Sansa, he could barely even remember how it had felt with Melisandre. There was no comparison, there could never be. His love for Sansa tore at every part of him like her fingers did his back.

In those early moments all Jon wanted was to be deeper within her, to drive himself all the way to the hilt and feel the pleasure he knew he would find there.

Yet he’d held back.

For through his lust he’d felt her tremble and saw her face wrinkled in an expression of pain and fear. He couldn’t go on with her like that. That wasn’t the Sansa he’d come to this point with. So he’d brought her back with his words, guiding the way back for her to their moment.

Sansa hadn’t left again after that. Her grunts and moans, her closed eyes and damp brow, none of it showed fear. Her words spoke of love and so did his, as feeble as they felt.

Jon couldn’t say how deeply he truly loved her. Even when every inch of his cock was in her, his love went deeper still. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her then.

Except the smart thing.

His release had been a powerful, wrenching thing, he’d almost yelled out before clenching his teeth together to stop such. After he’d spent his seed in Sansa it had felt like everything dark and foul in the world was driven away. All that was left was the feel of his beloved and the love they shared. He laid atop her, breathing heavily, the taste of her skin on his lips, her sweet smell almost suffocating him.

His cock was still hard and ached within her, yet he felt his seed there as well. The worries came crushing down upon him all at once, like a huge wave.

_You gave no thought to what this could mean. Of the shame you’ve done her._

_You gave her your seed, what if she becomes with child?_

The thought had made him picture a beautiful babe in Sansa’s arms, the child sharing her eyes. His lovely Sansa laughing to hold it.

_How could she love a child born of this dishonor?_

_How could you do this to her?_

Despite how hard he remained and how good she felt he’d tried to climb off of her. Sansa wouldn’t allow it though, her hands on his back and her legs still tight against his hips.

“Stay with me.” She’d kissed his lips gently. “Stay with me, please.”

Honor and propriety demanded he do anything but that, yet Jon could not refuse her. Nor did he truly want to.

“Always.” He’d answered, kissing her back.

So he’d stayed with her and within her. Their kisses and gentle touches giving way to him slowly thrusting again. She gasped when he did so but he kept the pace slow, an impossible task with how hot she felt around him. His dishonor was a thousand leagues away as they slowly burned together.

Until the pounding had come at the door.

Jon had jerked up and away, Sansa offering a small cry at the roughness of it.

He had his breeches back up in a flash and Sansa had only just thrown her skirts back down when Howland burst in, his hand on his blade.

Such was how the Lord of Greywater Watch found him. In the midst of defiling the woman Jon both served and loved.

The awkwardness of the silence which followed was horrible to endure. Howland had looked between the two of them a number of times, his expression darkening with each moment.

“The guards have captured an intruder.” He’d finally said, backing out of the room. “Or an envoy… it is something I’d have you hear for yourselves… when you are ready.”

A part of him had wanted to throttle Howland for seeing Sansa in such a state. To beat him for interrupting their time, for ending the one beautiful thing he’d had in a day full of ugliness and death. 

He hadn’t of course. For it had been Jon who’d been in the wrong.

Now he was expected to help stand judge over this man he didn’t even know.

He named himself Tristifer Botley, a lordling from the Iron Islands who now apparently served the Iron Bank of Braavos.

“You’re Sansa Stark?” He looked desperately at Sansa. “The Queen in the North?”

“I am and this is my castle. The one you attempted to enter tonight without my leave so if you expect mercy, speak to whatever foul deed you meant…”

“None!” The man almost yelled. “I swear! None! I needed to get into the castle and for all I knew Stannis or his savages held the gates…”

“The clansmen are loyal and true. You reavers are the true savages.” Maege scowled. “And why would it matter if they held the gates or not.”

“Stannis can’t know I’m here.” Tristifer shook his head. “He sent us away so you wouldn’t have a chance to meet the banker. If he learns I was here then everything would be…”

“All this talk of bankers.” Wyman Manderly interrupted, leaning forward in his chair and causing it to creak. “Speak to that first.”

Tristifer did as he was asked and Jon found his story was a strange one indeed. The Botley man had gone from being heir to Lordsport in the Iron Islands, to a prisoner at Deepwood Motte, to serving as a ransomed escort to a banker from Braavos. Mors Umber had spoken of this Tycho Nestoris from the Iron Bank seeking Stannis before the Battle of Winterfell but they’d heard nothing of the man since so it hadn’t seemed important.

Apparently they’d been wrong.

“Stannis has the backing of the Iron Bank?” Lord Manderly sounded impressed. “How much did they give him?”

“I wasn’t told exactly.” Tristifer kept his eyes on Sansa. “But enough to send Ser Justin Massey on his way to Essos looking for twenty thousand sellswords.”

The Lord of White Harbor no longer looked impressed, instead he looked as startled by those words as Jon was.

_Twenty thousand? That’s over twice the men we have now._

_Stannis never spoke one word of rallying an army to him from across the Sea._

The reaver brightened some at the sounds of shock shared by several of the others.

“Nestoris didn’t think Stannis would tell you. We were sheltering at House Lake’s seat when they told us of the alliance between him and the North. When Ser Justin warned us not to speak of the loan in front of our hosts, the banker finally accepted my pleas to send me back here. To present you with this.”

When Tristifer tried to reach into his sullied clothing Quent stayed his hand, reaching in himself and pulling forth a tattered scroll with a wax seal. It was handed off to Sansa, who broke the seal and began to read.

He took the chance to let his eyes linger on her as she did so. The curve of her neck and exposed skin around her throat tempted him. If they were alone, Jon would have taken her in his arms from behind and kissed along the skin there. If they were alone, his fingers would’ve gone to her laces and then kissed lower still.

 _Stop that_ , he thought, _she’s worth more than your base thoughts._

_She’s your queen, your love, and the one you would marry._

A nagging doubt pulled at him regarding those last thoughts. For each was false in its own way. Sansa was only his queen until they found Bran or Rickon. She was most certainly his love but in front of others she could only be his sister. And no matter how much he felt bound to marry Sansa, he had yet to even propose it to her.

Save telling her what song he would have played at their wedding.  
  
_And you hadn’t even had the courage to say that._

Suddenly Sansa sucked in her breath, gaping at the parchment as if it was in a different language. Jon thought she even read it again before speaking to Tristifer Botley.

“You know what this says? You know what he offers?”

“No.” Tristifer shook his head. “I was to destroy it if I feared to be captured and if they tortured me they would learn nothing.”

“A great risk. This banker is either bold or very foolish to send such a thing with a man who helped raid my lands.” Sansa narrowed her eyes at the lordling. “The same goes for you for agreeing to do so. Why risk your life for this? How do you benefit?”

“Because Stannis still has Asha.” Tristifer spoke the woman’s name softly, trying to step forward but stopped by Quent. “Bringing Nestoris’s letter meant I could ask you… nay, that I could beg you, please send word to Lord Rodrik Harlaw of Harlaw. He’s her uncle and he loves her dearly. He’ll pay for her freedom, he’ll give you whatever you want…”

“Asha Greyjoy is not ours to give.” Jon spoke then. “She is Stannis’s captive and if he has that much gold coming, nothing the lord can offer will matter.”

“It’s you that has something to offer!” The filthy man fell to his knees then. “Trade for her. You have Theon Greyjoy, Stannis has Asha. He cares little for women but he’d take Balon Greyjoy’s last male heir in a moment. Please, I’ll do anything to spare her from those fires…”

 _He loves her_ , he realized _, no wonder he’s so desperate._

_If Stannis had Sansa I’d be even worse._

“If any deserve to burn, it’s you reavers.” Maege said darkly.

Myranda even scoffed at the idea.

“Do you truly think the Queen would hand over her brothers’ killer for the sake of his sister? For the sake of one of her enemies?”

Sansa and he exchanged an awkward look. Myranda was not part of the cabal that knew the truth of Bran and Rickon. All the others had agreed with Wyman that the less who knew, the less likely it was that word would get out.

_And we burden too many with secrets already._

_Myranda need not be burdened with keeping the truth of the boys._

_Just as Sansa doesn’t deserve to be burdened with the truth of your father._

“Asha doesn’t deserve this!” Tristifer protested loudly. “She treated the Glovers honorably! She never harmed them!  She…”

“Stole Galbart Glover’s niece and nephew away from their home.” Maege charged forward before anyone could stop her and backhanded the man. “Backstabbing, thieving, child stealing, monsters! The whole bloody lot of you!”

“Enough!” Sansa went to Maege herself, touching the lady’s arm before nodding at Quent. “We have heard enough from him for now. Take him to some isolated chambers and make sure none see him.”

Quent and Ulroy did as commanded, even as Tristifer continued to plead and struggle. It was almost a sad sight.

He’d weep for the ironman lordling later though. Right now it was Sansa he worried for.

“Did this Nestoris man threaten you?” He asked.

Sansa gave a small tired laugh then, picking up the parchment and handing it to Howland.

“No, he complimented me. The letter was rife with pleasantries extolling the beauty of the North and strength of its people.” She moved stiffly into a chair. “He offers us money Jon. A great amount of money.”

“A note of credit in truth, one worth hundreds of thousands of gold dragons.” Howland added as Wyman Maderly took his turn reading. “A reward he writes, for our joining in alliance with King Stannis. For our help in seeing the Iron Bank get its due.”

Jon couldn’t believe his ears. He doubted the North, let alone Winterfell, had ever had such wealth at its disposal. They could afford their own army of sellswords with it, or even a fleet to throw against the Lannisters.

If Sansa had considered any of this she didn’t seem pleased by it. Neither did Howland or Wyman.

“He offers us a golden leash.” Wyman placed the parchment down. “If we accept it we are now in debt to the most ruthless, most powerful bank in the known world.”

Sansa nodded.

“Petyr… Littlefinger spoke of them. I think even he feared them.” She wrung her hands some. “To take this gold would mean the bankers could ask almost anything of us. Perhaps even ask me to give up the kingdom.”

“I think that a possibility but unlikely your grace.” Lord Manderly tapped one of his chins. “I think it more likely that it is another throne this banker worries about. The Iron Throne is greatly in debt to the Iron Bank and if Stannis takes the throne for himself he takes that debt for himself as well. Perhaps they seek insurance that he will make good.”

“The lenders have already been spurned once by the Lannister queen.” Howland added. “Should Stannis attempt the same, the bank would come for its due. Should the Kingdom of the North make use of these funds, we may be asked to help in such a venture.”

“They would not ask.” Wyman Manderly laughed without cheer. “They would think of it as repayment.”

Jon was becoming confused. This night had thrown so many twists and turns at him he could barely keep up.

_Why didn’t you see through the offer like Sansa and they did?_

_You’re thinking of buying an army while this bank is trying to buy the kingdom._

“Then we reject it.” He pointed to the contract. “We toss it in the fire and then we are beholden to none.”

_Save a king who barely tolerates Sansa’s crown._

_A man who may soon have an army to take it if he so wishes._

Wyman cleared his throat as he pressed his meaty fingers together.

“That may not be a wise move.”

“You just called the offer a leash…”

“It very well may be but it is also a solution to another issue that has been weighing on me.” Wyman said. “Namely food.”

Jon gaped at the fat lord then. As large and perpetually hungry as Lord Wyman was, even he couldn’t wish to spend so much gold on food. Wyman caught the others staring at his large gut and chuckled sourly.

“Not just for me. For the North itself.” The lord pulled at his moustache. “I’ve been speaking with Maester Medrick on what reports Roose Bolton had received regarding the North’s granaries… reports which were quite dire.”

Jon’s anger flared at that. Not because of Wyman’s word but because of Medrick’s foolishness. As far as the maester knew, Lord Manderly was a potential traitor and speaking with him about these matters was foolish at best and traitorous at worst.

Wherever clever Maester Luwin’s gods had taken him, Jon sincerely wished the man to be at peace, yet he was sorely missed all the same.

“If this winter is even half as long as the summer and it most certainly will be longer, Medrick believes less than one in three will live to see Spring.” Wyman continued. “White Harbor cannot meet all the need the people will have. This gold however, it could buy enough food from the Free Cities to see us through.”

The choice was a hard one for any to face. Feeding your people and risking becoming another’s pawn or letting the smallfolk starve and finding yourself weak of men and planters come spring. He would not want to make that choice himself yet he wished to spare Sansa such a decision.

One she clearly did not feel ready to make.

“It has been a long day.” Sansa put her hand to her forehead. “And a longer night… this matter can wait till morning. Please, seek your beds and speak nothing of this to anyone.”

Jon was glad to hear order everyone away. When they were gone he’d stay with her and say what he should’ve said moons ago. He had to ask it of Sansa before she realized how poorly he’d done by her.

His hopes were ruined of course.

While the others were eager enough to go Howland lingered behind, his face still hard and eyes full of anger.

“I need to speak with you both.” He said when the doors finally shut. “And it cannot wait until morning.”

Sansa’s eyes were on the ground and her cheeks were red, which made him angry.

_She has nothing to be ashamed of, the shame is mine._

“Howland.” He said firmly. “Whatever you would say…”

“I would not say here.” Howland gestured to the door. “I ask you to follow me.”

He wanted to tell the lord where he could go but Sansa spoke first.

“Of course my lord. We shall follow.”

Howland had said nothing more, nor gave any hint of their destination as they left the room. Jon had almost offered his arm to Sansa yet it would have meant touching her and feeling the ache again.

He’d thought perhaps the lord would take them to one of their chambers or perhaps his uncle’s solar. Instead Howland had grabbed a torch and led them outside the keep, into the bracing cold of the winter night beyond. The festivities had long since ended and only the wind howled at their coming.

Jon took off his cloak and wrapped it about Sansa’s shoulders, earning a shy smile from her. The sound of the wind made him think of Ghost. After they’d ridden down the last of the hounds willing to fight, his friend had disappeared, taking off to the east without even a glance back at Jon.

Ghost could take care of himself though, he knew that.

Just as he knew where Howland led them.

As they descended down into the crypts he felt a chill which crept down into his bones. Down the stairs, through the darkened vaults they travelled. The stone likenesses of Starks from times past lined their path. Men of strength and honor, whose tales he’d learned at the knee of the man who’d been his father. He’d wanted to be like many of them, yet now their cold, firm eyes were bearing down on him.

_They know the dishonor I’ve brought within their walls._

_I shamed a Stark within the home of the Starks._

“Howland what are we doing down here?”

His question echoed some, filling the dark stillness of the tunnels they travelled down. Save for the scraping of their feet and the flicker of Howland’s torch, this was a place of darkness and silence.

_And death._

“What I would speak of I would have no others hear.” Howland answered without looking back. “I would not risk such.”

“There are places above ground we could have privacy.” Sansa’s voice had a tinge of fear to it.

Jon reached back and took her hand, her fingers quickly wrapping around his. He would have never risked such in the light of day but in the crypts of Winterfell he thought it warranted. Howland had already seen them in a worse way so he figured it worth the awkwardness to comfort Sansa.

Her touch did the same for him truly.

Sansa had always been frightened of the crypts, unlike her siblings. Robb always looked brave coming down the steps to look upon his forebears and Arya and Bran had even played games down below as children. Jon had never really been scared but he had felt out of place. More than any other place in Winterfell, even the Godswood, the crypts were the heart of Winterfell. A place for the Starks.

And Jon was not a Stark, he would hear the Kings of Winter whisper in his dreams.

He needed Sansa’s comforting touch more than ever for he’d realized where they were being led. Howland’s path headed straight towards the parts of the crypts where the latest members of House Stark were laid to rest. Where the two men Jon had loved the most were laid to rest.

Sansa and he had not been down there since they’d placed her father and Robb’s bones in their proper resting places as Lords of Winterfell. It had been the proper thing to do after finally retaking their home, Eddard and Robb’s remains having travelled so far to rest beside the Starks of old.

 _I can’t face them,_ he thought, _not after what I’ve done._

It was a feeling Sansa clearly shared.

“Oh Jon… I can’t.” She stopped suddenly, pulling back on him. “Not now.”

Her eyes were glistening as she stared ahead. By the flickering of Howland’s torch he saw they had reached the tombs of their grandfather and uncle. The stone likenesses of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark stood staring at them with hard, grey eyes.

And farther on it would be her father and brother awaiting their coming.

He wanted so much to call them father and brother. Yet it would not help him to think of such things as he comforted Sansa.

“You won’t have to.” He whispered, putting his free hand upon her face and running his thumb along her cheek. “Not until you’re ready.”

With that he turned to see Howland standing and waiting for them.

“No more.” Jon hissed. “Not one step more my lord. Sansa’s given you too much leave in this and it ends now.”

“No Jon… it does not.” Howland shook his head before turning away from him. “Not for some time, for we are where we need to be.”

He realized then where the crannogman had led them. It was not to Robb’s resting place, nor even his false father’s.

Howland now stood before the stone likeness of the woman Jon had known his whole life as nothing but a collection of tales.

_I was never supposed to think of her as my mother._

When they’d come below after retaking the castle, he had deliberately scorned looking at Lyanna Stark’s tomb. He had not been ready to seek the mother he knew little and less about.

A statue could tell him nothing and at the time Sansa had needed him.

_And I will always be there when she needs me._

_If she’ll have me._

It bothered Jon how much he needed Sansa now. He had to squeeze her hand to find the strength to come before his mother’s statue. As he looked up into Lyanna’s face, he sought any clues he might have missed the countless times he’d seen this statue during his youth.

Yet it appeared as it always had. The stone woman bore a long face, her lips set in a sad expression.

Arya and he were supposed to share his mother’s eyes yet Arya’s had always been warm things while Lyanna’s were a deeper grey, and colder still.

Howland was gazing up at the statue as well. The lord said nothing as he raised a hand up to the carving of his mother’s face, his fingers tracing just about her eyes.

“I only ever saw her weep twice.” He rasped. “Once just after I first met her. Then the day I watched her leave this world.”

There were no tears in Howland’s eyes as he turned to face them. In the glow of the torch, his green eyes remained as sorrowful as they often seemed.

Sansa squeezed his hand in unease.

“My lord…”

“You have been reckless.” Howland interrupted. “Reckless and selfish. I expected so much better of you.”

_He’s right. You can’t argue against what you know is true._

_Not here of all places._

“I warned you.” The lord spoke harshly. “I told you of what could come to pass. Of the risks that could come from acting as you have.”

_Warned me?_

_He never warned me of anything…_

“I know.” Sansa spoke then, her hand squeezing his so tightly that it almost hurt. “I just thought… perhaps your dreams were wrong as they have been known to be before… maybe they meant something else…”

“Would I have told you to keep your distance if I thought they meant anything else!” Howland shouted, pointing at Lyanna’s statue. “Lyanna didn’t heed my warnings either! Would you have her son share her fate?”

“I love him!” Sansa drew back from the lord’s fury. “We can be together and nothing…”

“What is happening here?” He stepped in between them. “You warned Sansa of me?”

“I warned Sansa for your sake.” Howland shook his head. “In the hopes of sparing you some measure of suffering Jon.”

He looked back at Sansa and she nodded, a tear pulling at her face.

“I’m sorry… at the Twins, he told me that us being together… that I had to keep a distance between us. For your sake I had to push you away… I tried but I couldn’t… I can’t…”

Jon pulled free of her grasp then. The Twins came back to him then. Of how close Sansa and he had become before she’d suddenly built a wall between them. He’d always blamed himself for it, becoming weak with wine and harsh towards her because of that separation.

His eyes fell on Howland then.

“You tried to keep us apart?” He choked out. “You threatened her?”

“I did not threaten her.” Howland looked to his mother’s statue then. “I merely gave her a glimpse into the same worries I’ve had. The same ones I swore your mother I would have for your sake…”

“You fuck!” Jon roared as he lunged at the man.

Howland’s tunic was in his hands and a moment later he’d thrown the lord up violently against the wall. Howland’s head struck the stone so hard that the lord winced in pain.

This man had torn his life apart once already. Now he had brought them down here to threaten the only thing which kept him going after learning the truth. Even worse was that his future with Sansa depended on this man as well. Without the lord’s testimony they could never be together.

If his rage hadn’t gripped him completely he might have considered that.

Sansa clearly had.

“Jon don’t!” She begged, running forward to pull at him. “You mustn’t!”

“Why? Why?” He spat into the crannogman’s face. “You didn’t have enough secrets to keep? You didn’t already hold enough sway over my life?”

“It was out of fear for your life son…”

“Stay out of my life!” He jerked Howland back and against the stone again. “I have had my fill of fathers and their lies! I’ve no need for another one! If you want to meddle in children’s lives so badly, go find your own!”

Howland moved more quickly than he thought possible. Jon was fast, he knew that, yet the crannogman put him to shame. His leg went forward and kicked back into Jon’s knee, weakening his stance. Then he was the one being swung around against the wall, Howland’s forearm pressing up and into his throat.

“You will not!” The man’s voice spoke with a fury Jon had never heard before. “You have no idea what I’ve done! For Lyanna! For Ned! For you!”

Try as he did he couldn’t wrench free of the man’s hold. His throat was closed and his arms were trapped between them. As the world grew hazy he looked up at his mother, watching this whole thing.

Her expression full of sadness.

“Howland please!” Sansa yelled, yanking at the lord as Jon struggled to breath. “You’re killing him!”

At those words Howland started, his arm suddenly gone and the lord backing away quickly. Jon coughed to have air filling his lungs again. Sansa’s hands were on him and he held on to her for strength.

“No more. Please.” She begged, looking back at Howland as well. “Please.”

“Jon… I did not mean it to go so far.” Howland said softly. “None of it.”

“I don’t care.” He straightened, debating on trying his hand at pummeling the man.

“Listen. I swore to your mother to give you a life. She wanted better for you than the life Rhaegar Targaryen and she had left you. I wanted to give you a chance at…”

“I don’t care what you want.” Jon moved away from Sansa, even though she did her best to hold him back. He was face to face with the lord then. “And there is only one thing I would have from you… the truth you owe me. The truth of who I am.”

Sansa’s fingers released him as Howland shook his head.

“I beg you to rethink this. Perhaps one day but not now. Not like this. Do not ask it of me, please…”

A part of him wanted to agree with Howland. To stay as he was for some time longer. To stay a son of Eddard Stark rather than nephew, a brother to Arya rather than a cousin, a knight over a prince.

When he looked to Sansa though and saw her standing there fearful and clutching at her skirts his memories took him elsewhere. To a weirwood shrouded in mist among the bogs. To a field with her smiling and laughing beneath a crown of flowers. To his chambers with her beneath him, taking all he was within her and asking him to stay with her.

The answer was clear.

“I can wait no longer.” He went to stand before Sansa. “For the sake of the life I want to have...for the woman I would marry…”

As soon as he said it Sansa made a sound and cupped her hands to her mouth. He could not see her smile but from how her eyes shined he knew it was there. Yet he was frozen in shock at what he’d just done.

_You just said you’d marry her without even asking for her hand._

_That’s too many liberties you take of her, you must do this right._

“I would… I mean… if you would have me.” Jon stumbled at the words. “I would make you…”

At that, a drop of water dripped upon his head from above and he cursed this was being done in the crypts rather than someplace beautiful and full of life. That’s what Sansa deserved after all, not this half thought fumbling in a place of the death and darkness.

Everywhere around them stood the statues of those who already had their time in the sun.

A gallery of the dead.

His mother among them.

Yet when he looked at Sansa again, death was the farthest thing from his mind. Everything about Sansa was alive. Her bright eyes, her fiery hair, even her pale skin would be warm to the touch should he dare to do so. Some men claimed battle made them feel more alive yet for him it was Sansa that made him feel alive.

Her hands finally left her mouth, joy etched across her face now as they slid lower to rest about her middle. He wondered if she would do the same, should she ever carry a child. His child. Hope filled his heart then, a desperate yearning hope for what could be and what life could offer.

It weakened him more than he wanted to admit.

With that he dropped to his knee, the darkness all around them making her stand out all the more to him somehow. A bright light in this total darkness.

The words came to him as if he’d meant to say them all along.

“It’s so dark here and I can still see you. No matter how dark it gets, I’ll always find you.” His hand went up and gently held hers. “I’ll be your sword against any darkness. I’ll see my way through it and if there’s no fire to warm you, I’ll be there instead. I’ll be there in the dawn, when you wake, and your shield against anything the night may bring.”

Jon pulled Sansa’s hand down to his mouth and spoke the final words against it, binding these vows to her body itself.

“I pledge my life and honor to you Sansa Stark, I pledge my love from this day and the days to come… if you would have me.”

When he was finished, he kept his eyes down toward her hand and away from looking up at her face, praying she would accept him despite all his failings.

Yet Sansa was silent. Everything was silent.

He could hear the water dripping somewhere near and he prayed for her to say something.

Then feared for what she might say.

Sansa’s hand moved from his grasp to his cheek, her other hand doing the same. She gently pulled him to his feet, her eyes wet and hands trembling.

“Yes.” She said when his face looked down upon hers. “Yes for all the days and nights I’ve waited for this. Yes for all the days and nights to come. Yes for you. Always.”

Who moved for the kiss first didn’t matter much at the moment. Only that it was happening and that it meant it could happen for the rest of his life. That he’d offered and she’d accepted.

_She’ll be mine and I’ll be hers._

_It doesn’t matter what life others wanted for me, what other life I could have led._

_For now my life begins._

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look to the north and south, for if the darkness has been driven from Winterfell it has surely fallen elsewhere.
> 
> Although for some Winterfell may always be a place of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A_Cold_Wind is invaluable to this fic.

**SAMWELL**

 

“That’s it, we’re dead.”

“Shut up Edd!” Pyp yelled as he fumbled putting an arrow in his quiver.  “Sam, we have to get out of here!”

Sam thought both his friends were right. Below them a great battle raged, far worse than the fight at Craster’s Keep yet as terrifying at the Battle of the Fist.

For this was in his home. Castle Black had become a blood soaked battlefield. Much of that blood spilt by men of the Night’s Watch.

Bled by their very own brothers.

Scores of black cloaked brothers battled throughout the courtyard. Some clashed along the roofs of buildings while others tried to throw up makeshift barricades in front of doorways.

The Queen’s men were battling as well. Sam watched a cordon of them carving a bloody path towards the stables. Two brothers who were merely trying to flee from the carnage were cut down by the knights’ blades.

Grenn was down there somewhere, in the thick of the fighting. Sam had already been scared for the ranger when it had only been brother versus brother. When the great war cry had come up out of the darkness, the signal that the wildling men led by Sigorn were joining the fray as well, Sam had almost wet himself.

“Those wildlings will take the gate.” Edd scowled and rose up from his hiding place. “We hold off a whole bloody army for two moons, all to hold that bloody gate and then we hand it off to them...”

The chaos had erupted while Sam had been tending Maester Aemon. The old man was growing weaker and sicklier with each passing day. Feverish at times, delirious at others, Aemon would sometimes think he was speaking to people who weren’t there.

He’d even taken to calling Sam Egg at times.

The brutal cold, which held the whole castle in its grasp for the past few weeks, had not helped the maester’s ailments. Lord-Commander Mormont had decreed Aemon would be moved to chambers in the same tower they kept the wildling princess for his health. Val scared Sam almost as much as Melisandre at times. The woman was fierce and Gilly warned him that she was as likely to slit his throat as smile at him.

Gilly was staying in those chambers as well, acting as maid to both Aemon and Val, and wet nurse to Mance Rayder’s son and her own. It was an odd little group at times gathered in that tower. Sigorn, now Magnar of Thenn after his father died in the Battle for Castle Black, and Lady Alys Karstark were frequent visitors. Maester Aemon, whenever he felt able enough, would summon the wildling lord to speak on all he knew of the Others. Sam was tasked with putting much of it down to parchment while the Lady Alys would pass the time with Val and Gilly. It shamed him that the Lord-Commander had tried to give the young lady back to her foul and traitorous cousin. From what he witnessed of the Lady of Karhold, she seemed a kind and brave soul with a fiery strength to her.

She was always especially kind towards the two babes.

“The Wall is no place for such sweet things.” She’d say tickling at their tiny feet. “After we return to Karhold, the Lord Commander has promised to ask Queen Selyse to let me foster the babes. It would be good to have new life there.”

Val had laughed at that.

“It will never happen. Even if the red witch agreed, how could you trust it?” Her beautiful face had darkened to say it. “Who’s to say the moment that child is outside the castle he doesn’t suffer the same fate as your kin? The hobbling lord-commander couldn’t protect him and I trust him little more with my sister’s boy.”

That was a foul reminder of something that had hurt morale greatly at the castle. Men had whispered ever since that it was the red witch, the Queen’s men, and her wildlings that held true sway over Castle Black. Grenn said that there were many builders and stewards, as well as a few rangers, who thought it would be better for all of them if the Old Bear went to bed one night and never woke again. Pyp had heard Janos Slynt saying that the Watch had become too close with Stannis Baratheon, that they were taking sides in his rebellion again King Tommen.

Sam had argued against all of it. Hearing Val accuse the Old Bear of being weak had emboldened him to challenge the wildling princess.

“We’d never allow it. The Lord Commander has kept the boy safe…”

“And who keeps him safe?” Maester Aemon had whispered from where he lay. “He has no Dunk to protect him like you did Egg. Never a more true and brave knight have I ever met and even he failed in that task. So many failures at Summerhall… I told you about the fire…”

He’d brought another blanket and some warm broth to ease Maester Aemon back to his rest afterwards.

There never seemed to be any rest for the Lord-Commander. The reports Sam brought were increasingly dire in nature. The builders reported that repairs to the other fortresses along the Wall would take years with the men they had available to them. The remnants of Mance Rayder’s wildling army had split into three forces as far as they could tell. A large one was striking east for a place called Hardhome, a smaller one of raiders were heading west against the Shadow Tower under a man called the Weeper. The third and largest faction appeared to follow a man named Tormund Giantsbane, and they were not believed to have gone far.

Perhaps preparing for a renewed assault against Castle Black.

They knew little more than that. Most of rangers the Old Bear had sent forth to learn the scope of the threat against them were either killed or had gone missing like Benjen Stark.

All this weighed heavily on the Lord-Commander.

“What good does gold do us Tarly?” He’d asked one day, his words a white mist cloud even within his solar. “The Iron Bank’s loans gives me gold for food and repairs to our castles, yet I have few enough men to feed, let alone to put to work.”

Sam had tried to offer him what little advice he could as but the maester’s steward.

“When the king returns he’ll come with more than enough men my lord… we’ll throw back the wildlings… and the Others…”

Those were only the threats Beyond The Wall though, some lay to the south of it as well. King Stannis had not been heard from in weeks. The Queen assured everyone that the next news they’d have from her husband would come from Winterfell itself, where he’d stand victorious over the Boltons.

She’d been half right.

He’d read the letter to the Lord-Commander himself in the company of Janos Slynt, Bowen Marsh and Septon Cellador. A letter which said Stannis had indeed reached Winterfell and had been killed for the effort. It went on to claim Mance Rayder, the man that King Stannis had had burned, was captured at the castle. It called the Old Bear a traitor and threatened that unless he turned over Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen, the army which killed King Stannis would come for them.

It had been signed Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell.

“That’s it then.” Slynt has declared. “The rebellion is done. We must rid ourselves of the traitors and prove our fealty to the throne once again.”

“We do not owe fealty to the crown…” Sam had put in and Slynt had scowled.

“Watch yourself boy…”

“Tarly is right.” The Lord Commander had grimaced as his finger fiddled with his eye patch. “We take no part. We will not do Bolton’s dirty work for him.”

“My lord, should we allow them to stay, surely this Lord Ramsay will make good on this threat.” Bowen shook his head, gesturing out the window. “How many of us would join the Queen and Princess in chains then.”

The Old Bear had grunted as he lumbered to his feet, Sam offering him his cane so he could seek the window himself.

“Chains or worse. Sending Stannis’s kin to the Boltons would likely be sending them to their deaths.”

“And we have no way of knowing if this letter is true…” Septon Cellador had slurred, hiccupping towards the end. “Pardon me… it speaks of Mance Rayder, a dead man. It is likely he remains dead while Stannis still lives. Should we turn out the Queen we may earn the ire of the king himself…”

“A false king.” Slynt had pressed. “We must take the more cautious route. Take the women into our custody…”

The Lord-Commander had turned and slammed his cane upon the table then, causing all to jump.

“Is Tarly the only one who remembers?” He shouted. “We take no part! None! We will no more deliver them to the Boltons than shelter them here! It is time they were gone. I will tell Queen Selyse to seek Karhold if she wishes. Eastwatch if there is some shelter to be found across the Narrow Sea. One way or another this must end. I will see it end.”

None of the others had been pleased with the decision. Marsh and Slynt left together engaging in hushed whispers. He’d had little doubt Septon Cellador would be off to report the news to those more inclined to support Stannis, perhaps even seeking out the Queen herself, though it was hard to say. The man was vehemently opposed to the Queen’s Red God but Sam had heard from Pyp that the Queen’s men also shared in their stores of wine with him at times.

Whatever company Selyse Baratheon kept, the Old Bear was not in the mood for any. He’d turned back to stare out the window again, his old raven flying over to join him.

“End!” The raven cawed. “End! End!”

Maester Aemon would’ve offered the old lord an ear to air his worries. The Lord-Commander must have seen him as the poor replacement he was, for he sent Sam away and he’d obeyed with little argument.

If he had known what would happen, he probably would have at least said goodbye.

Instead he’d made his way back to Hardin’s Tower. He’d found Maester Aemon in one of his rare moments of lucidity, the old man cradling the wildling prince as Gilly fed her own son, singing softly as she did so.

The maester had listened in grave silence to the news of the letter. Clucking disdainfully to hear of the others reactions.

“The Watch is divided Samwell. A split made by misguided loyalties and selfish ambitions, leading our men to ruin just as the Queen is being led by that sorceress.”

“When they leave, things might get better.” He’d offered. “Lord-Commander Mormont can send Slynt and some of the others on to Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower even somewhere south. Reorganize our forces here at the castle with better men…”

“Better men…we’ve lost most of those. Benjen Stark,  Jarmen Buckwell, Donal Noye. True men of the Watch.” Aemon offered him a tired, weak smile. “Like you.”

The baby had fussed some then but the maester merely shifted his hold, his blind eyes staring down at the little prince.

“Holding this child, just the smell of him reminds me of how far along I am. My time is almost done Samwell. When it comes, the Wall will need a new maester. It will need you.” He’d reached a trembling hand towards him and Sam had grasped it. “Your task will be a hard one. Like my brother’s was. Your kind heart, pure and earnest, it reminds me of Egg. Before I came to the Wall I told him…”

That was when the sounds of shouting had carried up from outside. Gilly had jumped at the anger and fear in the voices and Val had burst in from another room.

“That’s a fight I hear.”

“Stay here!” Sam had told Gilly as much as the others.

He’d moved as quickly as he could down the stairs, the sounds coming from below sending waves of terror through him. Without the tower, it was exactly as Val had predicted.

It was a fight.

The courtyard was full of men pushing and shoving, throwing punches and cursing. More and more ran from other parts of the castle, the furor growing with each new man. Their shouts all the louder.

“They killed him!”

“The old fool is dead!”

“Traitors! Turncloaks!”

“Kill them!

When Sam got close enough he saw most of the chaos crowded around a group of men. At their center was Janos Slynt who, like a good many others, held up a bloodied blade and shouted for calm. Three men and Slynt himself were injured and two shapes on the ground looked very much like bodies, their necks twisted violently.

“It was for the good of the Watch! He had broken faith with our true purpose!”

That was when Sam had spotted another body on the ground. The snow around it was stained with red and a broken cane beside it. His heart had fallen to recognize the large man as the Lord-Commander Mormont, his body covered in deep wounds and blood.

For some reason, he’d been struck at how still the lord appeared, like he was simply taking a well-deserved rest. He’d never seen the man more at peace.

It was a far cry from the castle he’d left behind.

“Turncloaks!” Grenn had roared, his sword in hand. “Murderers!”

“Hear us!” Bowen Marsh yelled in reply, waving at some brothers to draw up in front of him, weapons drawn. “We have lost too much under Mormont! It is time to…”

The man’s next words had been a red spray. The arrow through his throat had ended his appeal to the men. Ulmer was already notching another when one of Marsh’s defenders rushed him with a spear. Grenn met that attack and soon many others launched attacks of their own.

Sam had frozen in his place, just like he had during the mutiny at Craster’s. Men fought and died all around him and Sam just stood there. Until Pyp and Edd had come running through the fray, grabbing and pulling him along with them.

“Sam you need to get to the ravens!” Pyp had yelled. “We need to get help! From the Shadow Tower! Winterfell! Fucking Dorne, anyone!”

“I’d settle for the bloody wildlings at this point.” Edd had grumbled.

They’d tried to make it to the rookery but they had been blocked by a number of Queen’s men advancing towards the battle, killing any in their path. Pyp had tried to lead them around another path by the common hall but the fighting had spilled out near there as well.

Edd had plucked a bow and quiver off a dead man and urged them up the hall’s stairs. When they kicked their way within it Edd tossed the bow to Pyp and pushed him toward a window.

“How the hell will I know who to shoot?”

“Aim for the ones who don’t look trustworthy.” Edd shrugged as he pushed a bench up against the door.

“Half the men here are criminals!”

“Plenty of targets then!”

Without them pulling him about, Sam had the chance to panic again. He dropped below the window, hugging his knees to his chest. Praying that this was all just a bad dream. That he would wake up and tend to the ravens and the Lord-Commander would be there to bark at him.

“Oh fuck. The rookery’s burning.”

“What?”

Pyp’s words had shaken him into rising up to his knees to peer out the window. Sure enough the smoke and flames were shooting out the rookery’s windows. Maester Aemon’s ravens likely burning with it.

As he watched the rest of the bloody work unfolding on the outside of the hall, the thought of how he would explain all this to the maester struck him like a pail of cold water.

 _He’s with Gilly_ , he realized, _Gilly and Val are alone._

_With a castle full of mutineers._

He remembered how Craster’s wives and daughters had been treated during the mutiny there, how many had been raped or worse. Sam grabbed Pyp’s leg, causing him to curse.

“Pyp! The women!”

“Got enough men to shoot at Tarly, we’ll leave off the women.” Edd said as he came forward with a large meat knife, offering it to him.

“No! We have to get to them! Gilly and Val! And Maester Aemon!” He ran towards the door, bowling over Edd who tried to block his path.

“Sam!” Pyp yelled as Sam began to push the bench away so he could open the door again. “We could be killed before we even get there! Besides, Val’s the Queen’s prisoner, let her men protect her!”

Even if that was true Sam’s mind had already latched onto to another terror to deal with. It was not just the women and the maester in danger.

The babes were as well.

_The Lord-Commander kept that child safe._

_And now he’s dead, and there’s no one to keep the red witch away._

_No one but me._

“Sam!” Pyp called again.

Yet he was already gone, running as fast as he could back to Hardin’s Tower. Huffing and his side’s aching, the effort was nothing compared to how hard it was to keep his eyes off some of the gruesome sights along the way.

Much of the fighting appeared to have moved towards the Shield Hall and stables. Few, if anyone, looked to be near the gate. Many of the wildlings were instead clashing with the brothers trying to hold the armory.

All if not many of men seemed perfectly happy to kill one another yet none spared so much as a step towards him.

_A fat, unarmed weakling isn’t the most threatening of targets._

_Nor the best of protectors, may Gilly and the others be safe and sound._

As he neared the tower Sam’s hopes were crushed. The door was smashed and broken inwards. The strained cries of a babe were echoing down from on high. Along with a woman’s screaming.

_Oh please no._

Sam forced his sweaty, exhausted legs up the stone steps. When he reached out to steady himself against the wall, he realized he still had the knife in his hand. He was gripping it tightly and when he heard Gilly screaming he thought his grip likely to snap the knife in two.

When he reached the top of the stairs and found the door to the women’s chambers open, he held the knife like it was Heartsbane, his father’s Valyrian steel blade.

Pushing open the door, the first thing he saw was Gilly crouched in the corner, sporting a bloodied lip and clutching a babe to her chest. Her eyes were wide with fear as they stared at the standoff happening at the other end of the room.

Ser Malegorn of Redpool and Val were squared off with one another. The knight with a sword, the wildling with a bloody dagger. The two were circling each other over the body of another man on the floor.

Ser Patrek of King’s Mountain was staring up at him, his mouth agape while his throat offered a bloody smile all its own.

“Where did you get a blade?” Ser Malegorn asked Val, who had red stains all about her clothing.

“Doesn’t matter where I got it.” Val raised the bloody thing between them. “Just where I’m going to stick it if you take another step.”

Malegorn laughed.

“You got Patrek because he wasn’t ready. Fine husband he would’ve made you.” Malegorn swung his sword through the air threateningly. “Put the blade down and I’ll show you the kind of husband I can be.”

Val stopped circling then. Malegorn chuckled, probably thinking his words had some effect. It was more likely Val had seen Sam’s advance into the room and wanted to keep the knight’s back to him.

_Just move quickly and stab him in the back._

_No! His chainmail you fool, this blade won’t make it through that._

_Slit his throat then… I can do that for them… for her._

Sam was but steps away when his foot landed on the tip of Patrek’s blade. He didn’t trip, but the blade scraping upon the stone alerted Malegorn to his presence, causing the knight to throw himself to the side while cutting behind him.

The sword came within a hair of Sam’s face and he cried out, falling backwards.

“The Slayer!” Malegorn laughed.

Val didn’t laugh, she lunged at the knight instead. He was ready for it though, the man backhanding her hard with a mailed fist and then bringing the pommel of his sword down upon the wrist she held the dagger in.

The wildling princess screamed in pain, dropping the blade. Malegorn’s fist went up and into her stomach and Val let out a wheeze before collapsing on the ground.

Then the knight’s eyes fell on him.

“Here piggy.” Malegorn pointed his sword down at him. “Time to strip some bacon off that craven hide of yours.”

Sam whimpered, turning and crawling back towards the door. He knew he couldn’t flee but at least he could lead the knight away from the women. Maybe Val could recover by then. He was almost out the door when his foe caught him.

“Not so fast.” Malegorn chuckled, grabbing Sam’s ankle and pulling him back. “Let’s see where I can stick that meat knife of yours.”

As the knight continued to laugh at his own jest a pair of feet appeared in front of Sam’s eyes. A moment later a shocked gasp and bloody rain fell upon him. That was followed by the loud thud of an armored body hitting the floor.

Looking up he saw the most unlikely of saviors standing above him with a gore-encrusted mace in his hands.

“Seven hells.” Edd spoke, running a hand down his bloody face. “If anyone asks, the babe did it.”

After Edd helped him to his feet Sam went swiftly to Gilly, her face wet with tears and her son still screaming.

“Are you alright?” He asked, reaching up to wipe the blood from her lip. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner…”

“She took them!” Gilly sounded terrified. “She has them both!”

“What? Has who?”

It was then Sam noticed who was missing in the room. He couldn’t believe he’d overlooked it until now. Gilly’s screaming son was making enough noise for two babes but was the only one in the room.

And Maester Aemon was nowhere to be seen either.

“The red bitch.” Val choked out as Edd helped her up. “She came with too many… they took Dalla’s boy. The old man wouldn’t give him away… so they took him too.”

“Smart man, our maester.” Edd shook his head. “As quick as he moves it’ll take them till dawn to get wherever they’re going.”

“I know where they are going.” Sam said numbly.

_And it won’t take them till dawn._

For the second time that night he left Gilly’s side. Edd shouted that Pyp was gathering men to join them at the tower but he couldn’t wait for them. Not with the babe out there in Melisandre’s grasp. Gilly cared for him as much as she did her own boy. Her feelings towards the babe had infected him as well.

He’d heard Cregan Karstark’s screams the night he was burned. Imagining that child facing the same kind of death drove his feet through the heavy snow.

The flurries had started, snow blocking his view save for what was right in front of him. The babe’s cries helped guide his way, a glance down to the ground helped even more.

The path he took was already well trodden. The followers of the red god were not creative in their choice of sacrificial grounds. They’d built their pyre in almost the exact same place they had Cregan Karstark’s.

His feet and face were frozen but the sheer number of torches awaiting his coming warmed him little. Half of the force that King Stannis had left at the castle stood about the great wooden pyre. All armed, all better warriors than he. Some were gathered about the central pole but he could see little of what they were doing.

Of the Queen he saw nothing.

Yet Sam could not miss the lady many called the true queen.

Melisandre stood close to the pyre, leading her followers in a prayer he didn’t know. Nor did he care. The babe’s cries were coming the direction of a hooded figure guarded by four men. Sam only had eyes for them now.

Yet his approach had not gone unnoticed.

“Halt!” A man shouted and most turned to look at him. “I said halt!”

“You halt.” He said through chattering teeth. “In the name… of the Night’s Watch… I demand the return of our maester… and Mance’s Rayder’s son…”

“The Watch? What’s left of it.” A man laughed as the four guards crowded in around the person holding the babe.

“I won’t let you burn him!” Sam shouted pushing his way towards them only to have a man with a spear block his path. “He’s but a child! In the name of Lord-Commander Mormont, who sheltered and fed you, release him!”

“Give him what he wants.” Melisandre’s voice wafted through the snow. “Give him the child Alys.”

_Alys?_

_No, Aemon has the boy._

The hooded figure turned to face him then. Beneath the hood he saw Lady Alys’s tear stained face staring back at him. She was shaking her head as she clutched the babe even tighter to her.

He recognized Sigorn as one of her guards then. Three others Thenns as well. The Queen’s men parted before him as he walked to Alys Karstark, his eyes falling down to the babe to see him red-faced from crying yet otherwise unharmed. He was bundled warm against the cold and the lady held him with the utmost care.

“I’m so sorry. We can’t stop them.” Alys said as she handed the babe over to him. “Only half of Sigorn’s men are armed and we wouldn’t stand a chance against…”

“He is brave man.” Sigorn added without turning back to the pyre.

“I don’t understand… I thought they were going to burn him. I thought the maester was here…”

“In these dark hours we must ask R’hllor to guide our way!” Melisandre yelled, her arms raised above her as snow whipped all about. “The better the blood, the brighter the flame! For R’hllor to give us his blessing we must offer him the best of us! The blood of kings!”

The men gathered upon the pyre were finally climbing down, all save one. They’d left one bound to the pole, a man dressed all in black.

A man Sam had come to save.

“No!” He yelled, causing the babe to scream all the louder in his arms. “No not him! Let him go!”

Sam tried to rush forward but Alys grabbed hold of him and the Queen’s men barred his path. More men holding torches moved closer to the pile of wood and pitch.

“He’s a man of the Watch! You’ve no right!”

“They do… he gave them one.” Alys rasped. “She was going to burn the babe. To use his kingsblood for her bloody demon… so he offered himself instead. He said he couldn’t suffer the death of anymore children. He foreswore his vows, made himself a deserter for the sake of the babe. His life for the child’s. The son of a king, whose father was a son of a king… Melisandre didn’t even hesitate.”

As he was reeling with what this all meant, Melisandre showed no hesitation in giving the command. Before he could utter a cry, torches were flying through the air, setting fire to the straw and pitch among the pyre. Maester Aemon was lit up by the glow of the flames then, the maester looking as if he was already dead.

Sam jerked away from Alys and found the strength to barrel by the men in his path. They were likely distracted by the spectacle of his mentor’s murder.

He ran as close to the flames as he dared, even closer than Melisandre.

“Maester Aemon!” He cried. “Maester Aemon I’m here! I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

The maester let out a cry then.

Not one of horror or pain, one almost of joy.

“Egg?” The sightless man gazed down upon him through the rising flames. “Egg! Oh brother I had a terrible dream...”

The crack of burning logs cut off some of his words and Sam strained to hear the man’s quiet voice.

“I warned you about the fire. I told you fire alone cannot bring life from death… life can only pay for life… Duncan always listened better than you…”

Sam’s tears fell wet down his cheeks, the snow melting from the heat of the flames falling upon him like rain. The same was happening to Aemon and the man inclined his head up and towards it, smiling the whole time.

“I was so cold Egg… for such a long time… so cold…”

Aemon Targaryen, who had been born a prince and lived most of his life at the Wall in obscurity, was lost to his sight then. The smoke and flames cloaked his passing  but they did nothing to keep his last words from drifting down to him.

“It’s good to be warm again.”

The screaming started soon after. Sam’s own screams mingled in with those of his mentor and the child in his arms.

All three screaming as the flames lit up the darkness.

As the smoke and embers flew up and into the snow, pushing back the cold as a dragon passed from the world.

 

**THE HANGMAN**

 

“I swear it, the dragons are back from the dead!”

The traveler making the bold statement was met with laughter and calls of derision from the others. The brothel was quite lively.

Men were laughing as they grabbed at whores and serving girls alike. Some of the girls laughed back as they slapped hands away, or merely took a place in their mauler’s lap. A roaring fire sat in the hearth, the sounds of a harp being played drifting over the din of noise. There was even ale to be had, which made this place a rarity in the Riverlands.

The hooded man taking in this scene was out of place as well. While others basked in the good cheer the Peach offered, he set himself away from it. Choosing a seat in a darkened corner of the room, far from the rowdiest of the men, the man stared at the harpist. A girl had come, but all he’d have of her was a tankard of ale, which sat in front of him as the snow melted upon his cloak. He made no effort to remove it or his hood, nor to drink of his ale.

He just sat there, watching and listening.

“Fuck off with your tales!” A heavy bearded man shouted at the traveler, his hand down the dress of a girl half his age. “There’s enough bad in these lands without you adding horseshit on top of it!”

“Dragons he says!” Another man echoed.

The traveler, who wore a cloak of sable, far finer than anything else he had on, pressed on.

“I heard it in Duskendale from a captain who’d sailed from Slaver’s Bay! That the Dragon Queen had birthed the three great beasts herself! That they came out of her, breathing fire and…”

“Smoke blowing out her arse?” The harpist asked.

He was an older man with thin brown hair beginning to grey and a pointed nose. As he mocked the traveler he plucked at his wood harp lazily.

Everyone in the brothel laughed at that, save the traveler and the hooded man.

“Make jests all you want but he wasn’t the only one who has said such things…” The traveler continued, distracted for but a moment by the passing of a wench whose rear he took great interest in. “The port men have heard of a Targaryen with dragons in Qarth too! Not all the tales came from one ship either, are you telling me all those sailors made it up?”

“I’m saying I trust the word of a whore more than a sailor.” With that the harpist called out to a woman leading a man towards the stairs. “Hold there Leslyn, if it got my attention and my coin, what tales would you tell me?”

The woman laughed and swayed seductively against the man she led.

“Why, only the finest stories of sorcery and dragons and the like Tom. Anything for the attention of a good man.”

“Or a poor man with a good amount of coin.” Tom Sevenstrings shook his head before waving the couple off. “I wish you both many moments of happiness.”

The bearded man was fumbling at a sack at his side when his face crumpled up in confusion.

“Weren’t we talking about the dragon in the south anyways?” He asked, finally pulling forth a string of dried of fish from his bag and tossing it upon the table.  The whore in his lap immediately set to inspecting the number and quality of the fish there.

“The one in the Stormlands.” He fished out an apple as well and the whore smiled to see it. “The dead dragon this little beauty said lives again.”

The girl gave a mock sound of exasperation before grabbing up the fish and apple and rising from the table.

“I never said he did Lafe. The captain at Ser Wilbert’s keep heard it from the maester who read the raven. He thought it was silly hisself. Prince come back from the dead… everyone knows his head was smashed to bits. No one gets better from that.”

“Fine, fine. Hurry up and get that stowed away so we can get upstairs and I can get my reward for the fine meal I’ve treated you to.” The man named Lafe said to a chorus of hoots from the others. “I’ve had enough of this talk anyways. Talking about long dead beasts and vengeful ghosts… tis fool’s talk.

Tom chuckled at that, plucking the low chords on his harp before leaning back in his chair sighing.

“Fool enough for you to think death is the end. Or ghosts can’t have their vengeance.”

The hooded man sat up a bit straighter then, eyeing the reaction Lafe had to Tom’s words. His face lost its jovial expression, indeed it soured some as he narrowed his eyes at the harpist.

“I said I’m done with tales. Especially one as foul as what happened at… well I never want to hear that one again. If you’re fixing on getting drunk enough to tell it, I hope they run out of ale.”

By then the whore had returned and Lafe collected his things and followed her up the stairs. Another whore was coming back down the steps at the same time, followed by a dim looking lad with a stupid expression on his face. The girl had curly black hair and was comely to be sure. The kiss she laid upon her customer’s cheek caused him to blush.

When she turned around her eyes fell upon the watcher. He lowered his gaze again but it was too late. The whore made her way towards him, sitting herself down in the seat next to him and resting her face in her hands.

“Tis too fine a night to spend alone don’t you think?” She asked as he pulled his hood down even more. “You must be cold to still be so bundled up. Maybe I could warm you some?”

“I’ve got ale for that.” He answered, taking a sip of it.

“It’s fine brew, we traded well for it.” She dragged a finger lazily across the table in front of him. “The man who gave it had me instead though… guess he figured I could make him happier than ale could.”

He grunted at that. The girl was familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place. He was sure he didn’t know her though. Brothels never held much appeal for him. Whores even less.

Yet she could be of use.

The boastful traveler had pulled out a purse of coin and was haggling red-faced with the serving wench. He pointed at the desperate bargaining underway as he felt the whore’s hand upon his leg.

“Your serving wenches don’t take up the trade as well?”

“Them? If the price is right, but they’ve got none of the skill…”

“Man seems to offer a good price.” He sipped again of the ale, not daring to gulp. “Why won’t she take it?”

The whore shrugged, her pretty curls bouncing some at the effort. Her barely concealed breasts bounced even more as she put a hand upon those curls.

“Gold is all fine and good when there’s things to buy.” She feigned distress. “With all the fighting and the winter come there’s little enough food folks are willing to part with. We take coin if we must but it’s food we be needing. Trying to send buyers to other markets, you’re as likely they’re killed or run off.”

She leaned close then, her mouth almost touching the corner of his hood.

“So we trade a meal for a meal… trust me, whatever food is in your satchel you won’t find half as tasty as Bella.”

“Who?” He inched away and stopped her hand’s journey up his leg.

“Me silly!” She giggled. “Are you shy? Don’t be. I can be gentle if you like…”

Without meaning to he laughed.

If there was a time in his life when he sound the gentle touch of another it had long since passed.

His laugh did not come out as a warm sound and Bella must’ve thought so as well. She drew back some and he acted quickly, for he could not lose this chance. He reached back into his satchel and pulled a pheasant out to show her. It was still cold from his travels and not the largest he’d ever seen but Bella’s eyes lit up to see it.

“Well then.” She let her arms wrap about his. “Why don’t we go upstairs?”

“No. Not yet.” He moved further along the bench to put the pheasant between them. “I’ve had some long journeys and it be good to speak with someone for a time. I imagine you hear much living in such a place.”

“Oh I do.” Bella smiled as she boldly took his tankard and drank of it herself. “And if the good man needs some talk to ready himself, why I’m eager to please.”

The whore lived up to those words.

His travels did not lend him much time to seek word about the state of the realm. Apparently a good many travelers, knights and even septons, called upon the brothel, taking their pleasure in the women and leaving behind tales in their wake.

The one about the dead dragon come back to life in the Stormlands mattered little to him. Dragons real or feigned were not marching through these lands making war. They’d heard tell of a battle near the Golden Tooth, when an army of Riverlords and Vale men had thrown back a Lannister attempt to invade the Riverlands again. Some whispered the lions would seek a different route along the Gold Road instead but the whore knew little of such things.

What she did know was that Harrenhal was offering itself as refuge to all the faithful of the Seven. The aftermath of Queen Cersei’s trial had driven a great many of the sparrows from the capital. The verdict in the case was confusing.

“The septon said she lived but was both innocent and guilty.” Bella shrugged. “His mouth was full so I didn’t hear much of the rest.”

She was sure Darry was firmly in the hands of the House Arryn forces but couldn’t say if the Arryns had continued marching south or went east towards the ports of the Crownlands. The entry of the Vale into the war had brought some relief to the depravation many felt in the northern part of the Riverlands. Food and safety could be found in those lands nearest the Vale for the time being.

“Tansy is thinking of moving us all there if things get much worse.” Bella spoke mournfully. “Tom told her about some inn at a crossroads that could be bought up but I don’t want to go to some drafty inn when there’s a town right here.”

He pushed the rest of the tankard towards her, the whore’s eyes getting glassy with drink. His eyes fell back on Tom Sevenstrings, who was playing a quiet version of the False and the Fair.

“This singer seems well travelled. Does he live here as well?”

Bella laughed.

“If he did, all of us would have swollen bellies by now. No, Tansy will let him play for coin but he sleeps above a stable nearby like the other journeymen.” She almost purred then. “If you’ve another bird in your bag I’ll let you share my bed the whole night.”

He ignored that.

“The Lafe man, he was upset about stories he’s heard from the man.” He reached into his pocket and slid a gold ring towards her. “What tales does he weave?”

“Oh how did you know? Coin is coin but a girl can never say no to a ring.” Bella tried it on, and beamed to see it fit her largest finger. “This is a lady’s ring, where did you get it?”

“From a Lannister who won’t miss it.” He reached up and took her hand in his before adding. “They have enough gold and I’ve no need for jewelry anymore.”

“Well I thank you, but I don’t think you’ll be wanting to ask Tom about that. And Tom has enough tales that are good to hear, it’s just the one that bothered Lafe…”

“Did you hear it?”

“No.” Bella said, pulling her hand away, her expression curious. “It was just Lafe and him up so late. Tansy woke up to kick them out but Lafe was too scared to go out into the dark after… he traded away four skins of wine just to lay in my bed. I didn’t want to hear whatever bothered him so.”

He asked if she knew if Tom had told such tales to others and the whore shook her head. Apparently the Tansy woman only barely tolerated the singer because he gave some of his coin to a bastard child of his own who was living at the brothel. If he started scaring away customers Bella was sure he’d be out on his arse.

“Come on now, you didn’t come in here just to hear about Tom… he sings well enough but I’m even better at what I do.”

“So you say.” He grumbled as a bit of dust fell from the ceiling, someone above them was trying to tear the place down with their rutting.

“Are you shy?” She teased. “Is there a wife somewhere who will be cross with you for having some sweet fun with me? Your family won’t bother you in my bed.”

“My family would have nothing to do with me.”

Bella paused some at that but the ale took hold and she ran a hand along his shoulders.

“Is it vows then? Are you a sparrow? A knight sworn off all the good a woman can bring you? Leave your duties down here…”

“Any duties I had I have failed at.” He said, his hands curling into fists.

Tom had begun to stamp his feet along with a new tune, doing his bed to time his plucking with the sounds of grunts and a bed slamming against the wall. Others were soon joining in a randy bout of Oh Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass. With their mirth and the romantic lyrics they sang, he felt even more out of place.

He’d heard enough and it was time to go.

Yet when he rose Bella grasped his arm.

“Changed your mind then?” She smiled, placing her free hand upon his cock. “Knight or lord, no one cares much for their honor when they’re on me.”

With that he grabbed her wrist and roughly yanked himself free from her grasp. Bella’s surprise turned to horror when her eyes finally saw what he hid beneath his hood.

“If I had any shred of honor left do you think I’d be in here?” He growled.

The whore began to sputter and looked about fearfully so he quickly bent down to put their faces but a hair apart.

“I gave a pheasant and a bauble for your time… and your silence.” His words caused her to cringe away but he reached behind her head to pull her back towards him. “Not a word of our time tonight… say I was a drunk and couldn’t get it up… or I’ll come back.”

He reached down and pulled his cloak aside to show the blade there.

“And you won’t want that.”

The girl was nodding numbly as he turned and left her there, leaving the brothel and striking back out into the night.

Stoney Sept was largely dark, most probably asleep or saving their firewood for nights when furs alone would not hold back the cold. A light snow fell on the town stores and homes and his feet crunched softly in it.

His path led him back to the poorly made hovel where his horse was sheltered at, the place leaning to the side. The old couple living there were confused and scared when he pounded upon the door. They fearfully told him where to find stables that a man could sleep in for the night yet were happy to take the coin he’d promised them. The pair were even more relieved to see him go. His face had scared them so much earlier when he first offered to pay them for a room that they had almost refused to put him up.

Desperation drives people to do desperate things.

The stables were where the couple said they would be. The stable master was well and truly drunk when he called upon his door. The man had wanted coin enough for four horses, for that was how many he saw. He received enough for one and didn’t even bother to count it.

The stables had several lanterns burning yet there were only a few mules and one shabby looking horse to be found within. Atop the rafters he found a bedroll and signs a person had been sleeping there for some time.  
  
Yet no one was there now.

So he set about his work.

Tom Sevenstrings stumbled into the stable in the wee hours of the night. He held his wood harp limply in one hand while the other grasped his stomach.

“Rotten peaches…” The man mumbled as he shut the stable door behind him.

He stopped then, apparently just noticing all the lanterns within were out. A small candle burned towards one end of the stable yet it offered no light at all. The mules and horses within were making skittish sounds and moving about warily within their stalls.

Tom was fumbling about in the dark towards the ladder leading to the rafters when the noose dropped around his neck.

“Hey!” He choked out as the harsh rope dug deep into his flesh, cutting off his air.

A blow to the back of his knee sent him collapsing to the ground. Then he was being dragged across the straw by the noose, kicking and sputtering the whole while. When he was in the center of the stable a rope was tossed up and over a rafter and Tom was being yanked upwards.

He clawed desperately at the rope, cutting his neck with his nails. When his feet barely touched the ground everything stopped. The hooded man tied the end of the rope off to a stable gate before quickly grabbing Tom’s grasping hands and jerking them behind him. Ropes were bound tightly around them as the noose was loosened and relaxed enough about the singer’s throat for him to gasp for air.

“Who…” Tom wheezed, his feet straining to raise himself up anymore. “Who’s there?”

The candle was pressed within a lantern and finally there was light enough for both Tom and his attacker to be seen.

For the hooded man stood before the singer, lantern in his hand and a blade at his side. Rather than drawing the sword, he reached up and pulled back his hood.

“Blackfish?” Tom rasped as he cringed back at the sight of him.

“So you remember me Tom of Sevenstreams?” Brynden asked, his finger tracing a line down his scars. “I imagine I look different than when we last saw each other.”

From the looks people gave him he imagined them to be quite ugly. He’d never bothered to seek a mirror or look too closely at whatever water he came across. Brynden had a good idea what they looked like. For he’d seen scars like his on someone else, a face he saw every time he closed his eyes.

The face of the woman he sought justice for now.

“No… “ Tom stared upwards at the rope. “Please you can’t...”

“The world is full of things that can’t be done, yet are.” He paced before his prisoner. “Like robbing my niece of her rest and creating a monster in her place. Following your slovenly trail was no great feat by comparison.”

With that he pulled a knife from beneath his cloak and began to cut away Tom’s clothing. The man shaking and pleading with him the whole while.

“I’ve sworn my outlaw days are behind me ser.” Tom begged. “After that foulness at Riverrun… after all the needless death… please I’m just trying to start anew.”

“There are no new starts for people like you. Or me.” Brynden let the man’s shirt fall away before cutting at his belt. “The only ones you lot offer are tainted by evil and darkness.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be!” The singer yelped as his breeches were torn free, leaving him naked and stretched out before the knight. “Thoros warned Beric! He said it had been too long but the lord wanted to save her…”

Brynden backhanded the man and then again to throw him off balance before tightening the noose. Tom struggled back up to free his throat again.

“What else did Thoros say? Did he say where he was going? What rock he was crawling under?”

The red priest had not been among the dead at Riverrun and only one prisoner had survived to offer any truths to him. Jack-Be-Lucky yielded him enough information to name Thoros of Myr a man who needed to be held to account.

_Cat deserves justice for what was done to her._

_By the Brotherhood and all their kind._

Somewhere to the North his great nieces sought justice of their own for House Stark. They’d entrusted him to lead the fight against the Lannisters in the south. It was a just cause, a worthy cause.

A cause he himself was no longer worthy of.

_No one is as accursed as the kinslayer._

Jason Mallister was as a capable commander as any and the lord probably did not wake up at night screaming. Jason was not burdened with memories of murdering a monster wearing his niece’s skin. No one in that army knew the truth of Cat, he’d told none and no men had been left after the battle against the outlaws to speak to it.

He made sure of that.

Savagery like that was something Brynden had seen on countless battlefields. Barristan had hated to see how little mercy the world could offer in the face of cruelty. Yet his love was lost to him, for when he tried to think of him all he saw was the pendant in Cat’s grasp as she burned.

He could not face that.

Nor could he face going before Cat’s daughters and telling them the truth of what fate had befallen their mother. Of what had been done to her. What he had done himself. To explain that the woman, who was a glimmer of life itself, had become a cruel, twisted face of death was not within him.

_Yet it is a truth I can keep from them._

_Cat was denied her right to rest in peace but I can let her memory do so._

The Starks were already called monsters. For his niece to be remembered as one was not something he could allow. Her memory was all he had left, all he could protect. For he wasn’t worthy of the living anymore.

_What family I loved most I have failed._

_What duties I’ve had I am no longer worthy of._

_My honor fell burning from the walls of my home._

Wherever Sansa and Arya were they were better off far from him. For Cat had torn more than flesh from his face. She’d torn out all that hoped in him, all that dreamt and loved.

For his heart could not bear to love again.

Yet his soul was eager enough to hate.

“Thoros?” Tom gave the slightest shake of his head. “Why? What do you want of him?”

Brynden answered the question by pulling upon the rope, causing the singer to cough and struggle.

“Speak to it.”

“I don’t know!” Tom coughed. “He left… before Riverrun… like the others before him.”

“Which others?” He went to his satchel and took out a parchment. A list of names he’d come to know by heart. “Tell me all who knew the truth of Lady Stoneheart.”

Tom glared at him then, the small man’s jaw setting and his chin raised a little higher.

“I will not betray my brothers.”

Brynden scowled, holding the knife up between them.

“Your friend Jack said the same.”

He wasted a good amount of time on the singer. Too long if he was to finish what other tasks awaited him in Stoney Sept before dawn. Washing the blood from his hands from the water in his skin. He pulled the cloth he’d shoved into Tom’s mouth to keep his screaming silent and dried them off.

The man, pale and weak from the bloody ordeal, let loose a stream of betrayals as soon as his mouth was free to do so.

The names he offered Brynden either checked against or added to his list. Besides those who knew the truth, he had likely hiding places and friends the outlaws might seek out if they were in need. A place called High Heart seemed likely enough to be his next stop.

For Tom believed a good number of the band which had broken away from Lady Stoneheart’s had sought shelter there.

Yet he’d failed to mention a select few names on the list of dead men.

“What of Edric Dayne and the archer?” He asked, pressing the blade against Tom’s ear. “Where would they go?”

“Stop!” Tom quailed. “I was only with them a little ways after Riverrun… Anguy was not well…”

“Where?” He shouted, startling some of the horses.

“East… they were heading east… to seek a ship… maybe to Dorne! I don’t know!”

_Dorne. So after the Riverlands I must choose north or south._

_For those three to escape me is a failure I cannot allow to repeat itself._

_Not again._

“Our time is at an end then outlaw.” Brynden pulled away the knife and walked back towards where the rope was tied off. “I’ve had almost all I can from you.”

The bloodied, quivering man almost had a look of relief then. His knees were quaking terribly under the strain and he stared at the knife as it neared the rope.

“Did you see me in brothel tonight?” He asked the man. “Watching you? Listening to you?”

Tom shook his head quickly, his eyes still on the knife.

“I heard you singing, I heard your playing… and I heard of your storytelling…”

“What?” Tom’s eyes met his own then, stopping for only a moment to gaze upon his scars. “No… no please Blackfish… I told no one! I’ll tell no one.”

“I believe you.” He rasped sheathing the knife and pulling upon the rope. “You won’t breath a word.”

It strained him greatly to pull the singer up towards the rafters. The wood above groaned along with him at the effort. He’d seen men hung before, he’d even ordered such a punishment before.

Yet he’d never acted as a hangman himself.

Ser Barristan had once told him that while some swordsmen could carry darkness in their hearts, a hangman stood alone for what they kept within their souls.

When Tom of Sevenstreams finally stopped his kicking and struggling, and when he was still for some time more, Brynden let the man drop. The crack of the singer’s neck removing any doubt the deed was done.

He moved quickly afterwards, freeing what beasts there were before grabbing his own horse. He threw the lantern at the straw about Tom’s feet, the flames spreading quickly across the ground.

He was well down the street when the fire behind him made a shadow grow tall before him. The dark man guiding him on to his task.

_Soon enough all manner of folk will come forth to battle a fire within the town._

_Few will worry about any ruckus at a brothel, especially if all there still sleep._

_No ruckus at all if Lafe is asleep when I come for him._

He was breaking his word to Bella but he’d do her no harm. He’d spare her the harm of knowing what truth Lafe now kept. The one which sealed Brynden’s fate.

Brynden continued on his way back to the Peach as yells and cries of alarm began to ring out behind him. They were nothing compared to the screams he heard at Riverrun, the ones that haunted him every night as he laid his head upon the cold hard ground.

People called for help yet he did not look back.

For his path was set.

Instead he glanced down at the names on his list.

_Merrit O’Moontown. Swampy Meg. Jon O’Nutten._

_Thoros of Myr._

_Anguy the Archer._

_Edric Dayne._

_Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill._

**ARYA**

 

 

“This is Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill. He’s a friend.”

Gendry bowed stiffly towards Jeyne who only cowered a little bit at Gendry’s large form. Arya had been surprised to find Gendry in the practice yard. His left arm was still to be in a sling for a few more weeks according to the master but it looked as if he was hard at work anyway. Jeyne and she had walked into the yard to the sight of Gendry wielding a practice sword rather than his usual war hammer.

Her friend doing his best to keep away from her brother.

Jon and Gendry had stopped their sparring as soon as they spotted them. Her brother’s eyes had almost bulged to see Jeyne beside her.

“Good day to you ser.” Jeyne curtsied some, her eyes still looking about at the armed men furtively.

“Jeyne… it-it is good to see you.” Jon smiled some. He’d been doing more of that lately. “Is there something you need? Something wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Jeyne wanting to leave her chambers.” Arya put in, nodding at the girl. “She’s been leaving them for days now. We went to the kitchens, the godswood, even the bathhouse!”

If Jeyne thought she was just going to forget about her after the night with Ramsay’s head, Arya was set to prove her wrong. The next day, Arya had gone to Jeyne’s chambers, practically dragging the girl down to the kitchens with her. She’d only go if she could wear a scarf about her face and a hooded cloak besides. Arya hadn’t thought she needed to hide but it wasn’t such a hard thing to allow.

Jeyne had been confused why they sought the kitchens until Arya showed her what she’d overheard some stewards talking about. In one of the storerooms, a litter of kittens had been born and she wanted Jeyne to pick one for herself. It always felt good to hug Nymeria tight when she was upset and she figured a kitten could do the same for Jeyne.

When Jeyne lifted one up to her face she’d pulled her scarf down to place a small kiss upon its head. The girl smiled for the first time in a long while. Arya had asked what his name would be but Jeyne said it was a secret.

That annoyed her and reminded Arya of when Sansa and Jeyne would make up secrets just to taunt her.

Yet she knew Jeyne had real secrets now.

Bad ones.

The bathhouse had proven that. Yesterday, while Jeyne was playing with her kitten, she had complained how much she missed warm baths. For something she claimed to miss so much though, she’d certainly dragged her feet and fought against visiting them. Arya hated bathing too but if it helped Jeyne get out of her chambers she’d do it.

Which of them was quicker in the hot water Arya couldn’t tell. She hated being naked in front of other girls. Jeyne was older and had more of a woman’s body, yet it had been something else which caught her eye.

Jeyne had lash marks upon her back, fewer than Jon did, but less spread out and enough that it must have been painful. Before Jeyne dipped below the water she saw other scars here and there as well.

She had been angry to think of someone as weak and fearful as Jeyne being hurt in such a way.

She’d wanted to know how it happened and who did it.

Yet she’d kept her mouth shut, for Jeyne had begun to smile the longer she was in the water. Arya wouldn’t ruin that.

Not like how Jon and Gendry ruined this moment.

“You went to a bathhouse?” Gendry asked as if he didn’t believe it.

“No one forced you?” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up! I bathe when I need to!” She snapped before her eyes fell on the people she sought, grabbing Jeyne’s arm. “There’s Pod and Brienne, come on you need to see her!”

“It was a pleasure to meet you…” Jeyne squeaked out as Arya pulled her away.

Pod was standing before Brienne, his arms out in front of him and his palms facing up with a sword laid flat upon them. The squire’s face was twisted in strain and concentration while Brienne looked on with scrutiny.

It was the same punishment the lady had inflicted upon them the night after the feast. Pod was punished for disobeying Brienne’s command. Arya was punished for ordering him to disobey those commands.

“What did he do?” She asked when she was upon them.

Brienne appeared surprised to see Jeyne there as well but gestured at Pod.

“Speak to it Podrick.”

“I forgot my helm in my chambers…” Pod grumbled, his face burning with shame to see Jeyne as well.

“You what?” She laughed. “How do you forget that? What if it was a battle?”

“Then Podrick would be as ill-prepared for that battle as you are late to it.” Brienne crossed her arms. “I have other duties to see to besides your training Arya and I will not allow…”

“I’m sorry! Truly it won’t happen again! I had to get Jeyne first.” Arya pulled Jeyne from where she hid behind her to present Jeyne before Brienne. “This is Jeyne Poole. Jeyne, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth. She’s one of our Sworn Guard now.”

Jeyne gaped up at the warrior woman. Her eyes fixed upon Brienne’s scarred cheek  and her mouth hung open, as if she was stunned. Brienne acted little better, her eyes were moving up and down Jeyne’s gown which was indeed out of place in the yard.

Arya squeezed Jeyne’s arm and hissed, shaking her back to her senses. She quickly curtsied at Brienne, her gaze falling to her feet.

“My lady.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you Lady Jeyne.” Brienne bowed.

“Jeyne’s going to watch us practice!” She declared, pulling forth Thimble and raising it high. “If you want you can even try.”

All three appeared shocked at the idea, Pod even dropping his sword. Jeyne jumped at the sound but didn’t bolt, so that was a good sign.

It didn’t really matter if Jeyne wanted to take up swords. She just wanted to show her what girls could do to take care of themselves.

 _To show her what I can do_ , she thought, _she’ll forget all about my stupid needlework when she sees how good I am at swords._

Sansa hadn’t come to watch her practice yet. Jon came all the time, Lady Maege and Ser Willem too. She’d even caught Howland Reed once watching from the battlements as she sparred.

_Not Sansa though. My own sister doesn’t even care._

_She’s too busy acting like the Queen, with her secret meetings with the fat lord Manderly and that ironman she keeps hidden from anyone._

Jeyne appeared ready to enough to watch though, the girl taking a place awkwardly beside Brienne. Podrick and she squared off. With his eye healed up, their matches had become all the better recently.

“Podrick will attack, Arya will defend.” Brienne commanded and her hopes fell.

She did better at attacking. Defending with Thimble meant more dancing away and dodging then lunging and stabbing.

Pod came on, his sword high and his pace quick. She was quicker though, dodging his strike and moving off to the side.

“Do not expose your sides so much Podrick.” Brienne spoke sternly. “Arya, remember not to look where you mean to go before doing so.”

Both the comments made her efforts all the harder. For Pod did as Brienne asked, attacking yet being quick to guard his sides. He even caught her trying to flee a few times when her eyes betrayed her.

She spared a glance at Jeyne and saw her watching still. Beyond her, Gendry and Jon had returned back to their own bout. Their practice swords clashing and ringing out as they sparred.

Her gaze was moving back to Pod when her eyes fell on Jeyne again. Something had changed. The girl’s face was full of fear, the sound of the blades crashing causing to her to jerk violently.

She looked on the verge of tears.

Arya forgot all about Pod in that moment and it cost her dearly.

She’d kept her attention off him too long, for when she turned back he was there.

_Oh bugger._

The strike landed hard against her shoulder, a searing pain shooting through her and she gave a yell.

“Arya!” Brienne called out.

She didn’t answer. She was too busy hopping about and clutching her arm, biting her lip against the pain.

“Oh shit… I mean- princess, I’m sorry.” Pod held his hands up, staring at his practice sword as if it had betrayed him. “I thought you’d move.”

“It’s alright.” She hissed, rubbing at her shoulder as Brienne came to inspect her.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s fine.” Arya rolled her shoulder, fighting back at the pain that came from it.

When she looked to Jeyne though, the girl looked anything but fine. Her eyes were screwed up and tears were streaming from them. The sounds of Gendry and Jon sparring kept her jumping and her hands went up to her ears.

“Jeyne?” She walked towards the trembling girl. “Jeyne, what’s wrong?”

Jeyne didn’t answer but Jon had raised a hand after he noticed what was happening and stopped his match with Gendry. When Arya reached out and touched the girl she jumped, her eyes shooting up, wide and fearful. A small, choked scream broke forth before her hands cupped over her mouth.

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Arya back away.” Brienne’s voice came from behind her, the large lady kneeling in front of Jeyne. “Let her breathe.”

“But she needs…”

“Back away. Wherever she is, she needs a moment to come back.” Brienne held up her hands in front of her, as if to signal to Jeyne she was unarmed.

Jon and Gendry were approaching from behind but Brienne shook her head at their coming, waving Pod back as well. Jeyne was still breathing heavily and looking around wide-eyed.

_What is Brienne talking about? Jeyne didn’t go anywhere._

“Just breathe my lady.” Brienne said softly. “Would you like us to send the men away? Would you rather it just Arya and I here?”

Jeyne shook her head slowly, her hands coming down from her mouth, clutching at her chest.

“I’m sorry… so sorry…”

“It’s okay.” Arya lied. Her shoulder still stung in pain but Jeyne didn’t need to hear about that. “What happened?”

“Arya, I said…”

“It was the swords.” Jeyne closed her eyes again. “I remembered the swords… the day in the capital… when they came for us… when they killed my father…”

Arya felt a shiver run through her at the memory of that day. Of how Syrio Forel had sacrificed himself for her. How scared the stableboy had looked when she’d killed him.

“I could hear the Battle of the Blackwater again… the fighting was so loud… they told me Stannis’s men would break in… that I’d be raped again and aga-”

Jeyne paused then and Arya saw Jon’s eyes widen in shock. Brienne’s face had darkened as well and Pod himself had lowered his eyes, trembling some.

“It is a normal thing to have such memories come at the worst moments.” Brienne stood up. “There are things that scare me now, even as a woman grown. Perhaps the yard is not the proper place for you… not yet at least.”

Jeyne nodded, clutching at her cloak and staring at Brienne. Arya felt bad for bringing her here, she hadn’t even thought it would be hard for her.

“I’ll take her back then…”

“No, you were late already. If your brother is willing to see to your lessons I will take the lady back to her chambers.” Brienne’s words brought on a nod from Jon, so she offered her hand to Jeyne. “It would be good to get to know a friend of the Starks.”

Jeyne took Brienne’s hand quickly and left the yard at Brienne’s side, not speaking a word as she did so. For the smallest of moments she was jealous that Jeyne was stealing Brienne away.

_Don’t be stupid, this is what you wanted._

_Brienne killed Ramsay Snow, if anyone can make Jeyne feel safe it’s her._

“Gendry, would you mind sparring with Podrick?” Jon broke the silence, waving at her. “I’d see what the princess has to offer.”

Gendry and Pod were eager enough to do that, Arya even more so. She’d made a mistake in bringing Jeyne here but being able to spar with Jon pushed aside her foul thoughts.

He even let her attack so she could show him how well she’d improved. She poked and jabbed as he danced away from Thimble. It was becoming so frustrating at times that she laughed in annoyance.

“Stay still!”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” He smirked back, cutting at one of her stabs and knocking it away. “I’ve seen you Arya. By the time a sparring session is done you’ve run around the yard ten times over.”

“I take after you, remember?” She laughed, chasing after him, stabbing at his chest again.

This time Thimble struck it’s mark, for Jon had stopped moving about. He grunted some and his face was pained, but she swore he’d looked like that before she struck.

“Are you alright?” She asked, lowering the blade.

“I’m fine Arya.” He said, reaching up to touch his chest. “Do you remember how everyone used to say you reminded them of Aunt Lyanna?”

She nodded.

“Father said so. A lot of people did… Howland Reed was talking to me about it...”

Jon’s face hardened some at that.

“When did you speak with Lord Reed?”

“Yesterday…”

She didn’t want to talk about it here. Her dreams had told her Nymeria was close and she’d gone to the godswood half expecting the wolf to be waiting for her there. Instead, she’d found Howland kneeling before the weirwood, the crannogman’s head bowed in prayer. She hadn’t meant to interrupt but he’d turned and smiled to see her there.

“Princess Arya.” He’d said as he rose. “You move as quietly as your wolf.”

“Then how did you hear me?” She’d asked and the crannogman had laughed, tapping on his ears.

“In the Neck we have to be able to hear a frog hop into a bog a mile away. Direwolves are a bit louder.”

That made sense to her, when usually so little of the crannogman did. The last few days she’d spotted him about the castle, he’d been alone, his face drawn and pale. He hadn’t been around Sansa or Jon much either, which was also strange.

And annoying, since he’d promised they would have a talk about something that interested her greatly.

“I had another dream.” She’d said quietly, looking about the godswood and seeing no one. “A wolf dream.”

“I see.” Howland had nodded, waving her forward. “And you have questions of me?”

She had many questions in truth. All she knew of warging was Old Nan’s stories and what she’d experienced so far. A lot of it was confusing and sometimes she couldn’t even remember what she’d dreamt of.

“I imagine that’s because you’re asleep when you slip within the wolf’s skin.” Howland had offered. “You would remember more if you were awake. Have you chanced to see through the wolf without sleeping?”

Arya wasn’t sure. There were times when she smelt things she couldn’t possibly smell, or hear things much too far. Once she’d even seen herself gazing back at her, like a mirror.

Howland listened to all this quietly, laughing some to hear how sometimes she awoke really wanting to eat meat.

“Is it only the direwolf you dream of? Has there ever been other animals?”

“No?” She’d been confused at that before she took his meaning. “Wait, I could do that with other animals? Not just Nymeria?”

“Possibly child. My people tell stories of skin changers so powerful they could control men against their will.”

The way Howland had said that had bothered her. His tone sent shivers down her back as much as the idea of controlling someone, like a slave.

“That sounds… I don’t know. I think that would be wrong to do.”

“As do I. Such is why men whisper of skin changers with such hatred. Some tales are likely to be true.” Howland had turned and looked up at the First Keep then. “Some tales say Brandon the Builder, founder of House Stark, was such a skin changer. Able to inhabit beasts, men, even giants.”

“Giants aren’t real.”

“Neither are wargs or direwolves.” Howland said softly. “My people tell a dark story of Brandon the Builder. That the Wall was built to keep away evil but that it used the power of evil itself to do so…”

“My family isn’t evil.” Arya had become annoyed at that. “House Stark is an honorable family, we don’t commit evil.”

“And you defend it fiercely young one. You remind me so much of Lyanna in that.” He’d smiled sadly. “Yet in every family there is good and evil. Lannisters. Targaryens. Starks. All houses with their own share of darkness and light.”

Arya hadn’t wanted to think on who could be the darkness in her family.

Howland and her hadn’t been able to talk much longer. Podrick had found her soon after with orders to escort her to a meal, the crannog lord politely declining to join them. He preferred to return to his place, praying before the heart tree.

More and more she thought she liked the lord. That he was a good man.

So she couldn’t understand why Jon was so upset to hear they’d been speaking.

“You can speak to whomever you like Arya.” Jon waved off her thought. “Just next time you would speak with Howland on matters… on anything, please come to me first. I would like to take part.”

_He probably just wants to learn about his wolf dreams too._

_Fine by me I guess, it’s something else we can do together._

They went back to sparring for a time, Jon only faltering two times more and she thought he meant to, to see how she would take advantage of the opening. She was just beginning to tire when she heard the howl.

“Be quiet!” Jon shouted then, his head whipping around to the east, his whole body tensed.

Gendry and Pod lowered their arms and Arya strained her ears. There was no need though, for the howl came again. This time another one joined in.

A queer feeling crept through her. As if she needed to grab hold of someone and scream a message she didn’t know. It wasn’t a foul feeling.

It was almost a happy one.

The two howls came again and Jon shot a look at her.

“They’re not in trouble…” He said.

“No.” She shook her head. “They’re calling us.”

“What?” Gendry asked, looking confused. “Who is calling…”

He was cut off by the howls coming again.

This time it was different though. Instead of just the two distinct sounds, she heard a third one join in.

Her heart pounded within her chest, a familiar feeling washing over her.

Before she could say anything Jon was running out of the yard. A moment later she was right on his heels. The howling of the three wolves came again and again as they ran through the courtyard, passing confused servants and shouting guards.

Ser Willem was suddenly running beside her.

“What did he do?”

“What?” She asked, huffing.

“Jon. Why are we chasing him?”

The look she gave the man caused him to fall back a little.

When they neared the East Gate, a man standing atop the battlements shouted down.

“Ser Jon! A great many riders coming from the east! They fly the banners of House Mormont!”

“That’s Lyra’s party.” Jon changed direction suddenly, running toward the stables where some men were readying horses for a patrol.

“I thought they were heading to the Dreadfort!” Arya shouted back.

The howls came again yet this time it was not a joyful feeling she felt. A deep feeling of unease rushed over her. Looking at Jon, she knew something was wrong because his face was now thick with worry.

“They must be back for a reason.” His voice waivered.

_He feels it too._

“House Umber!” The guard from above shouted down again. “Banners from House Umber as well! They’ve stopped riding! They come no closer!”

“Summon the Queen!” Jon yelled at the men about the stable. “Tell her we ride out to meet… someone! Willem!”

Jon hailed his friend as he took the reigns of a horse and climbed up and on it. Willem flew by her and was up on a horse a moment later. Men were shouting for the gates to be opened and as soon as she heard the clanking of the lowering gates, a hair-raising howl sounded again.

Nymeria was calling for her.

Arya saw another horse saddled and leapt to climb upon it, pushing aside its intended rider on his arse.

“Princess!” Marlen yelled as he rushed across the yard, his grey cloak flapping behind him. “Do not think to…”

His yelling faded as her horse was off and away, guards diving out of her path. She was through the gates and riding out before any even tried to close them again. The look on Jon’s face when he looked behind him to see her gaining on him and Willem almost made her laugh.

If it wasn’t for the feeling beating against her head.

_Something is wrong._

_Someone is in trouble._

In the distance, she saw the large group of riders the guards had spotted. They had stopped at the crest of a hill and made no effort to come forward. The ride towards them took so long that she had caught up with Jon and Willem long before they reached the riders.

Just then, the sounds of panic reached her and she reigned up her horse.

Even over beating of her mount’s hooves she could hear the yelling. Like she was right among the strangers.

Someone was screaming. She heard growling and shouts of men as well. Her senses all screamed at her like this was a memory.

All around her were large men covered in furs. The screaming coming from a horse with two people upon it. The smells of fear so powerful she felt scared herself.

Suddenly she was back on her horse again as Jon and her rode right amongst the party, coming before the scene she’d only just left.

Ghost and Nymeria were amongst the riders, pacing back and forth uneasily. A third direwolf, black as night and far more fierce was growling at their approach.

_Shaggydog!_

When her eyes moved on towards the struggling riders, her heart caught in her chest. Sitting upon the horse was a weathered-looking woman with a spear across her back. She was trying her best to hold onto a flailing boy.

A boy with red hair.

One she’d remembered as barely older than a babe.

“No! Stop! Not here!” The boy screamed and fought so much that the woman’s face bled from her lip and she had a cut on her face. “I don’t want to! Take me away! No Osha!”

Another rider was calling for him to be calm as Shaggydog began to prowl between Rickon’s horse and the rest. He was snapping and growling, causing all the horses to become uneasy. Ghost was alert as well, watching all this silently. Nymeria was doing much the same but baring her teeth and growling as well.

“Lord Seaworth!” Jon called as he rode by her at a canter. “What is happening here?”

“Jon Snow!” The rider who had been trying to calm things stopped to look back at them, his face desperate. “The boy… the boy began to have a fit as soon as he saw the castle and that bloody beast of his…”

The woman shouted then and suddenly Rickon was flying from her grasp. The boy fell hard onto the ground, Arya wincing as he cried out in pain.

_Don’t let him be hurt, don’t let him be broken._

_He’s just a little boy._

Jon was off his horse in a flash, barely landing upon the snow before running towards Rickon. Shaggydog took notice of that, turning abruptly and charging at him.

“Look out!” She shouted.

Jon jerked to face Shaggydog just as the wolf lunged up at him snarling. The attack never reached him though. Ghost came out of nowhere completely silent to attack the black wolf in mid-air.

The two became a snapping, snarling blur on the ground between Jon and Rickon. Her little brother still lay on the ground, unmoving, and her fear reached new heights. For the woman’s horse was bucking at the sounds of the wolves fighting, its hooves falling dangerously close to the fallen boy.

Nymeria sensed the danger too and came running at the horse. Her biting and growling caused it to retreat away from Rickon. The poor beast went crashing into the other mounted men near it.

They swore as their horses became panicked as well. Some drew swords and Nymeria now challenged them. She leapt and snapped in the air, a man barely avoiding her jaws.

“By the gods!” Bellowed a large hairy man she recognized from feasts. “This is madness!”

“No swords!” She yelled, dismounting and running to Nymeria’s side. “She’s just protecting him!”

The men didn’t listen and looked to be preparing to ride the wolf down so she drew Needle. The fear and need to protect Rickon taking her over completely.

Suddenly the blaring of a horn and the thudding of hoof beats pulled everyone’s attention to a new group of riders coming toward them.

Sansa was riding up from the castle, flanked by Marlen and Brienne and a score of other men.

“Stop this! Stop this right now!” Sansa yelled from her horse, shooting a glance between Arya and the riders she faced. “Sheath your steel! All of you!”

The men who had their weapons out did so hesitantly as they backed their animals away from Nymeria. She found it in herself to lower Needle but couldn’t bring herself to put it away quite yet.

Behind her, the sounds of the wolves fighting suddenly fell away. She saw a bloodied Ghost moving towards Jon just as Shaggydog was limping towards Rickon.

Who was no longer lying on the ground, but sitting straight up.

His eyes wide and staring at Sansa.

Rickon’s hair was a wild tangle that hung well past his shoulders. Around his neck hung a necklace of bones he wore over his furs. She saw little of the babe she’d once known until she chanced to look closer at his eyes. They were bright blue, like their mother’s eyes.

Those she knew anywhere.

“Rickon…” Sansa spoke softly as she stepped off her horse and took a tiny step towards him. “Oh Rickon, it’s you…”

The boy looked at her, his face furrowed in confusion. Then Shaggydog was beside him and whined as he stared at Sansa.

Rickon whined as well.

“Rickon, don’t be afraid… we won’t hurt you.”

Sansa smiled as she took another step forward, her hands open and arms outstretched. Jon had moved beside her and Ghost stood warily watching.

“We’re your family Rickon, we want to take you home…”

“Mother?” The boy asked softly, confusing Arya herself.

_No Rickon, mother’s gone._

_Gods, did no one tell him?_

Sansa must have heard it too because she stopped midstride.

“Mother?” Rickon repeated.

He rose shakily to his feet and wiped the tears away from his eyes with the back of his grubby hand. He sniffed loudly and started to walk forward.

“Oh Rickon…” Sansa started to shake her head but he was running at her now.

“Mother!” He was screaming now.

When they met he wrapped his arms around Sansa’s waist, Shaggydog almost knocking Sansa over as he pressed at her as well. Sansa wrapped her arms around Rickon in return but her eyes were wide and she looked at Arya.

_She doesn’t know what to do either._

_She looks as lost as I feel._

“Mother why did you leave? They came… they came and killed everyone…” Rickon’s muffled voice came from where he buried his face in her skirts. “It was so dark… I called for you but you didn’t come. Why didn’t you come? Don’t leave… please mother please…”

Sansa was frozen and her mouth hung open, no words coming out. That was when the woman who’d been trying to hold onto Rickon stepped towards them.

“He’s calm enough to move now.” She made a face as she looked back at Winterfell. “If you want him in the castle, best if you ride with him.”

“He thinks I’m…”

“Let him for now… it will be easier. Else we’ll have to kill the beast to get him inside.” The woman pointed at Shaggydog, who sat whining at Sansa and their youngest brother.

“Aye. The wildling speaks sense.” The Greatjon said as he moved his horse forward. “The faster we do this, the faster I can get the onion knight good and drunk on castle wine.”

“Rickon?” Sansa said quietly, running her hands softly through his wild hair. “Rickon, would you like to ride with me?”

The boy still murmured things, most of it muffled in her skirts. Sansa bent down and lifted him into her arms. Rickon’s arms moved around her neck and his face buried itself there soon after. Jon and Ser Willem helped them up onto her horse and she turned it back towards Winterfell.

Willem, Marlen and the tall woman with the spear followed close behind as did Shaggydog and Ghost.

Which left Jon and her to sort the mess out.

“Lord Umber… much has happened since we last saw each other.” Jon said as he looked up at the large man and offered his hand. Arya thought the handshake just about ripped her brother’s arm off.

“Took it back did you? That’s a good ser. A conqueror like your brother!” The Greatjon laughed. “We’ll trade stories and see who the bigger man is now.”

Jon nodded as if in a daze before moving on to the man he’d called Lord Seaworth.

“My lord, it is good to see you live.” Jon bowed. “Your king awaits you.”

“King Stannis remains here?” Lord Seaworth looked towards the castle in disbelief and something like joy. “Lady Lyra led me to believe he might not be inclined to stay…”

“He demands Lord Manderly’s head as we speak. I’d hoped your reappearance could settle that issue for us.”

The man laughed in a wry way and Arya began to walk back to her horse when the Greatjon rode into her path. He whistled as he gazed down at her.

“Gods, so it’s like Lyra said. Another wolf returned to Winterfell. Be that really you Arya Stark?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I remember you. My mother told you to be quiet when your laughing scared Bran.”

It had been a summer feast to celebrate Rickon’s birth and Bran was only four when she’d watched her mother scold the large man. The Greatjon burst out laughing as did many other men. Jon did not join in, he was watching Sansa ride back with a concerned look on his face.

“Ser Jon… you know this means there be two princesses now…” Lyra said solemnly as she rode up beside him.

As Sansa and Rickon drew in even closer to Winterfell she couldn’t help but think the same thing.

_Here comes the King in the North._


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king who runs with the wolves, a queen who rules without a crown, and the prince of folly and secrets.
> 
> Secrets, whether long hidden or freshly made, are all brought into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Cold Wind, as always, gets mad Onion Knight level props here.

**SANSA**

 

“I am no longer the queen.”

Sansa spoke as calmly as she could, taking extra care so that her voice would not falter. No matter how she felt about losing her crown, she would fight against her weakness. She reminded herself over and over again that Rickon was worth it.

_Bran will be worth it too when we find him._

_I’d give up ten crowns to know where he was._

To think otherwise was selfish, those thoughts more worthy of the selfish girl she’d once been rather than the woman she wanted to be. Believing she’d grown beyond such helped Sansa get through this moment.

Jon’s hand finding hers underneath the table helped some as well, though his soft eyes betrayed his concern.

The others gathered around the table shared similar expressions. This was no normal meeting of her council, for only a select group had been gathered about her. It had seemed appropriate to lose her crown the same way it had been given to her, before an audience of northern lords.

Willem was the only man not of the North in attendance, the grey-cloaked knight standing guard at the door, his expression unusually grim.

Joining her at the table was a collection of the most powerful leaders in her kingdom. Maege Mormont and the Greatjon sat side by side while Ser Kyle Condon represented the Cerwyns and Roger Ryswell his absent father. Howland was to her left, Jon her right, while the newest face among them had only arrived the day before last, riding far ahead of the Manderly caravan.

Robett Glover was a tall man with a powerful bearing. His face, however, betrayed how much the man had suffered. The redness of his eyes and the dark circles beneath were merely the most obvious signs of his trials.

While the ironmen had been driven out of Deepwood Motte and his wife awaited him alive and well, there was little else for him to be thankful for. Little of his family was left to share these tidings with. His older brother Galbart had died fighting on her behalf at the Twins while Robett’s children had been stolen from his home.

Young Gawen and the infant Erena were being kept hostage somewhere in the Iron Islands, their fates uncertain.

Sansa’s heart went out to him.

 _For such a loyal family to suffer so much_ …

_I owe this man more than can ever be repaid._

Trying to do justice by Robett would have to wait some time longer, for she had a crown to hand away.

And delaying that would make it no less painful to do.

“Your parents and brother would have been so proud of you.” Maege spoke first, the woman wiping at her eye. “Your leadership guided us from our lowest point in centuries and to see you step down now, at such a happy time… in this you show true grace. In this you shall always be a queen to me.”

“Thank you, my lady.” She held back her own tears, thankful the lady knew what to say to make this deed easier.

Sansa wanted to believe herself worthy of such praise. Wyman Manderly seemed to think so as he nodded in agreement.

“I have not been with you as long as the lady but let her words echo what is in my heart.” The Lord of White Harbor smiled through his moustache.

The lord was looking like a new man lately, his health and strength returning to him more by the day. His appetite had also returned and was becoming a bit of an issue for the rationing.

“Today we name a new King in the North.” Wyman continued. “Rickon Stark shall ascend to the throne of his brave brother… and noble sister. Yet we must not forget Bran Stark also survived the Sack of Winterfell. If he is found we shall have a new king yet again.”

“When he is found.” Jon put in. “The woman who led Rickon to safety believes Bran fled north. He was protected by Hodor, a stableboy large of body and heart. As well as…”

“My children.” Howland nodded, his eyes as sad as Robett’s. “The last the spearwife Osha had heard from them, they sought the Lands Beyond the Wall. Where the Others march once again…”

There was no breeze in the room yet she felt a chill all the same. Goosebumps rose up all over her skin at the thought of her sweet little brother in a land of monsters.

 _So was Rickon_ , she reminded herself, _and he came back._

_Bran can do the same, I’ll pray to the heart tree for it and the old gods will guide his way._

_They’re the only gods north of the Wall.  
_

“Perhaps we send word to the Night’s Watch?” Roger asked, the lordling clearly thankful to be included. “They may have seen some sign of the lord… I mean prince… the king?”

“We’ve sent word to Castle Black and heard nothing in return.” It was Maege’s turn to sound worried. “The ravens from the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea also report nothing but silence from the fortress. For all my hardheaded brother’s faults, being lax in command is not one of them. This does not bode well for the state of things at the Wall.”

“Which is why I asked Last Hearth to send a party to Castle Black, to determine what happens there.” She explained. “And when the Manderly supplies arrive at Winterfell, a force will march north to reinforce…”

Lord Manderly cleared his throat then.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, princess.” He spoke the last word carefully. “But to order the Stark forces to march is a matter for the king to do…”

“The lad is five if a day!” Ser Kyle broke in and both Jon and the Greatjon showed signs of anger.

“That he is.” Wyman agreed quickly. “Which means governance of the kingdom should fall to a royal regent until the king is of age.”

 _And so the scramble begins_ , she thought, _this will be a foul matter to deal with_.

Already the lords who were the most likely candidates for the role were taking measure of each other. Wyman Manderly met the Greatjon’s gaze while Maege looked to Howland.

Sansa’s eyes went for Jon, whose face was set in a look of barely concealed rage. She wondered if he shared her feelings right now.

_Not only must I hand away my kingdom to Rickon, I have to hand its reins to another._

_It is not so foul truly. It would spare my brother from the harsh realities of the crown a good time longer and perhaps lift a burden from me._

“A regent… would be wise.” She broke the silence, fearful that her silence would be taken as stubbornness. “My brother is far too young to rule yet. He needs wisdom and guidance before he comes into his crown.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Wyman looked at her smiling, his hand on his flabby chest. “And I believe there could be no wiser or finer guide than the queen who brought the Starks back to Winterfell.”

That she had not been prepared for. She fully expected Lord Wyman to put himself forward for the role, the Greatjon being a likely candidate as well. They could both be fine choices, the latter brave and strong, the former powerful and wise. The man she would have chosen though had not been impressed with her choices lately.

Yet he was clearly happy with Lord Wyman’s choice for regent.

“I second that.” Howland looked to her. “Sansa has shown her worth time and again. If any person should care for King Rickon and the North, I trust her more than any.”

Most of the others quickly voiced their agreement to that, Robett and Roger doing so last. The Greatjon himself went even further.

“Making her regent is all well and good…” He raised a large finger and pointed around the table. “You’ll all be remembering that she’s still a princess through blood. So if any try to take that crown off her head I’ll see you off the walls myself.”

Roger laughed at the Greatjon’s threat, obviously assuming it to be a jest, until he caught the lord’s eye and saw no humor there. The large lord had spent weeks travelling from the coast yet appeared no worse off for it. In truth, he’d bragged it had been good to ride across the open lands of the North again.

“I was getting sick and tired of being cooped up in that bloody castle.” He’d growled, recounting the goings on at the Dreadfort to them. “I had to spend well over a moon besieging the thing with southron flowers who acted like they’d never seen a few snow flurries before.”

No matter his complaints, the lord had been happy to spin the tale of the Siege of the Dreadfort. As the story unfolded, it was clear they could not have sent finer men to lead the encirclement of the Bolton fortress.

For Bronze Yohn Royce and the Greatjon had gone beyond just besieging the castle, they’d actually taken it.

The feat was made even more impressive considering they had refrained from storming the castle walls, heeding the warnings of how costly such an attack could be. Yet neither Bronze Yohn nor the Greatjon had been content to starve the Bolton garrison out.

“The lads needed something to do, tasks to keep them warm against the cold and all that.” He’d chuckled. “So we set them to making a couple trebuchets.”

“Those walls were made too thick to bombard with stone effectively.” Ser Kyle had argued but the Greatjon waved him off.

“Aye, that’s why we didn’t aim at the walls, we aimed over them. And we didn’t use stone either.” The man had started laughing. “The latrines were full of better ammunition.”

Sansa had thought that absolutely disgusting yet for all the Boltons had done to her home she’d also found it somewhat fitting. Along with the flinging of filth within the Dreadfort, the two lords had also ordered almost nightly raids against the castle. Men using ropes and grappling hooks in attempts to gain the walls to either open the gates or capture a prisoner.

“That cost us a few score…” The Greatjon lamented. “Still less than the cold though. That merciless killer put hundreds in the ground. At least in the raids, we got a couple prisoners in the end.”

Capturing Bolton men allowed them to learn the state of the garrison and their readiness for attack. Their prisoners reported a sizeable force of men within the walls who were growing weaker with sickness. The lack of relief from Roose Bolton had drained their morale as well.

All of that had presented an opportunity the two lords could not pass up. The defenders being both weakened and disheartened were key points to a third part of their strategy.

“I told Bronze Yohn myself, I said ‘Queen Sansa doesn’t want us to launch a direct attack.’ And we would not defy you, your grace.” The Greatjon had grinned like a green boy beneath his great beard. “Yet you never said anything against trying to take the castle in a different way.”

Such was how Ser Mychel Redfort had come into play. Myranda had told her the knight and the late Domeric Bolton had been close, and that it was likely they’d shared more than just youthful memories. That Domeric may have shared some word of his family’s castle which could be of use to them.

The Greatjon shared darker memories with them though.

“Those dungeons… I thought I’d seen the worst the realm had to offer at the Twins.” The lord had grimaced, draining his wine at the memory. “We should’ve had a poet among us… that the darkest part of the Bolton castle was their undoing, I can’t do such a turn justice.”

Sansa wondered after the tale, had Domeric Bolton lived to become lord of his House, would it have ever come to such a fate. The story the lord told had made Domeric seem a better man than his father.

Apparently in his youth, Domeric had witnessed his father’s cruelty firsthand and had not shared in his taste for it. A group of smallfolk had risen up against a petty lord who had been abusing his power, taking more of his share of crops and young women. Roose Bolton had known the truth of their grievances yet had crushed the poor people all the same. The surviving women and children, what few there were, had been brought to live out their days in the Dreadfort’s dungeons. Making the poor people just disappear so his lands could be quiet and peaceful.

Domeric had shared this tale with Mychel Redfort when he’d fostered at the Redfort. Apparently the lordling believed failing to protect the smallfolk from his father’s brand of peace and quiet was his greatest shame. That thought had driven Domeric to do all he could to help the survivors in the dungeons, for the lowest parts of the castle were also the oldest, and had secrets all their own.

The Dreadfort had once survived a siege, centuries past, lasting almost two years. Evidently it had been able to do so because of secret tunnels, caves truly, leading from the dungeons to fields along the Weeping Water, a great distance away from the castle. What the rebellious Boltons of old had used to supply their castle, Domeric had used to free the surviving rebels held in the dungeons.

Few living knew of the secret passages, the Boltons had been sure of that. Yet Domeric’s friendship with Mychel Redfort had led to him being one of them. Even with Domeric’s tales it took Mychel weeks of searching to find an entrance to one of the caves.

With the castle garrison weakened and demoralized, Ser Mychel and the Greatjon had led hundreds through the tunnel to surprise the defenders.

While the Dreadfort men had stared out at Bronze Yohn readying his men to storm the walls, the true attack had come from below.

When she’d asked of prisoners the Greatjon had laughed in a dark manner.

“A few, the sick mostly.” He’d cracked his knuckles. “Most did not recover.”

Sansa hadn’t pressed him on that since those were not the prisoners she was truly concerned with. For she had been asking about the captives the Boltons had taken during the Sack of Winterfell.

The fearless lord had actually paled at that.

“Oh… yes… those poor women. We found some… but there weren’t many left from Winterfell I’m sad to say. The ones we found in the dungeons… a lesser man may have wept to see them.”

The Greatjon did not weep as he shared the names of the survivors. Names she knew well.

Beth Cassel, daughter to Ser Rodrik was such a survivor. As was Bandy, one of Joseth’s twins. She remembered both girls from her childhood and thanked the gods they still lived. Her joy was short-lived at how short the list truly was.

Shyra, Bandy’s sister, was lost. So was Rodwell’s sister Rega. The two Pallas. Turnip. And so many others.

It had been a shock to hear Old Nan amongst the living. The terrors of the Dreadfort had taken so many young and full of life it defied belief the oldest woman Sansa had ever known had somehow survived.

While it made the world seem all the stranger she was glad to hear it all the same.

Bronze Yohn could not stomach keeping the women in the castle where they’d suffered so much. The first ship to come from White Harbor up the Weeping Water had brought supplies and news of their victory at Winterfell. When it departed it took the three women with it, its captain promising to deliver them to the care of House Manderly.  
  
Just as the sea ushered those women away it had driven Rickon and Davos Seaworth towards the shore. A Royce galley had spotted a ruined trade ship drifting just off the coast. It had been a shock to find Lord Seaworth and a wilding of all things defending her brother, his true identity revealed by the emergence of an angry, irate Shaggydog on the decks.

“I’ll let the Onion Lord tell his own tale about Skagos.” The Greatjon had spoken well of Stannis’s hand, high praise indeed. “I wouldn’t risk sending him by ship again so Bronze Yohn and I parted ways. Yohn holds the Dreadfort, so I could take the king back to his kin. Imagine my surprise to find myself a feisty Mormont girl coming to tell me to do that very thing.”

Hearing the Dreadfort had fallen paled to the joy she felt at having Rickon back. Even now the boy slept in her chambers. She’d managed to get him there without another fit and hadn’t dared to leave until he’d dozed off.

Arya and Jeyne cared for him in her stead, allowing Jon and her time for this meeting. It had touched her heart to see Jeyne improving. Clearly the space and time she’d offered her friend had given her time to deal with her demons. She planned on presenting Jeyne with a fine new gown she’d had prepared for when the girl was feeling better.

However, now was time to put in motion other plans she’d been preparing for a long while.

Being named regent could only help with such.

“My lords and dear lady.” Sansa smiled, touching the crown above her head to remind them it still sat there. “I thank you and humbly accept the regency…”

“Hear hear!” Maege called out laughing, raising a cup.

The Greatjon and Ser Kyle did the same, even Robett joined them. She was glad to see the mood had improved. It could only help with what came next.

“Again thank you.” She waved away the cheers. “Considering the great victory that Lord Umber and Lord Royce have delivered us, I believe it is time we address the end of House Bolton and what is to become of its lands and holdings.”

“A fine topic!” Wyman clapped his hands together greedily, the man obviously eager to discuss the carving up of those rich lands.

“The Hornwood succession has been settled.” She continued on. “I know not everyone here is happy with whom I raised to the lordship of Hornwood but I believe it was a decision which honored Lord Halys’s memory. I hope it to be the first step to bringing justice back to those lands.”

Howland took up the cause as well.

“Even now Lord Larence Hornwood has led a good many of his men out to see to the needs of his people. Every village he visits, he spreads word that the direwolves have returned and Hornwood has a new lord.”

“Many might not be so comforted.” Wyman raised an eyebrow. “They’ve suffered once under a bastard lord…”

Sansa shot the fat lord a foul look for even thinking of comparing Larence to Ramsay Snow.

“I only brought up Hornwood to remind us all that the Bolton lands need the same treatment.” She said. “Larence is loyal and earnest, well-suited to the task of rebuilding his father’s lands. Yet to govern the Dreadfort and its holdings, we are in need of a lord who is more than just loyal and earnest. He must be wise, as well as capable, experienced at command and brave enough to take on such a task…”

“I believe I can name several men who are fit for the honor.” Lord Manderly looked to the others but she didn’t give him the chance to do so.

“I have no need of beliefs my lord, for I know for certainty a man worthy of the task.”

She turned and offered her choice a wide smile, happy to finally be doing this. Even as she did so his face fell and he gave her a final pleading look.

“By royal decree, I hereby name Ser Jon a lord, and raise him up to the title Lord of the Dreadfort and all its lands.”

She beamed to honor her love in such a way yet she was quite alone in the sentiment. Only one man offered a cheer at the news, Willem’s shout quickly dying away as he realized no others joined in the celebration.

Most appeared stunned, Maege and Robett among that group with Ser Kyle’s   mouth hanging open, speechless. Roger was eyeing Jon with something bordering on contempt while the Greatjon and Wyman stared as well, as if taking measure of him.

Howland’s somber expression was oddly similar to Jon’s, which annoyed her.

_Of course they finally unite to frustrate my plans._

_I explained to them both why this had to happen._

_Now is not the time to sulk, it is the time to show strength._

“Your grace.” Wyman shifted in his seat, his weight causing it to creak. “Those lands and peoples will need a firm, experienced hand to bring them back into the fold. While I have heard tales of the ser’s great deeds on behalf of the crown…”

“Saving your life being one.” Willem said off to the side before grumbling further. “Waddle faster next time…”

“For which I am grateful!” Wyman narrowed his eyes at the knight. “Yet the fact remains, Jon Snow has never ruled over a village let alone a castle as ill-omened as the Dreadfort and lands as vast as the ones you offer. “

“Neither had the Queen ruled over a kingdom until she did so.” Howland said firmly. “A task I can say Jon played a key role in.”

“No doubt, no doubt, but let us speak plainly.” Wyman’s tone became somewhat irritated. “Larence Snow may be accepted by the people Hornwood, being kin to Lord Halys helps remove some of the taint of his bastard status, yet Jon Snow has no ties to the Boltons. That his father was the late Lord Eddard, of hallowed memory, may earn him some good favor but little enough, I say.”

Roger grunted approval at that and Sansa made note that he’d be seated even further down the table at the next council. Wyman went on earning her ire as well.

“The people from those lands are proud.” He shook his head. “Too proud for me to believe they will accept a lord of such questionable breeding. Ser Jon is son to an unknown mother and even your father was too ashamed to admit her identity… for all we know she was a camp follower…”

“That’s enough, my lord!” Maege snapped, her face red with anger. “Do not speak to that which you are ignorant of.”

Wyman was not hindered though.

“Am I any more ignorant on the matter of his parentage than the others here? Even the knight himself?”

“You are.” Jon spoke up then, his eyes closed and hands gripping the table tightly. “Most of you are… and the fault is not your own.”

Silence again descended on the table after that.

Howland and Maege exchanged a look. Though Maege had not been told of Jon’s new lordship, they’d both been forewarned of what was coming. It had been days in the making, moons if one counted back to the day they’d learned the truth of Jon. Rickon’s arrival had spurred things along though and the moment was upon them.

Yet with how troubled Jon looked, she feared he’d falter before it could be done.

 _He said he was ready_.

_I told him this was his decision, that we could continue as we are in secret._

_I wouldn’t force him to do this._

Beneath the table it was her turn to seek his hand. When they touched he turned to face her. She smiled and ran her fingers gently over his wrist. His expression remained troubled yet there was some relief there now.

Jon’s face almost matched the one he had yesterday when she’d told him her moon blood had come. For half a moment she thought she spotted disappointment that their love had not led to a child. It had been the same for her yet such things could wait. Until they were married and no longer had to live in fear.

_Which will come to pass as long as he does what he must._

She willed him to find the strength to do so, her eyes staring deep into his. His expression suddenly became hard, as if his face was carved of ice. He gave a slight nod before looking back up towards the others.

“My lords, lady, and good sers.” Jon’s voice was gruff. “Most of you know me, either as a boy raised within these walls or as a knight fighting to reclaim them…”

“A true knight.” She added but Jon didn’t even blink.

“Yet there is a something which has been kept hidden from you.” He closed his eyes. “A lie first told by Eddard Stark, which I lived in ignorance of for most of my life. A lie that I have been content to hide behind… until now. I cannot allow this dishonor to continue. Not within these walls.”

“I thought better of you lad.” The Greatjon tugged at his beard in confusion. “To call Ned Stark a liar in his own castle, that his son could do such a thing…”

“Jon is only speaking the truth my lord… and he has every right to do so.” Howland locked eyes with her knight then. “Eddard Stark was my friend, in many ways we were as close as brothers. We shared in joy, hardship, grief… and in the telling of such a lie.”

“What’s happening here?” Wyman looked about the table to see the others as thoroughly confused.

“The end… the end of me…” Jon said so quietly she doubted most heard him.

_Help him, he can’t do this alone._

_He’s doing this for you._

“Jon means it is time to end a lie which has caused him so much hardship and suffering.” She said. “It concerns…

“Your grace, if I could?” Maege interrupted, surprising Sansa. “I must play my part in this, as I have already.”

Sansa hesitated but she shook it off and after she nodded her assent Maege rose, going to stand behind Jon, surprising Sansa even more by placing her hands upon his shoulders.

“Before the Red Wedding and our king’s murder, Galbart Glover and I were sent to Greywater Watch. We carried with us the will of King Robb, a will we soon learned…”

“Aye Maege we all know the tale.” The Greatjon drank deeply of his wine and frowned. “It named Ser Jon the heir but he cast it aside for King Robb’s trueborn sister. Never a truer man than this knight, by our queen.”

Maege nodded.

“You’re right on much of it my lord, yet the tale you have been told left many details out.” She looked down to Jon and, as if he felt her gaze, he nodded. Maege sighed and continued on. “The will named the last living son of Eddard Stark to the throne… but we came to learn that it was not Jon.”

“You learned the other boys lived then?” Robett broke his quiet vigil then.

He turned to Lord Manderly who quickly shook his head. They had both been involved in the plot to save Rickon and oppose the Boltons.

“No, we thought them lost. We learned…”

Maege made to say more but Jon reached up to grasp her hand, before rising himself.

The look in his eyes sent a tremble through her. It almost made her want to stop this. To keep him from exposing himself to what was surely coming.

For her to protect him.

Yet seeing Jon standing there, staring down at the most powerful people in the North, she thought that it was as it should be. Jon was a brave man, a good man, and deserved much and more for all this lie had cost him. She could not deny him such a moment.

“They learned the truth of my mother.” Jon spoke gravely. “And the truth of my father…”

With that he raised his gloved hand before him and made a fist, shaking his head.

“They learned I was not Eddard Stark’s son.”

The Greatjon choked on his wine as Ser Kyle jumped in his chair.

“Not his son?”

“What are you then!? Are you-”

“Jon is kin to Eddard Stark and, while it’s true he is not trueborn Stark, neither is he a Snow.” Howland cut off the questions and Sansa knew the story that would be told.

“There is a tale you must hear…”

 

**JON**

 

 

“Are you mocking us?” Robett Glover asked. “Surely this is a jest.”

Jon shook his head, somehow finding the courage to scan the faces of the lords of the North who now knew him for what he was.

_And who I am is definitely not funny._

“It is the truth.” Howland said, his voice hoarse from the long tale. “One Lyanna took to her grave, entrusting Ned and I to safeguard it. As we protected…”

“A jest… surely…” Robett repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.

Roger Ryswell and Ser Kyle were little better. The Greatjon was staring at Howland fiercely, his hands curled in fists. Lord Manderly tugged at his collar, as if it was suddenly too tight before clearing his throat.

“You’re telling us that Lord Stark raised Lyanna’s son.” Wyman pulled at his moustache. “That she married in secret and bore the son of… I’m looking right at you ser but I see little resemblance to…

“Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon spoke up, meeting all their stares. “Yes. He was my father.”

“He was a murderer and a rapist.” The Greatjon growled, glaring at Howland before he turned to Jon with a somewhat softer look. “And you’ve been misled lad. I see Ned Stark clearly in you, I always have.”

“You see the Stark bloodline, my lord.” Sansa put in before grabbing a lock of her hair and holding it up to the light. “With my Tully features do you doubt Eddard Stark was my father? Just like Robb and I take after our mother, Jon takes after his.”

 _In looks perhaps,_ he thought _, I have little else in common with Lyanna Stark._

_And less with Rhaegar Targaryen._

Howland, apparently, disagreed.

“For those of you who ever glimpsed Rhaegar Targaryen try and picture him now. Look beyond his Valyrian features, beyond the indigo eyes and silver hair, and describe him to us.”

The others answered in piecemeal, remembering the prince from chance encounters and his appearances at tourneys. They all agreed him a tall, lean bodied man, strong looking yet with more speed than muscle. Maege even went so far as to call the man handsome.

“As is his son.” Sansa smiled at him. “Look at Jon and tell me you do not see what we see.”

The Greatjon scowled while Lord Manderly actually appeared to be giving him a once over. Jon caught Willem’s eye then and saw his friend with an expression that bordered on betrayal.

“I saw Prince Rhaegar in battle. Twice in truth… once at a tourney…” Willem spoke quietly, stepping towards Jon. “I never thought about it, I mean why would I? But it was staring me in the bloody face…”

Willem exhaled then, turning away and raising his hand in mock defeat.

“I see it clear as day now.” Willem said with a slightly cruel, mocking tone so unlike his usually playful one. “Jon fights just like the prince, he fights like his father… a bloody dragon all along…”

_I’m sorry my friend, forgive me._

_This was not something I could burden you with._

Those were the words he wanted to say, for they had fought together, bled together and suffered through much at each other’s side. Jon would abandon a lie today and he hoped his friend would not abandon him in turn. As much as that worried him, the others were a more dire concern.

For the group before him still looked unconvinced and none of them could leave this room while still holding that doubt. It was not an option.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe this!” Roger Ryswell asked incredulously. “A secret prince? Hidden by Eddard Stark? It’s madness!”

The Greatjon slammed a fist upon the table, spilling several goblets.

“It makes no bloody sense! Ned would never lie for the sake of his enemies! Nor commit treason! He was devoted to King Robert!”

“He loved his sister more.” Howland countered, risking the Greatjon’s wrath once again. “We all know that.”

“And my father would lie to spare the ones he loved.” Sansa spoke softly, wringing her hands. “He did so to save me… in King’s Landing he admitted to treason he was innocent of, to spare my life… and died for it…”

He wanted to comfort her through that harsh memory but before he could Howland reached out and touched her arm.

“Sansa speaks the truth.” Howland continued. “For what Ned did in the capital to protect his daughter, I witnessed him do at the Tower of Joy to protect his beloved sister’s child, his nephew.”

“I’d have none suffer for my sake.” Jon said firmly, he was getting sick of being spoken about like he wasn’t there. “I am knight, sworn to protect House Stark, and I cannot abide the Starks protecting me any longer.”

Lord Manderly grunted at that.

“Ser, I fear you do not fully comprehend the risk of what you say. This… tale you’ve been fed… with only this man’s words to back it… you will face many great hardships. Most will not believe such a thing…” 

“Most with sense.” Roger agreed.

“Lord Wyman, how many lies did you tell to secure the release of your son?” Sansa snapped before turning on the Ryswell man. “How many of my men did your family kill at the Reaping, fighting for Ramsay Snow?”

Both men made to respond, Wyman speaking with abashment while Roger was sputtering something about oaths, when Sansa pointed at Howland.

“By my estimate, there would be no Kingdom of the North without this man! He has done more for me and House Stark than either of you could ever…”

“They are right, your grace.” Howland interrupted rising to his feet. “For my word alone will never be enough.”

With that he nodded to Maege who made to gain her feet before pausing and looking to Jon.

He knew why she hesitated, and he felt much the same. Yet Ned Stark’s words came back to him then.

_‘The world is not about what we want. It is about what we must do.’_

With that voice booming in his head he nodded. Maege quickly rose from her chair and sought a chest at the far end of the room. The sight of the dusty sack she drew from within it brought his mind back down into the crypts.

In truth, the whole time Howland had told the story of Rhaegar and Lyanna he’d been thinking of the crypts.

Sansa and he had still been basking in the glow of their betrothal when Howland had pulled them back to reality.

“If you two are set on this, I will not stand in your way.” Howland had said from the shadows of his mother’s statue. “I tell you my dreams and warn you as best I can. In the end though, it is for each man to make his own fate, no matter how grave it may be.”

Sansa had left his side to take Howland’s hand in hers.

“Howland, you feared the worst when I acted as bait for Ramsay Snow.” She said softly. “And yet we won a great victory. I have to believe your dreams are not set in stone. That there is always hope. So I ask you to set aside your doubts and put your faith in us instead.”

Howland had smiled sadly, pulling Sansa’s hand up to his lips.

“You may not have acted as I wished, or even as I thought was wise but such is the curse of being young. My own children would often act rashly and against good judgement. I loved them still.” The lord looked at him over Sansa’s shoulder, showing no sign of his earlier rage. “I have hope for them… as I do for you. If Jon wishes the truth to be known, I will speak to it. And I will stand by him, as Lyanna and Ned would have done. To spare you both the worst of what the world brings.”

_We have already endured too much of that._

The thought had caused Jon to clench his scarred hand.

“I am... glad to hear that.” He said, nodding at the lord. “What I said regarding your children was uncalled for and I apologize for it. Yet I cannot allow you to pull the strings of my life any longer my lord. There can be no more secrets between us… between all three of us.”

Sansa had looked abashed to be included in that statement. It was only fair to do so, for she had failed in sharing Howland’s warnings with him. His own failings far outweighed hers though so he was inclined to do his best to forgive them.

As he tried to do with Howland.

“Half-truths, secrets, lies, it leads to nothing but conflict and there’s enough of that in the North already. No more of it my lord. I will leave our fight to rest in this place of the dead.”

Howland nodded, touching his hand to his chest.

“No more lies between us Jon, it is easily done.” Howland had gazed upwards at the earthen ceiling. “Yet there are some secrets we three must keep to ourselves. A lowly bog lord knowing Sansa and you are betrothed is harmless enough. A northern lord or a prickly king learning such is far more perilous.”

He’d gestured further down the crypts towards where his uncle and Robb lay at rest.

“Even your own kin may not understand.”

_Arya. My sister._

_I can barely understand that part of this._

In his mind he knew the truth. By blood Arya was his cousin just as much as Sansa was. Yet his heart named her his sister, just as it named Robb and Bran his brothers. As it still yearned to call Eddard Stark father.

His uncle’s betrayal made that easier. He loved the man, he understood the reasons why he’d done what he had, yet the anger was still there.

He had no such anger to hold against Arya. In truth, the girl made Winterfell feel like home to him more than anyone. Her strength and willfulness was a sign that the war hadn’t crushed her spirit. Just as Sansa had risen to what was needed of her, Arya’s perseverance in spite of everything thrown against her inspired him.

_She’s my sister, she could never be anything less than that to me._

Yet to the world, they would have to be cousins for him to finally escape the cycle of lying. Sansa and his betrothal could not be made public until his true heritage was known and accepted by many. When and how to do so was a matter of some debate between the three.

Howland suggested waiting until Bran and Rickon were found, to allow such a joyful occasion to overtake whatever harsh feelings their announcement could bring forth. Sansa wished to wait until Stannis departed, fearing how the king would take the news.

Jon had decided a different course.

“I will give Stannis the courtesy he is due. Eddard Stark lied to Robert Baratheon on my behalf so I will tell the truth to Stannis on my uncle’s behalf.” His words had caused them both to argue but his mind was set. “I’d prefer to wait for the boys but let us be honest, the odds of that happening before Stannis’s march are slim.”

Sansa had remained troubled yet Howland had accepted his decision well enough. The lord even reminded Sansa that it was for Jon to choose the manner of how the truth became known, not them. Yet something about what Howland had said earlier worried him.

“What if Howland is right about people not believing him? If people don’t trust his word, they’d think me a pretender, and few are despised as much as false men.”

_Except maybe the kin of mad kings and reckless princes._

“In time we will make them understand.” Sansa said firmly. “With your help Howland. You convinced Maege and Galbart with only the power of your words. I have faith you can do so again.”

“I, alas, do not.” The lord looked back to the statue of Lyanna again before kneeling down at its base. “Maege and Galbart were inclined to trust me. I housed them in the safety of Greywater Watch and pledged myself to restoring the Starks. Few enough hold me to such a high regard. In truth, most northmen think little of crannogmen.”

Jon knew that to be the truth. The Starks respected the people of the Neck, most likely because of Eddard Stark’s friendship with Howland Reed, yet it had been rare to hear other northern lords speak well of them. Soon after, Howland had begun running his hand softly down the smooth wide block at the bottom of his mother’s stone likeness.

“For what you would have them believe, you will need more than just my word.”

“Lady Maege’s as well then.” Sansa had offered, furtive in her glances between the two. “Surely that will be enough. It has to be.”

“It won’t.” Howland answered, looking back at him from where he knelt. “Are you ready to name Lyanna Stark your mother?”

_To me she is but a statue._

“Yes, if I must.”

“Had you known her, I believe you would find more pride in saying so. Much of the strength I saw in her I see in you Jon.” Howland stood up slowly, looking back up at Lyanna’s stone face, his hands forming fists. “Are you ready to name Rhaegar Targaryen as your father?”

_I can name Rhaegar Targaryen many things._

_Kidnapper. Raper. Murderer._

Most of Jon’s life he’d been led to think Rhaegar Targaryen had earned each of those titles. Everything about the prince made Jon struggle not to disdain him. His father had acted selfishly and dishonorably in taking a bride despite already being wed. A bride who was already promised to another.

And instead of standing and facing the consequences he’d fled and started a war in the process.

 _I thought to run once_ , he remembered, _Robar and Brienne had shown me the error of that._

_No matter who fathered me it will be the Stark path I follow, one of honor._

_Not blood and fire._

“Jon, can you name Rhaegar as your father?” Howland asked again.

“I can and will.” He looked to Sansa. “I will do what must be done.”

Sansa had smiled to hear the words yet it faltered quickly. For Howland had drawn his sword in flash, raising it before him.

“No!” He yelled, throwing Sansa back and reaching for his own blade.

He could not have expected Howland to betray them and he’d been almost too startled to act. Yet Howland did not betray them as Jon feared. Instead the lord spun back towards Lyanna’s statue, turning his sword to point downwards before raising it high with both hands.

“Forgive me, my friend.”

The crannogman then drove the blade into the base of the statue. Jon was shocked to see the blade sink within the stone, not being able to comprehend the strength it would take to do so.

“Jon, help me. You must help in this.” Howland said then as he began pulling backward on his sword, as if using it as a lever. “This is not for me to do alone.”

As confused as he was Jon went forward and saw that Howland had not pierced the stone in truth. The strike had merely driven the blade through a thin opening in the stone, one he’d never noticed through all the dust.

Howland used his sword to pry at it, pulling with all his might and their eyes met.

“I don’t do this for myself.” He wheezed. “This is your truth to embrace or hide away as Ned did…”

The man’s eyes and tone drove Jon to join his efforts. Together they pulled, ruining Howland’s sword in the process yet the lord appeared to care little. With one great heave the front of the statue gave way and he stumbled backwards.

Sansa was there to catch him and together they coughed as the dust filled the already dank air. It rose like a cloud about Lyanna’s statue, so thick it looked like smoke. Howland was crouched within it, his head lowered as he searched the dark opening.

When he rose out of the dust he had a filthy sack in his arms.

“Howland… what have you done?” Sansa asked, obviously horrified at the prospect of the lord grave robbing. “This is unseemly.”

“I would not argue.” Howland had grimaced. “Yet it had to be done.”

As Maege approached the head of the table with that same sack in her hands, his body tensed with what was to come. Howland accepted the bag from the lady, moving to untie a string binding it closed. The lord stopped short of opening it though, instead looking to him.

“Jon… as I said before, this is not for me to do.” Howland said.

“It falls to me.” He nodded “As it should.”

He stood again before the table full of confused people. Sansa watched along with the rest, her face almost eager. For she had already glimpsed what hid within the ugliness in Howland’s arms.

When he reached within Howland and his eyes met.

“You are your own man.” The lord whispered. “As your father wanted you to be.”

Jon wasn’t sure which father Howland referred to. The one who’d hidden this away?

Or the one who’d owned it.

_Did Ned Stark expect me to reveal it one day?_

_Did Rhaegar hope I would make it my own?_

“You want more than our word.” Jon looked at the others. “Then have my father’s proof.”

With that he took hold of the foul sack with one hand pulling it away from what he clutched in the other hand.

What he held before him was anything but foul.

For Jon held a harp so grand it could only have belonged to a prince. The craftsmanship on it was intricate, fine beyond his meager words. The harp’s neck had been worked into the shape of a dragon, the beast’s three heads adorning the crown. The rest of the harp was garlanded in silver scales, which glimmered in the light of the torches.

He’d never seen a high harp that could match this one in beauty. That such a thing had been hidden away in the crypts all these years made him wonder what other secrets the Starks of old held.

Everyone else only cared for what Jon held now.

“That’s his harp isn’t it?” Roger’s eyes bulged as he gripped the table. “The one he played at Harrenhal, the one from the stories.”

“It is.” Howland nodded. “This is the harp of Rhaegar Targaryen. His prized possession, gifted to his Queen of Love and Beauty and their unborn child. The prince carried this with him everywhere, yet he left it with Lyanna when he marched to war. A symbol of the love he bore her and his promise to return to her side once the war was over.”

The lord put a hand on Jon’s shoulder then.

“It was a promise he could not keep. Yet Lyanna wished her son to know his father loved him. So as she passed from this world she entrusted Ned not only with Jon’s safe-keeping but his father’s harp as well so that he could one day know the truth of who he was.”

Maege put her hand on his other shoulder, squeezing it in support.

“And before any of you begin to think of Ned and Howland merely stealing this thing, think on this. If they wanted the harp so badly why hide it in such a way? Surely Robert Baratheon would not have begrudged Ned such a prize.” Maege’s eyes narrowed then. “And I challenge any here to name Eddard Stark a man to loot or pillage from the dead.”

Silence followed.

Lord Manderly appeared to be deep in thought while Robett and Ser Kyle stared at Jon in bewilderment. Willem was rubbing his chin and avoided Jon’s eyes when they met.

The Greatjon stared as well but his gaze was hard, almost threatening.

“Why are you telling us this now?” Lord Manderly finally asked. “Do you mean to proclaim Jon as a legitimate heir to the throne? To challenge Stannis with a…”

“No!” Sansa had slapped her hands on the table. “We spoke the truth to Stannis! He is the only claimant we view as legitimate to the south and Jon has no interest in it.”

“I do not seek a throne, that I swear.” He added

“The oath of a dragon…” The Greatjon growled and drained the last of his cup, slamming it upon the table so hard that Sansa jumped.

“Jon, the boy acts as much like his father as I do a southron lady.” Maege’s words were almost lost to the noise of the Greatjon’s chair dragging as he rose, towering over the rest of them.

“I lost kin and friends, good men, fighting against the mad king. Dead at the hands of an army commanded by the prince, this boy’s... father…”

“None of which is Jon’s fault.” Howland argued. “To blame him for…”

Howland did not get to finish for the Greatjon charged forward and struck the lord so soundly he practically flew through the air.

“You! You fucking bog shit!” The man raged as he pressed his attack on the ailing lord.

“My lord, stop!” Sansa cried out as Ser Kyle and Willem rushed to get control over the Greatjon.

While Jon and Maege ushered Sansa back, the Greatjon answered Ser Kyle’s attempts to grab him by striking the knight squarely in the face. Ser Kyle was sent sprawling backwards onto the floor and appeared to be out cold.

“I’ll fucking kill him!” The lord roared, cracking Howland’s face with yet another blow, the crannogman falling to one knee. “Made fools of us all!”

“Leave off!” Willem shouted, jumping upon the Greatjon’s back, trying to choke the man into submission.

Jon rushed forward to help his friend. He couldn’t allow these men to fall upon each other on account of him.

The Greatjon was content to throw men upon him though.

The lord reached back and lifted the knight off his back as if he was but a child, throwing him bodily into Jon. Willem’s weight hit him hard but the fall to the stone floor was even harder.

Willem rose much quicker than him, which was a mistake.

The Greatjon brought the chair down upon his friend using only one hand. The wood splintered as it broke about Willem’s shoulder, the man becoming entangled in the debris.

Robett faired little better in his attack. The backhand he was dealt by the Greatjon sent him falling back against the wall, barely throwing his hands up in time to spare his face.

“Where the hell are the guards?” Lord Manderly cursed from his place beside Roger, the two men doing their best to avoid the fracas.

 _Far from here_ , Jon lamented, _we wanted no eager ears at the doorways._

 _The ones we invited to hear the truth are taking it foul enough already._  
  
“Filthy lying fuck!” The Greatjon roared, pummelling Howland again. “Tell me another tale! Try it without teeth!”

The Greatjon’s rampage continued as Howland climbed to his feet. The lord threw Howland across the room like a rag doll, stomping after him. Jon moved even quicker.

Throwing himself between the two lords.

 _I can do no less_ , he thought, _for this is because of me._

_All because of what I am._

“No more!” He shouted, throwing a punch up into the Greatjon’s mouth.

The man stopped then, reaching up to touch his mouth, his hand pulling back to show blood at his fingertips.

The punch sent Jon reeling back against the wall.

“You would dare!” His attacker roared, wrapping his hands around Jon’s tunic and pinning him against the wall.

He was dragged up the wall until his eyes met the Greatjon’s, which looked almost drunk in their fury.

“Stop! Please!” Sansa screamed from her place behind Maege, the lady doing her best to shelter Sansa from the chaos.

“You’d spill my blood?” The Greatjon rasped, his teeth bared in a snarl. “Like your father spilled my kin’s?”

“I’d spare others suffering for me.” He choked back. “As my uncle taught me to.”

Something flashed across the lord’s face then, for the briefest of moments his rage abated.

Yet it soon returned and when it did he suffered for it. Jon was jerked roughly forward and slammed back against the wall again, the back of his head bouncing off the stone with a crack.

“Did he teach you how many Umbers died in the war?” The Greatjon asked. “What of blood debts? For the shades of cousins, nephews, brothers, all who met their demise at Rhaegar’s hands, you should meet the same at mine!”

“Go ahead.” Jon rasped, reaching up to grab at the lord’s wrists. “Finish what the Freys started.”

Again the rage died away, a bit longer this time. The cloud of rage blanketing the Greatjon eyes lifted some, some of the noble lord he knew breaking through.

He held his gloved hand up then, forcing the man to look upon it.

“You know what’s beneath this, for you were the beneath the Twins as well.” Jon grimaced to drift back to that time. “You suffered in those dungeons… longer than I… but for the same reason. We serve the Starks…”

“Your family kills Starks.” The Greatjon tightened his hold.

“And if I could throw away the taint of that bloodline, I would. My lord… you must know… all I wanted- all I’ve ever wanted, was to be a Stark.”

As he spoke Jon saw that Willem and Robett had regained their feet, the two men making to restrain the lord. Jon raised his hand to stop them though.

_I won’t risk anymore people hurt because of me._

_Not even the Greatjon._

“That does not change what you are.” The Greatjon spoke harshly, yet the man’s face was no longer as red as it was. “You are your father’s son.”

“No… I am my own man.” He shook his head. “Ned Stark did all he could to give me that chance… I have to believe in that. That he believed I could be more than what my blood makes me…”

“A prince? A king? Another dragon to lord over me and mine?”

“No… to be a knight and as good a man as I can be. I never thought there could be a burden worse than the name Snow but Targaryen seems to be it. I have no wish to be a king, for I serve one already. Rickon Stark, my cousin by blood, the King in the North. The crown we both fight for…”

The Greatjon shook his head, his brow furrowed in thought.

“You expect me to believe that? To trust in a liar? In dragonspawn?”

“The boy I was, the one who sought to hide from the truth, he came to this table today and died upon the truth leaving my lips. The man at your mercy now could no longer live a lie. He would accept his fate… and your judgment.”

His hands finally grabbed at the lord’s own, slowly pulling himself free of his grasp. The Greatjon had allowed him to do so. Jon was not fool enough to think otherwise. The lord still towered over him, his fists at the ready.

Jon looked to Sansa, who was still clutching at Maege in fear. He sighed then before regarding the Greatjon again.

“I learned honor from Eddard Stark. A man who brought shame upon himself rather than break a vow to my mother. A mother I never knew but you did, as you knew my uncle, please tell me if you see none of them in me.”

The Greatjon continued to glare at him, his hand upon his own belt where a dagger was strapped.

“I beg it of you my lord, for the sake of the Starks, if you see more of Rhaegar Targaryen in me then speak to it. I fear it myself constantly…”

“Look at him Jon.” Maege broke in. “When the knight learned his heritage he had two crowns before him. He scorned both and chose to remain a bastard. All to serve House Stark and Sansa.”

“We scaled the walls of this castle, fought to see the Starks returned to it, side by side.” Willem spoke up as well. “Many men are handed knighthood on a silver platter, others work for it but few truly earn the title as he has. He’s a rare breed and as much as I’d like to beat him bloody for some of what we learned here today…”

His friend inclined his head in respect then.

“I trust him with my life… and I’ll save the beating for tomorrow.”

A groan erupted from Howland as he staggered to his feet, the man’s face a bruised, and bloody mess.

“No matter what punishment I have earned, do not hold it against the boy my lord.” Howland slurred. “Do not let Ned and I fail in that. Nor Lyanna… not her…”

“Shut up.” The Greatjon grunted. “All of you shut up.”

The man narrowed his eyes at Jon’s hand, his own still thumbing at the sheathed dagger. Time passed, how much he couldn’t say but slowly, deliberately, the Greatjon let his hand fall away.

“Fucking hell.” The lord swore and strode back towards the table.

Jon jerked in fear at the man nearing Sansa, Robett and Willem joining Maege in forming a cordon about her.

Yet it was not Sansa the lord sought.

The Greatjon grabbed at a pitcher of wine upon the table, pouring himself a full cup and draining it just as quickly. When he lowered it from his lips he filled it a second time as well.

“I knew Lyanna Stark.” The Greatjon spoke with his back to him. “She was a good woman. Beautiful, strong, and true, braver than most men and one of the few women with the sense to resist my charms.”

Willem coughed awkwardly at that. The Greatjon ignored it as he turned to walk back to Jon, a cup of wine in each hand.

“She was a rare woman.” He said as he shoved a cup into Jon’s grasp. “Her son is a rare man.”

He was stunned at the turn of events. He’d expected the worst truly, that the lord would confirm his fears and see more of his father than the Starks in him. The Greatjon grunted, bidding Jon to raise his cup to join his in a toast.

“I’ve never drunk with a dragon before… never wanted to actually.” He shrugged. “There’s been enough fighting for today, not nearly enough drinking though.”

Sansa clapped her hands together, her face full of joy as she nodded enthusiastically. Lord Manderly inclined his head as well while Willem waved his hands, as if to urge him on. He’d scorned drink for moons now yet he was not about to turn down the lord’s gesture.

“Today we drink together, tomorrow we fight together, side by side against the enemies of House Stark.” He clinked his cup against the Greatjon’s as he glanced at Howland who leaned against the wall. “To the good men who fight those battles.”

The Greatjon was eager to see the drinking done right. If he’d thought to only sip at the wine, the Greatjon thwarted that notion, reaching out to tip his cup higher and higher until both had been drained.

As warm as the gesture was, Jon couldn’t help but take stock of the room around him. Robett was helping Ser Kyle to his feet while Willem tended to Howland, offering the lord a shoulder to throw his arm around. Roger Ryswell still eyed him strangely and the room about them was a mess, with blood splatters and bits of broken furniture here and there.

That the truth had wrought such havoc among a small group of good men bothered Jon terribly. It made him fear what could happen when they shared the truth with others.

_Is this my birthright? To bring such chaos?_

_Am I my father’s son?_

 

**ARYA**

 

 

“What do you mean? He takes after our mother.”

Almost as soon as the words were out Arya covered her mouth. In her surprise at Jeyne’s statement she’d forgotten to whisper.

Jeyne shot a worried glance from Arya to where Rickon slept quietly in Sansa’s bed. The little boy stirred some, scrunching his face up and making Arya panic.

_Gods if he wakes now what am I supposed to do?_

_I don’t even know if he remembers me. What if he gets upset again?_

She held her breath as Rickon began to move, fearful that his eyes would open and the peace his slumber had brought would be broken. Jeyne held her kitten to her chest, as if protecting it. Yet her brother merely rolled onto his side, rubbing his face into the fur blanket there.

Both of them let out a breath of relief.

In truth, Arya was surprised at how peacefully her little brother slept. There was little sign of the fury he’d displayed outside Winterfell showing on his face now. Rather than being red-faced and scared, Rickon was mostly quiet and still. Every now and then he would give a little kick or make a strange noise, like a growl or a yip but he was otherwise peaceful.

This time when she made to speak she leaned forward from her place by the window, remembering to whisper.

“Rickon looks like mother, not father.”

“I wasn’t talking about his hair or his eyes.” Jeyne replied. The girl always spoke quietly now so this arrangement was no real burden on her. “Just from what you said before, about how he was acting… it reminded me of you is all.”

She crossed her arms and glared at the young woman.

 _I don’t act like a scared little boy,_ she thought, _and I would never confuse Sansa for mother._

That Sansa had not told Rickon the truth as she carried him to her rooms bothered Arya for some reason. She could understand letting their brother think so to get him in the castle, but letting him continue to believe mother was alive was a cruel thing.

Arya could only imagine how it would feel to fall asleep believing their mother was alive and holding her, only to wake up and find someone else in her place.

Jeyne saw her foul expression and appeared confused.

“Little Rickon was so much like you, even when he was but a babe.” Jeyne offered her a small grin as she stroked her kitten’s neck. “He was always so willful, so fierce when wroth. He never let Sansa and me hold him for very long. Just like you wouldn’t let us play court with you…”

“That wasn’t–” She caught herself, lowering her voice quickly. “That wasn’t playing for me. You two would pretend you were queens and princesses and I was the servant. It was just another way for you to boss me around and call me Horseface.”

Jeyne appeared surprised and hurt at that, but Arya wouldn’t take what she said back this time because it was the truth.

_It’s not like the way they treated me was a big secret or anything._

“I never thought of it like that… I mean it was so fun for us.” Jeyne looked down to her kitten, which nuzzled itself against her plain gown. “It was nice to pretend to be a princess, to dream of being someone beautiful… and happy…”

Arya worried she’d upset Jeyne again. She’d been surprised when the young woman had shown up to see Rickon for herself. If the harsh memories she’d had in the yard bothered her still, Jeyne hadn’t shown it. Although Arya saw that she would still hide her nose behind her hand when she saw Sansa walking by.

“I’m sorry for that Arya.” Jeyne said. “I don’t know why you’re so kind to me after everything I said about you... to you…”

She shrugged and jerked her thumb towards the window.

“I can’t go a day without calling Gendry a sore arse, or Pod a halfwit, and they always forgive me. It’s not so hard to get over you calling me Horseface.” Arya smiled and even started to giggle a little. “You should have heard what I used to say about you…”

Jeyne offered a small laugh in return.

“Well you were probably right to do so. Just know that I’m sorry and I was wrong.” The young lady gazed at Arya’s face then. “You’re pretty Arya. I think maybe you’ll be beautiful when you’re a woman. I was wrong about which of us would be a princess.”

She snorted, shaking her head.

_I act as much like a princess as Rickon looks like a king._

Her brother had fallen asleep in Sansa’s arms before anyone could think to bathe him. He was filthy and as much as Lady Myranda mocked the state of her hair, Rickon’s head was a wild tangle, which fell far too low for a boy.

Then there was what Rickon was wearing. He’d allowed Sansa to strip him down and place a new nightshirt over his small form yet he’d cried out when she tried to take his necklace. Even now his little hand clutched at the ugly string of bones hanging about his neck.

She saw a small rodent-like skull and numerous other bones from different sized animals. One large bone caught her eye more than the others. It almost looked like a horn. With his wild hair and the necklace, Rickon looked more like a wildling child she imagined in Old Nan’s stories than the little brother she’d known.

_You barely knew him at all then._

It was a sad thing to admit but it was the truth. Rickon had been little more than a babe when she left the castle. Always clutching at mother’s skirts and too little to take part in the games Arya and Bran would play.

All of that was why she was scared for him. She feared he was too little to remember them, let alone remember that Winterfell was their home.

They’d all fought so hard to return to Winterfell while Rickon had fought against it. Where Arya and the others had smiled and cried and hugged when riding back through the gates, Rickon had trembled and hid within Sansa’s cloak.

_And now he’s our king. This little boy has to lead us._

The only reason Jon and Sansa weren’t here now was because her sister had to go meet their lords to give away her crown. Sansa not being able lord over her anymore was the only benefit Arya could see in that.

Despite all their problems, Sansa and Jon had been able to return their family to Winterfell. When Sansa made speeches or talked to lords it looked like she knew what she was doing and the men respected her.

The thought of Rickon having to face Stannis or fight the Lannisters scared her.

_He can’t even tell Sansa and mother apart._

Sansa might share their mother’s good looks and auburn hair but her sister could never replace their mother. Rickon needed to see that. He needed to face the truth of what they lost but he also needed to know that he still had a family that would take care of him.

_If he needs to be strong I’ll be there with him._

_And Jon will be there for us._

_We’re a pack now._

She looked out the window, her eyes roaming over the darkened courtyard, trying to make out the heart tree’s red leaves. That was where Jon and the wildling woman Osha had led the direwolves while Sansa and Arya tended to Rickon. Shaggydog had not been happy to be parted from Rickon yet Osha had somehow been able to usher the wolf out of the courtyard towards the godswood.

The woman had come with Jon afterwards, apparently to check in on Rickon’s care.

_As if we wouldn’t know how to care for our own brother._

“I see the little lord had no problem jumping back into the soft beds of a castle again.” Osha had smiled to see Rickon sleeping in Sansa’s arms. “Rare enough thing for him to sleep so easily without the beast or I to help him.”

“I thank you.” Sansa had whispered up to the wilding. “For all you’ve done… for seeing my brother to safety…”

“Don’t be thanking me for what I didn’t do.” Osha’s face had taken on a fearful look. “If Skagos was safe for us, do you think I would’ve let Seaworth bring us back here? I led the boy to a danger far greater than the one he fled from.”

Jon and Arya had glanced to each other, both concerned over the woman’s words. They’d both heard the same tales of Skagos from Old Nan. Of wild, hard men who ate the flesh of their enemies.

“Do the Skagosi wish to rise up against the North again?” Jon asked. “Did they threaten Rickon?”

“Those lot? More kin to the free folk than you southron I think, I could handle them.” Osha tapped at a dagger at her side. “You sound much like the dead maester, may he rest with the gods. He thought matters were plain and simple. He worried so much about the threat other men posed and not nearly enough about the true danger…”

“Enough.” Sansa had hissed, hugging Rickon close to her. “This can all wait.”

Osha had not argued against that, and Marlen had come within to escort her to chambers where she could rest after her long journey.

While the wildling got her own chambers within the keep, Rickon’s other protector was kept as far from the castle folk as possible.

Jon had thought it best if Shaggydog was not allowed free reign over the castle and Sansa had posted guards at the godswood’s entrances. Arya knew that few of the guards could stand against Shaggydog and that it was really Ghost and Nymeria who kept their brother penned within.

It was more than knowing, it was something she felt.

She could almost smell the cold in the air and the old trees all around her. Just as Arya watched over Rickon she felt like she watched over another. Her returned brother was nervous being within these walls again, yet she could feel his curiosity at all the familiar smells it yielded.

For the briefest of moments she’d even seen the white and black brothers standing before the bone tree. The rustle of its blood leaves reaching her ears.

There was something strange about the sound.

Like there was more than wind there. Like someone was speaking a name.

“Arya.”

Jeyne’s voice pulled her back, the wolf slipping away from her.

“Arya did you hear me?”

“What?” She hissed, reaching up to touch her head, for it suddenly ached some.

“I was just asking about Lady Brienne.” Jeyne gently laid her kitten upon the floor, allowing it to take off running about the room. “How was she… I mean, where did the marks…”

“Her scars?” Arya finished for her and Jeyne nodded. “She got them in a fight with a group of monsters called the Bloody Mummers. They were set on attacking an inn full of children so Brienne fought them all on her own.”

Her brother offered a small growl then yet showed no sign of waking.

“They hurt Brienne badly… Biter did that to her face.” She pushed away the memory of Biter’s bloody mouth. “Until Gendry did for him. Pod and I helped fight too.”

“You helped? Was it only the four of you?”

“Some outlaws came later… and Hyle was there too.”

“Hyle? Have I met him yet?”

“You won’t. He’s dead.”

Whatever Jeyne’s reaction was she didn’t see it, for Rickon growled again, kicking at his blankets so much that they bunched up around his feet. He was still tossing some as she walked forward to pull the covers back up and over his small form.

The foul memories of Hyle’s betrayal came back to her.

The expression on his face when he realized she’d killed him stood out the most.

_Did he see my darkheart then?_

Rickon made a whining sound then and, using the hand that had once been sticky with Hyle’s blood, Arya gently ran her fingers through her brother’s hair like mother did for her a thousand years ago. His movements stilled then and he seemed to calm down. However much it calmed him it helped Arya some too.

“Lady Brienne is the heir to Tarth.” Jeyne sounded confused. “Many would want to marry her for that title, even with her scars… yet she acts a warrior anyways.”

“There’s no acting about it, she is a warrior.” She said. “And Brienne doesn’t seem to want a husband all that badly.”

“Others would think foully of her… for not wanting to marry… for being ruined…”

“Brienne’s not ruined.” She looked back to see Jeyne pulling at her hair, her eyes far away. “Being scarred doesn’t make her ruined. Jon and Podrick are scarred too. They’re still the best people I know. Being marked up doesn’t change what someone is on the inside.”

“That’s not what they told me in King’s Landing… the ones the Queen gave me to. After the lash, they said I was ruined goods, that I was only what others could use me for.” The young woman winced. “They didn’t care who I was inside… they just wanted to make me…”

“Bugger them then.” Arya said firmly. “Everyone calls Cersei Lannister beautiful and she is a rotten inside. People treat Lyn Corbray well and call Jon, Ser Snow. Let fools think what they want, we know the truth. You’re worth a lot. You’re a part of House Stark. And we take care of our own.”

Arya glanced down at the savage looking little boy. Anybody looking at the two of them together would be hard pressed to know they were brother and sister.

_They can’t see what’s inside though._

A feeling welled in her then, something akin to shame for having judged her little brother’s appearance. As if he wasn’t her flesh and blood, like he was somehow to blame for his confusion. With that she bent down and kissed Rickon’s forehead.

 _My heart names him my brother. Not some savage. Only a scared little boy._

_One who needs a family to care for him, a sister to protect him._

_Not a darkheart._

Jeyne had gone silent in thought after that, ignoring her kitten, which was doing its best to climb up one of the tapestries by the window. Arya sighed and went to collect the little beast whose name she still didn’t know. As she did so she glanced out the window again and took in the scene below the keep.

It was normal enough outside, a few dark shapes of men moving about here and there. That was when she spotted an unusually large shadow crossing the courtyard towards the kitchens.

Considering they kept no elephants in the castle she decided it was Lord Manderly she was seeing. He’d been one of the lords Jon and Sansa had gone to speak with.

_That must mean the meeting is at an end._

She was eager to hear what had went on at the meeting and looked towards the door, half expecting them to walk through at that very moment.

No one came though.

For a time she was content to lean against the wall and wait. Then she passed the time talking to Jeyne about this and that. Then in her boredom she watched as the young woman taunted her pet with a bit of string.

When it felt like she had waited for hours her patience finally came to an end. Her pacing was bound to wake Rickon so she decided to just go and seek Jon herself at his chambers. Jeyne had not been thrilled at the idea of being alone there, should Rickon wake but Arya promised she’d be right back with the others.

When she gently opened the door and slipped outside into the corridor she was soon faced by the largest member of the Sworn Guard.

“Princess?” Morgan Liddle cocked an eyebrow at her. “Is all well?”

“Don’t call me that, it’s Arya.” She waved off his worries. “I’m going to find my brother, guard Rickon please.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond before she sprinted down the hall.

“Princess! You should have an escort!”

She ignored that.

Gendry and Pod might be intimidated by the large northern clansman but not her. He was no Greatjon Umber. The Hound had intimidated her more and the Mountain even more than all of them. A glance behind showed Morgan hadn’t followed and it was no surprise really.

 _If he leaves Rickon unguarded he’d make a shit Sworn Guard_.

After being cooped up in Sansa’s chambers for so long it felt good to stretch her legs. She liked running down the corridors, waving at servants and men-at-arms alike. It helped to remind them she was no princess. That she was Arya Underfoot again like she was before.

She even passed Lyra Mormont as she spoke with the Greatjon. The pair had both been involved a deep conversation yet the giant lord stopped their discussion and shot her a concerned look as she went by.

Jon had kept his old chambers just like Arya did.

Though this meant they were still as far as ever from the rest of their family, which left her winded by the time she arrived before his chamber. Arya liked that both she and Jon wanted to keep some things like they were before but found a part of her wishing he’d moved all the same.

_It’s not like anyone will tell him to stay away from us any longer._

_Sansa probably wouldn’t mind if he moved closer._

She was as sure of that as she was sure that Jon wouldn’t mind if she just entered his chambers. It didn’t even occur to her to knock. It just felt right to go right in like she always had. It was too early for him to be abed and if he was indisposed it was nothing she hadn’t seen before.

Yet when Arya burst through the door the sight within stopped her mid-stride.

For within the room she found someone she hadn’t expected.

_I didn’t even think Sansa knew where Jon’s chambers were._

She had no doubt it was her sister she saw though. Sansa had her back to her but Arya recognized her sister’s auburn hair and the dress she wore from before.

What surprised her all the more was what Sansa was doing, for her sister was kissing someone, her face pressed deeply against his. Sansa’s arms were around the man’s neck and his arms were around her waist.

_Why is she kissing someone in Jon’s room?_

_Why would she even be in his room?_

In the moment it took for Arya to think those thoughts the arms around Sansa suddenly tore away. Sansa spun around to face the door, her face twisted in shock and fear.

When she saw it was Arya there she cried out.

Just as Arya did when she saw who Sansa had been kissing.

“Jon?” Arya choked out.

 Jon was backing away from her, his hands raised up to just above his eye, shaking his head at what he saw.

“No…” He said quietly. “No, not like this…”

_Jon was kissing Sansa._

_Sansa couldn’t be kissing him. He’s our brother._

_She couldn’t._

“Arya!” Sansa shouted as she ran at her.

She thought for a moment that Sansa meant to hit her but her sister merely pushed Arya aside to slam the door shut, pressing her back against it as if the Others themselves were without.

“Arya, oh gods girl why...” Jon ran his hands down his face. She saw that there was a dark bruise forming alongside the cheek and down to his neck.

“Why? Why!? Forget why!” She snapped. “What was that?!”

“Arya, it is not what you think.” He took a few steps towards her. “Let me explain.”

“You were kissing Sansa.”

Arya spoke the words but she didn’t want to believe it herself. Walking in on Jon kissing their sister was so ridiculous that it didn’t seem real to her. She had to say it out loud to begin to believe it. In the past, Jon had kissed Arya on the cheek or forehead and maybe once on Sansa’s hand.

Yet what she had seen was not so innocent.

She’d seen her parents kiss like that.

“She’s your sister! And you were kissing her! Why?”

“It’s not an easy thing to speak of.” Jon reached out for her but she cringed away.

“Try! Tell me I didn’t see that, please! Tell me something!”

Jon froze then, his eyes wide and she thought he paled some.

“I can’t lie to you Arya… not anymore.”

_What is he talking about? When did he ever lie to me?_

She had taken another step back and bumped into Sansa who stood at the doorway. Jon had told Arya to treat Sansa kindly and he had been acting so warm towards her.

Now she knew why.

Sansa had been kissing him. She’d been kissing their brother.

_My brother._

Sansa was talking and doing such a good job at trying to be quiet that Arya had no idea what she was saying, the words being too low to hear. Sansa finally stamped her foot and hissed at Jon.

“You have to tell her the truth. If you don’t- it could- she’s too rash! She’ll ruin everything!”

_I’ll ruin everything?_

_Me?_

Arya almost felt a laugh coming on then, a hysterical and mad laugh. What could be worse than what Sansa had been doing? Arya wasn’t planning on kissing their brother so of the two of them she didn’t think she was the one ruining things.

“No she won’t.” Jon sounded like he was trying to soothe Sansa. “Let me do this.”

Sansa began to calm down then and Jon looked at Arya strangely. He spoke to Sansa like she was some sort of victim, as if she was the one wronged here.

Arya couldn’t believe the injustice of it all.

“It’s sick! Sick and wrong!” Her stomach was turning and her anger was becoming a ball of fire inside her. “You’re not sick Jon! She is! Don’t let her infect you! Don’t let her ruin you!”

All the good will she’d felt towards Sansa since returning was forgotten. Sansa had been so horrible to Jon growing up and even worse to her. Sansa had wanted to marry the man who had almost killed Jon!

_Now that he’s a knight she wants him._

_She’s trying to take him away from me._

_It’s the same with Rickon, now he’s a king so she’ll pretend to be mother to keep him too._

“Arya, please listen to him!” Sansa yelled, her voice full of anger. “For once in your life, just be reasonable!”

_She is angry with me?_

“For once you just shut up!” She yelled right back. “You’re the one not being reasonable you twisted…”

“Arya!” Jon cut in, his voice pleading. “’I’m so sorry for this. Truly. I know it is hard to understand but we learned something many moons ago that…”

“I don’t care what _you_ learned!”

She whipped around to point at Sansa, her sister staring at her finger as if it was the end of a sword.

“It’s what she learned that matters, isn’t it? What the rest of us always knew! What I always knew! That you are good! She only cares that you’re a knight now, she doesn’t really care about you!” Arya’s skin was burning and she could not remember the last time she’d been so wroth. “She ruins everything! She wanted to be queen and Joffrey killed father! She loved Loras Tyrell and look what he did to you!”

She took a step forward towards Sansa who appeared almost sick at her words.

_Good, let her know how it felt to see what she was doing._

Arya knew it wasn’t just the kissing that bothered her. Deep down she believed Sansa was misleading Jon, maybe even tricking him. Jon could never love Sansa more than her. Jon and Arya had always been the two outsiders and all the closer for it.

People were starting to see Jon for the good man she’d always known him to be. So now Sansa wanted to take him away. Sansa could never be the better sister so she had tried to use being a queen to steal him at first.

_Now she can’t be a queen so she’s trying to get him by being the prettier one._

_The sister all the boys always looked at._

_The girl who would kiss him…_

She couldn’t think of it. It confused her to think of Jon in such a way so she turned to Sansa instead.

“What did you do to him!? You did this to him! You’re awful! You’re disgusting! I can’t believe you! You can’t trust her Jon!”

Arya didn’t care how harsh the words stumbling forth from her mouth sounded. This wasn’t like the red rages she had when someone hurt her friends. This was the cold one, the kind that turned her insides to ice and her body almost numb. The rage that cast a strange calm over her, and set her sword hand to twitching.

This was how she’d felt when she’d killed Hyle.

And that scared her.

She did her best to push it away. To accept the red-hot rage which lay just beneath the cold fury. To fuel the flame she thought of all the times Sansa had stolen from her. Not just her dolls or her lemon cakes.

She remembered all the stolen moments with their parents, when one of her accomplishments would be set aside to fawn over Sansa’s new dress. When Robb had to stop playing with her to practice his dance steps with Sansa. When Jon and her would be enjoying a happy moment laughing until Sansa and Jeyne would come by, and an upturned nose would ruin Jon’s mood completely.

No matter how scared and sad Sansa looked now Arya saw through it, she saw the haughty girl beneath.

The thief and the liar.

_The traitor._

“She’ll say she loves you! She’ll say it easily enough but then someone prettier or nobler will be there and she’ll choose them!” Arya was screaming now, all of her anger towards Sansa tumbling forth. “She chose the Lannisters over father! She chose Joffrey over Mycah! She chose Myranda over Jeyne! She chose Jeyne over me!”

Arya had never thought of it like that but as she said it the words felt true. Sansa had always treated Jeyne more like a sister than she ever did Arya.

_She never loved me. Not like I loved her._

“She won’t just betray you, she’ll get you killed too! Just like Mycah! Just like father!”

“Arya, I didn’t…” Sansa was in tears now but Arya kept her own in check.

“Jon loved me first! You can’t have him too! I won’t let you! You selfish, horrible…”

“Don’t say such things!” Jon’s shout caught her off guard but not as much as when he went to comfort Sansa instead of her.

_He’s going to her. He’s going to her instead of me._

_Everyone will always choose Sansa over you,_ said some terrible voice inside her.

“I hate you!” Arya screamed as the tears finally broke and streamed down her face.

She shoved Sansa away from the door and grabbed hold of the handle, her only desire to get as far away from here as possible.

Then something had pulled on her cloak and she was being held in place. Arya didn’t know who she expected to be there, if she even remembered it was only the three of them in the room. Maybe she knew who it was and didn’t care. Her fist swung out anyway without thought.

And relief flowed through her when she felt it strike something soft and warm. A good, solid punch always grounded her.

Even the grunt of pain and Sansa’s cry sounded good.

Until she saw what she’d done.

Through her tears she saw Jon kneeling before her, blood spilling from his lip, a hurt expression on his face. When their eyes met his shoulders slumped.

_You hurt him._

_Even with the incest, you’re a worse sister than Sansa._

Then Sansa was next to him and Arya couldn’t watch anymore. She wrenched the door free and ran as fast as she could. Arya ran without really looking where she was going, the path becoming a blur around her. People cried out and some called her name but she didn’t stop.

If she stopped she would drown in all the dark memories flooding her thoughts.

Father being forced down to his knees. Biter’s bloody mouth as it tore away from Brienne’s face. Pod’s cries as the Boltons pulled him away and into the dark.

Jon’s scarred back at the hot springs.

His hurt face and the blood spilling from his lip.

So she ran all the faster. Trying to outrun all of it.

To leave the hurt behind.

To leave the blood behind.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to protect the ones you love while dealing with loss, hope and the cold winds that blow.
> 
> Or when a missing Stark returns to Winterfell.

**JON**

 “Ser, what happened to you?”

Rodwell’s voice was tinged with concern as he squinted at Jon through the darkness. Jon had no urge to explain the events of his night to the captain of the guard, or any of the other guardsmen collected about the brazier. In truth, he would’ve preferred to escape all attention in this matter.

_What I want doesn’t matter right now._

_My wants always lead me to selfish acts that hurt those people I care about most._

Jon was chasing after one of those people now. From the direction Arya had run from his rooms, he knew she wasn’t heading back towards her chambers. Instead, she was making to flee the Great Keep entirely. 

Yet when he emerged outside the keep himself, the night air cold and bracing, he saw no sign of Arya in the courtyard. So he’d been forced to pick up the girl’s trail by seeking the only people he saw braving the cold night besides himself.

“Was there a battle no one invited us to?” Quent laughed and a couple of the others joined in as well.

Their breath steamed in the air as the laughter rang out. It was snowing lightly but the air was colder than usual so it made sense that these men would be collected about the heat of the glowing coals. The cold made Jon worry all the more for Arya. She’d only been wearing a light cloak when he’d seen her and he doubted she’d stopped to better dress herself against the elements.

“No, no battle and not a matter worthy enough to trouble your poor frozen minds.” Jon japed as he shook his head before looking back to the Great Keep. “Did you happen to see my sister?”

“The queen?” Ulroy asked and Jon realized he had called Arya his sister by reflex.

_I can’t think of her as anything else, my heart won’t allow it._

_I cannot lose my little sister._

“No, not Sansa.”

He’d thought on that before and how the fates were cruel. Once, Jon may have begrudged Sansa for never acting like a true sister to him but the gulf between them had led to the love they shared now. Despite their childhood together they had been almost strangers to each other. After the Vale the distance between the two had faded, replaced with something else entirely. That love could never have been had his truth remained a secret, had they never learned Sansa and he were cousins.

Jon still named Robb a brother in his prayers and could not stop himself from thinking of Eddard Stark as his father. Thinking of them as such had pulled him from the brink of despair during his travels south so many times that he would never be able to change that. To the world he would call them but a cousin and uncle, all the while his soul would continue to whisper a different tale altogether.

He had little left of Robb and Eddard Stark save memories. He preferred those closely held glimpses of past joys to the cold, stone statues holding vigil in the crypts.

Arya offered Jon so much more than memories, something vastly different, something that was very much alive.

She gave him hope.

Since her return he’d felt their bond had somehow done the impossible, not only had it survived their separation it continued to grow. Despite all the hardships they’d shared and the secrets he was forced to keep from her, his love for Arya was something he was reminded of each day. Laughing over a jest together, practicing in the yard, arguing over silly things, the list went on. Together they built moments he treasured, ones they piled onto a foundation of love and understanding between them.

One a war and years apart could not tear asunder. Yet the truth of him could ruin it all.

The look of disgust and hurt on Arya’s face when she’d found them had been a horrible thing to see. Her reaction had stricken him. To see a girl he loved so much, repulsed by the love he shared for Sansa, it had made him feel like a monster.

_She’s seen enough monsters. You are supposed to keep them away._

_Like an older brother should._

No matter what truths were known or what blood said, Arya would always be his little sister. The little sister who needed to know he wasn’t the monster she thought he was.

“I seek Arya.” He continued on with the guards. “I thought I saw her leave the Great Keep.”

“Oh!” Quent smacked Ulroy’s shoulder then. “I bloody told you it was a girl we saw run out!”

“It could’ve been a serving boy!” Ulroy protested.

“The princess is running about unguarded?” Rodwell stiffened, glancing back towards the closest gates. “The gates have been barred to all since our young king’s return but if you fear some dark deeds are at work…”

_Much has taken place in the shadows this night, but it’s not yet time for anyone to learn such tidings._

“No it is nothing like that. I will seek the princess out myself.” Jon turned to Ulroy. “Which way did she run?”

“I didn’t really follow ser… perhaps the kitchens?”

Quent stepped before the other guardsman, pointing off into the night.

“Off towards the godswood I think. It was an odd place to run to if she was looking for privacy, considering the men standing watch at all of the ways in.”

Of course it would be the godswood.

The old gods and their trees had offered Jon shelter and understanding so many times in the past, he could only hope they would offer the same to Arya. Jon admonished himself for not thinking of it before. For if Arya had shunned returning to her chambers, seeking out the den of another she-wolf seemed logical enough.

_There are little and less secrets among the direwolves to hurt her._

_That family hides nothing from one another._

Arya’s discovery of Sansa and his moment of intimacy had been as tragic a folly as any. He had only sought his chambers in an attempt gather his strength following the beatings, both mental and physical, he had suffered in his meeting with the lords of the North. Jon’s heart was set on seeking out Arya and sharing the truth with her as well, he had just needed a moment of peace first.

Now that Rickon’s most powerful bannermen knew the truth he could no longer delay telling Arya the same.

The anger and betrayal he felt whenever Sansa and Howland kept things hidden from him was not something he wished to inflict upon Arya. She’d been through enough already and if she was to learn the truth of him he would hold nothing back.

Not like they had done with the lords. Sansa and Howland had argued to wait before sharing the news of their betrothal and Jon had eventually assented. He had not liked the idea of keeping more secrets yet had seen the wisdom in it. The others needed more time to come to grips with who he was. While Sansa had been pleased that he agreed, she had not been pleased with how he handled another issue.

“Calling yourself by your true name would help Jon.” Sansa had pouted in his chambers, her lip put out in a girlish manner. “This Ser Jon the Wolf or Lord Jon of the Dreadfort… it won’t stand as well against the critics as other titles would. Like Prince Jon or even just Jon Targaryen.”

“I doubt the name Targaryen will be welcomed anywhere in the North.” He’d answered, firm in his resolve. “I cannot take the name of the family which murdered our grandfather and uncle. The Greatjon was justified in his rage. For all the Targaryens have taken from House Stark and the North, I want little to do with them.”

Sansa had clearly been expecting him to take up lordship of the Bolton lands under the name of his father and Jon could understand why. Yet Rhaegar Targaryen had never truly been a father to him and deep down Jon knew he could never act as a Targaryen in truth.

“Then why not allow me to legitimize you as a Stark?” Sansa had kissed the back of his hand, her eyes pleading with him.

“I am not a Stark.” He had felt the old pain returning when he uttered those words. “Lord Manderly was right. Many will doubt I am Lyanna’s son over Eddard’s and when our betrothal is announced there will be some who whisper of incest and I can’t give them any more cause to do so.”

He’d kissed her lips lightly, relishing how they opened to welcome his coming.

“Sansa Stark cannot marry a Snow, and she deserves more than a Targaryen cast-off or a mummer’s Stark.” Jon had run a thumb across her cheek at that. “I meant what I said to the Greatjon. I’d be my own man. I’d make my own name in this world.”

What name that would be was still a mystery to him. Eddard Stark had given him the hope of becoming more than a bastard when he’d sent him on the path to becoming a knight. The thought of leaving the name Snow behind and taking up a name of his own had appealed to Jon for a while. Since being knighted at Runestone though, his life had been a whirlwind of unexpected events and he’d never had a chance to give it further thought.

After the revelation at Greywater Watch, Jon had chosen to remain a Snow over a Targaryen. At the time he’d been reeling at how much of his life had been decided for him, by people who claimed to love him. Being asked to choose between the names Stark and Targaryen had seemed just another part of the cruel jest. His decision to remain a bastard became an act that gave him some measure of control over his future. A part of the life he thought he once knew that he could hold on to.

Much had changed since then and once again he was being offered the chance to make his own fate. Jon would choose a name for himself, a name not only for his new house but one Sansa could one day take as her own. Jon was determined to create a name that could be worn with pride by Sansa and any children they might have, so that they would never know the scorn of having a bastard name like Jon had had all his life. It would be a name that could have a place in the North, hopefully for generations to come.

The problem was he couldn’t think of any good ones.

Sansa had laughed when he’d admitted that, reminding Jon of when Bran couldn’t decide on a name for his Direwolf pup, teasing Jon that he was acting like a seven year-old boy. It had been a sweet thing to think of their lost brother, after Rickon’s return he was filled with hope Bran would find them as well.

The sweet sound of Sansa’s teasing laughter mingled with the desire their lone kiss had sparked in Jon. Her joyful laughs had soon melted away into a shy but eager gleam in her eye. He had wanted something pleasant to see him through the hard times ahead and Sansa had been all too willing to oblige.

They hadn’t planned the tryst, elsewise the door would’ve been locked and Arya would have never found them in their embrace. If it had been locked, Jon wouldn’t be out in the cold, chasing after his errant sister. His lip wouldn’t be throbbing from Arya’s frantic strike. The cut had stopped bleeding quickly enough and Sansa had wiped the blood from his face before he’d left, her own face red with anger and wet with tears.

“She was horrid. She is horrid!” Sansa had fumed as she dabbed at his lip. “Why is she so horrible all the time? I let her do so much! I’m trying so hard to be better, more accepting and it’s not like leaving home was my doing! She wanted to stay in King’s Landing too…”

Jon couldn’t remember what else she’d said mumbled about Arya for he’d been lost in thought at how careless he’d been. Arya’s face after she’d hit him, that look of utter anguish, was seared in his mind’s eye. He needed to make this right and pull his little sister back from the dark place he’d led her to.

“Jon? Jon you have to know, you have to tell me you know.” Sansa’s pleas had pulled him back. “Please tell me you know it’s not true. Even if you weren’t a knight, I’d still feel the same for you. I swear it.”

“Of course I do. Arya spoke out of anger.” Jon said as he grabbed her hand to reassure her and reached his burned hand up to wipe a tear away from her cheek with his thumb. “She’s a little girl who has lost so much. Imagine how she must feel.”

“That’s no excuse!” Sansa had shaken her head. “To think I’d ever betray you! And I didn’t choose Jeyne over her, what was that rubbish? Jeyne was just there. I would want to sing or play at court and Jeyne did too and she was my friend! But Arya just… well she never wanted to act a lady. She was always running around to the kitchens or the stables, stealing sweets or practice swords and speaking whatever thought came to her mind to everyone she met without…”

Sansa stopped her rant and stiffened, her hands squeezing his, a look of worry borne across her face.

“Will she tell anyone? About us? Jon, if anyone hears about this before we’re ready…”

Jon had shaken his head and kissed her forehead to reassure her. He knew Arya better than that. She spoke her mind freely but she would never behave so foolishly.

“Arya will do as she always did, she’ll seek a place to brood or something to reassure her.” Even as he said the words, he lamented that once it would have been him she ran to, not away from. “I will find her and explain things. She needs to know all we’ve kept from her and should she wish to blame anyone, I’ll make sure she knows who deserves it. For the fault is mine.”

When he put his cloak upon his shoulders and prepared to follow after the girl, Sansa had delayed him one last time.

“I love you.” She said quietly. “Even if you stayed a Snow that wouldn’t change. Knighthood, lordships, none of it matters to me, not anymore. I would still love you.”

She’d almost whimpered the last part, clutching the bloody cloth tightly in her hand. The things Arya had said to Sansa had been horrible and he could tell she desperately wanted him to comfort her.

Yet he also knew Sansa was strong, stronger than she or anyone else believed in truth. Arya on the other hand was not as strong as she liked to think herself at times. She was brave, that was clear but Jon knew she hid things from them and sometimes he feared the worst about her time in the south. He could not let her run out into the night thinking she’d lost her family as well as her innocence.

“And I love you Sansa, truly. Go to Rickon. I will find you there.”

A true knight would have comforted his princess. Instead Jon had left, for somewhere out there a little girl needed her older brother and he would act the part for as long as possible.

For as long as she would have him.

The guards standing without the godswood confirmed what Quent had seen. Not too long ago Arya had ordered them aside as she ran within. He was relieved to hear no others had come into the enclosure before or after, save for the direwolves.

As he walked between the darkened trees he thought of how Arya and he shared a bond with wolves as well as with each other. She clearly sensed the coming of Rickon through her connection to Nymeria, just as he had through Ghost. Howland understood that part of them more than Jon did and it scared him to think of Arya with such powers.

Arya having a bond with her wolf did not worry him nearly as much as what could happen to her if people learned the truth. In the stories Old Nan told, the people who could commune with animals in such a way were skinchangers, wargs, and considered nothing short of demons in human disguises. He dreaded small-minded people labeling Arya as a monster.

_She is not a monster_ , he thought _, she could never be one._

_Not the little girl I used to carry about my shoulders in this place._

Those were times of warmth and light though, the times of the Long Summer. The godswood was a very different place now. Snowflakes fell and drifted down onto his shoulders and became stuck within his hair, just as they did along the leafless limbs of the trees. Steam rose from the hot springs in thick clouds for there was little wind to disperse it. Most winter winds lost their strength when they broke against the walls of Winterfell.

Indeed, much of winter broke itself against these walls and it was as if a great silence blanketed the godswood.

A rustle off to Jon’s side betrayed who truly held power among the trees though. The small sound was the only warning Ghost gave before emerging from behind a large pine, those red eyes of his clear even in such darkness. He bore some marks from his earlier fight with Shaggydog yet seemed no worse for it.

“Hello, old friend.” Jon smiled, offering his palm out. “I forgot to thank you for earlier.”

If Ghost sought any thanks he didn’t show it. Instead the direwolf turned suddenly and padded away from him. A glance to the ground showed tracks that did not belong to any beast, a trail Ghost appeared to be following. His friend led him to the small pack of the wolves gathered before the weirwood. The two larger wolves were Ghost’s siblings.

The smaller one remained Jon’s sibling no matter what blood said.

Arya was huddled in the shadows between the direwolves, her arms wrapped around Nymeria’s neck. She looked tiny compared to the size and power of the beast. Shaggydog lay at her feet, almost invisible in the darkness, and his green eyes locked on Jon as he approached.

He saw no sign of the ferocity Shaggydog had shown earlier, instead the direwolf appeared at peace. He didn’t even raise his head from where it rested between his paws until Ghost padded over to him. Ghost joined his brother upon the ground, the black wolf rolling so as to rest against the larger white one. Nymeria stayed upright and alert and her gaze seemed wary somehow. Jon didn’t truly see anything different in the she-wolf’s eyes. He just felt her unease.

_Or Ghost felt it._

Unlike the wolves, Arya ignored his approach, her eyes downcast and face pressed against Nymeria’s side. Her breaths came out in small clouds and despite her flimsy cloak, the girl did not shiver.

_Defying winter while in the embrace of wolves._

_None could ever call Arya anything but a Stark._

He was several strides away from her when he found the courage to speak.

“I am sorry Arya.” He felt his words were feeble things. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Jon imagined others would have known a better way to start, perhaps even saying something that could put her at ease. All he could do was speak to what he knew, to tell the truth, as he should have done long ago.

Arya wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead shaking her head as she did her best to hide within Nymeria’s fur.

“I didn’t mean to hit you.” She said quietly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I don’t think you meant to hurt anyone. You were angry and upset.” He seized the chance to come closer, kneeling before both Nymeria and Arya. “We saw Ghost and Shaggydog fight today but they don’t seem at odds now.”

He pointed so that Arya would see how Ghost and Shaggydog shared in each other’s warmth, wounds plain upon both.

“Wolves may fight and hurt one another but it doesn’t mean they are no longer family. They still care for one their kin.”

“They love each other.” Arya said firmly. “Like brothers and sisters should.”

Her eyes finally found his, narrowed and with a hint of anger.

“Not like what  _she_  was doing to you.”

The way Arya spoke about Sansa made it clear her harsh words had not fully drained away her anger. Most times the strife between the two sisters was a little entertaining if not just irritating, but other times it worried Jon to think that their differences would never be overcome.

_She’s about to lose a brother, she can’t lose a sister as well._

If given the chance, Jon would do what he could to mend their bond yet now wasn’t the time to try. There were more difficult things that needed to be said and he would not shirk from it any longer.

“Arya, what you saw between Sansa and me, it was not as you think.”

“You weren’t kissing her? Your sister?”

She had obviously not meant to be helpful, yet her sarcastic questioning made the path to what he would say clearer before him. Jon shook his head and ran his hand over his face as he prepared himself to do what he must.

“I was and I wasn’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She scrunched up her face and gave him the same look she’d give Maester Luwin or Septa Mordane when she thought their words quite useless. “You either were or you weren’t! Please Jon, don’t try and trick me like she does.”

Before she could continue he reached out to grasp her shoulder. Nymeria’s head was so close now he could feel her hot breath waft over his neck. It was strangely comforting against the cold, yet it did little enough to ease what came next.

“I kissed Sansa, that is true. Yet I was not kissing my sister.” He squeezed Arya’s shoulder for strength, to give her some and to find his own. “I was kissing the daughter… the daughter of my lord uncle.”

Before she could say anything to that, Jon let the tale tumble forth. Howland probably told it better. He always tried to make it into a tale of star-crossed love and life-long oaths sworn out of friendship and family.

To Jon though, it was a tale of folly. One of the reckless actions of a wild and foolish lady and a selfish dragon prince. Of a war and the many deaths that followed, which had brought Eddard Stark and Howland Reed to care for a child. Of a lie told and secrets hidden away in crypts of Winterfell.

Through it all Arya’s eyes widened and slowly her arms fell from Nymeria’s neck and her hands tightened into fists. As the tale neared the end of its telling her face became dark and angry.

“That’s shit! Utter shit! You’re my brother!” She yelled. “Not a cousin! A brother! Your mother was Wylla! Ned Dayne told me! Eddard Stark was your father, not Rhaegar! Our father!”

Jon said nothing, remembering how he’d acted when he learned the truth. Arya was so much like him sometimes. More and more he looked to her to see what his mother may have been like.

_Did my mother and her father share the bond we do?_

_I know at least that I burden Arya now, just as Lyanna burdened Eddard._

“They’re lying to you! She’s lying to you!” Arya went on, standing to look down at him. “She just wants to be a queen again!”

“No, Arya. It is the truth. It is my truth.” He tried to reach for her face but she jerked away.

Arya’s frustration boiled over in a shout of anger, spinning around to throw a fist against the weirwood.

“It can’t be! I know your truth!” She struck the tree again, and again. “You and I, it was always us!”

“Arya! Stop!” He wrapped the girl in his arms, pulling her back against him and away from the weirwood.

She struggled fiercely against him but he would not let go. Red smears of blood adorned the bone white bark of the heart tree where her fists had landed.

_That’s because of you_ , he thought,  _you drove her to such._

“Why can’t you see it?!” Arya did her best to free herself. “Remember when Sansa said that I was a bastard too? She said I wasn’t truly a Stark because I looked so different from her and Robb! But I knew I was father’s daughter because of you. The wolves Jon! Look how we are with the wolves! Howland said it’s because of our blood! Why won’t you see?”

Her struggles lessened with each cry. The anger in her voice was falling away and taking on a tone more akin to desperation. He chanced to lower her to her feet, turning her so they faced one another.

Jon marveled at how her eyes could blame you and beseech you all at once.

“Why don’t you want me?” Arya asked then, the tears welling up in her eyes.

He felt the shame worse than ever. “You have to know it’s not like that…”

“I’m not evil, Jon. I had to do all those things to get home.” She sniffed. “The Ghost of High Heart and the Elder Brother said I was a darkheart but I’m not. I try not to be. I’m sorry I’m not good… please, please don’t give up on me…”

Jon’s heart broke at the girl’s words. He knew she’d hid some things from him about her travels but he could never have imagined that she would somehow convince herself that she was evil. The thought that Arya believed him capable of giving up on her made Jon pull her into another embrace, this time trying to protect the girl rather than restrain her.

He held her tightly against him and although her arms remained listlessly at her sides he cared not. All he wanted was to hold Arya and let her know she was cared for whether she was his sister or his cousin. He rested his chin against the top of her head as he gently rocked the girl.

“You are not evil. Nor are you dark or wicked or anything of the like.” He whispered against her hair. “I don’t care what others have said. It doesn’t matter what you had to do. I know what is in your heart and I always have.”

He pulled back to look down at her, Arya’s eyes finding his as he did so, hers glistening in the moonlight.

“We are so alike, Arya. When I learned the truth, I acted terribly. I lashed out at everyone around me and scared Sansa before I ran off into the dark.” He inclined his head towards the tree behind them. “I found a weirwood and I raged at it. I cursed the old gods and my parents and I begged to be father’s son again, even if that meant I would still be a bastard. I wanted so desperately to be your brother.”

The memory was still a hard one for him yet he wanted to share what good he could find in it.

“I am your brother. In my heart, in my skin, in my being, I can be nothing less.” He felt his own voice tremble then. “Blood makes us kin but you have been my sister since I held you as a babe and you smiled at me. I love you no less now than I did then and I hope you still love me too. I would be your brother, now and always… if you would have me.”

Arya’s eyes lowered then, her face now hidden against his chest. She made no effort to speak, her body just remained listless in his embrace. Time passed in silence, the three wolves eyeing them almost curiously. For every moment Arya remained quiet a deep, horrible fear rose up within him.

_She would not have you,_ he thought _, she has a true brother now._

_What would she want with dragonspawn, a child of lies, a pretender?_

He tried to think of what else he could say to ward off such a fate. Jon had never been good with words and worried what his failings were costing him now.

That was until he felt Arya begin to move. Her arms reached up and wrapped around him, her hands grasping against his back tightly. Embracing him as earnestly as he did her.

“Say it again.” She whispered. “Say you’re my brother. No matter who your parents are. Say it.”

He would not fail her then.

“I am and will always be your brother, Arya Stark.”

They stayed like that for some time, holding each other as snow fell around them. The heart tree’s leaves rustled above them while the direwolves all moved to press against them, as if sensing now was the time to bring the pack together. There was a good amount of heat coming off of the direwolves yet he still pulled off his own cloak and placed it around Arya’s shoulders.

“I’m fine.” She scowled, but she accepted the cloak anyway.

“I will always worry for you, no matter what.” He smiled, kissing the top of her head. “Let a brother care for his sister.”

Arya pulled away from him at that, her brow furrowed.

“It’s different with Sansa, isn’t it?” She asked. “That’s why you were kissing?”

Jon nodded.

“You accused her of some horrible things, Arya. They were as vile as they were wrong. Yet you were right in saying that Sansa and I were never close as siblings. In a way, she treated me as a cousin all along.”

“She would’ve treated a trueborn cousin more kindly.” Arya added bitterly.

“You are too hard on her. Sansa was never harsh to me, only distant. She gave me as much kindness as she thought was proper for our separate stations. That was how Lady Stark willed it.”

“If mother had known the truth about you, it would have been different. She wouldn’t have been so-”

“Perhaps but I would not have you speak ill of your mother.” He brushed a few stray hairs away from her face. “Lady Stark loved me not, but she loved her children deeply. Just as Sansa and you love her deeply…like you love each other, I hope.”

He disliked mentioning their mother to either of the sisters. The woman had no place in Jon’s heart but she would always be in theirs. He thought perhaps that reminding Arya of that shared love could help bind the sisters together in the future.

“I do love Sansa.” Arya said before hesitating. “I just don’t know if I trust her. She wanted to be queen so badly and she let good people get hurt because of it. I can’t let her hurt you too.”

“Do you truly believe Sansa would hurt me? Your sister, who just handed away her crown so that Rickon could be king? Your sister, who once killed a man to save my life even though it would put her own life at great peril?”

Arya mumbled something, her familiar stubborn nature showing itself. In this he saw much of Sansa as well. The two could be so open and welcoming to others, so ready to give of themselves and be kind. They both seemed to have a talent for making strangers into quick and loyal friends, Sansa with her grace and Arya with her passion. Yet when it came to each other, the sisters put up a barrier the size of the Wall itself and drew out each other’s’ worse traits.

“For all you fault her, Sansa is not the girl who went to King’s Landing, just as I am not the boy who left Winterfell. You are the not the girl I gave Needle to.” He saw the doubt flash across her face. “Fear not, for I see no evil in you Arya, only bravery. You are braver than many men I’ve known and stronger too. I see the same in your sister. She too has endured horrible things...”

“You love Sansa, don’t you?” Arya interrupted. “Not like a sister… but like how father loved mother?”

“I do.” He admitted. “And I won’t hide things from you anymore Arya. We wish to marry.”

“Gross.” Arya made a face feigning sickness.

Before he could lecture her on getting used to the thought the girl suddenly snapped to attention.

“To marry her you’ll have to tell people the truth.” She said quickly. “There are people who still hate the Targaryens, Jon. Even here. What if they hate you too? What if they want to hurt you because of your father?”

_Excellent work Jon, now she gets to share in our worries._

“I truly don’t know.” He did his best to console her. “I love Sansa though and I cannot live this lie any longer, and Sansa has wanted this for me since she learned the truth, even before we grew to care for each other as we do now.”

“She didn’t want you to be her brother anymore?”

“Sansa didn’t want me to be a bastard anymore. She had to pretend to be one during her time with Littlefinger in the Vale and I think it taught her a little of the burden I lived with growing up. Thinking of the treatment I faced… it became hard for her to accept that I would continue as such.”

“We’ve all had to be different people.” Arya said absent-mindedly and he was about to ask her what she meant when they were both jarred violently.

For the direwolves had all arisen at once, each one suddenly alert with their ears pointing straight up. Arya was almost knocked over by Shaggydog before Jon reached out to steady her. Then he quickly put his hand to his sword and scanned the woods around them. The wolves had never acted so without reason and he sought that cause now.

Yet he saw nothing but the heart tree before him and the other trees spread out amidst the darkness. He heard nothing save the rustle of the leaves above him and Arya breathing softly. Despite the stillness of the wood and the silence that came with it, he was sure he felt eyes upon them and Jon sensed something was amiss.

_Did someone follow us here?_

_Why don’t the wolves flush them out?_

“Arya, stay close to me.” He said quietly, looking to the wolves.

The three had backed away from Arya and Jon, all with their backs arched and shoulders lowered as if ready for an attack. If there was any threat to be found from the darkness beyond the weirwood tree he could not see it. Nor was there anyone hiding behind the tree’s trunk.

“Jon.” Arya said with an odd tone. “Jon, look at the tree.”

His sister was staring up at the weirwood as she backed away from him to join the wolves. It was then that he realized the wolves were not searching the woods beyond the heart tree for a threat.

They were all watching the tree itself.

When he gazed up at the bright red canopy, he saw nothing. No hidden assassins, no bowmen, not even an owl. All he saw were the leaves shifting in the wind like hundreds small, blood-covered wings flapping in the wind. He heard nothing but their rustling.

_There’s nothing there,_ he thought _, just a tree moving in the wind._

Deep down though, he knew he was wrong. That something was very wrong here.

_‘Jon.’_

He heard his name again yet when he whipped around to face Arya, she shook her head quickly, the girl almost shaking in fear. He did not need her to tell him what he realized. She hadn’t said a word.

Jon looked around them wildly as he drew his sword but he still saw no one. And nothing moved save the leaves above them. Then he noticed something else and the terror struck him with a bone-chilling fright.

_Nothing is moving._ _None of the bushes. Not even the other trees._

_Only the heart tree._  

The hairs upon his neck began to rise as he realized he didn’t even feel a wind. None of the other trees near them shook as the weirwood did. The leaves of the heart tree continued to rustle as if a soft breeze was coming through the godswood, but Jon felt no wind at all.

He only heard it.

_‘Jon’._

“It’s saying your name.” Arya said backing away further from the tree as the wolves had done, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t you hear it?”

And he did.

He didn’t believe her at first. His mind didn’t want to accept such a thing was possible but it was clear now, the evidence was too strong. Through the shifting of the bone-white branches and the rustle of the blood-red leaves, another sound came forth. A voice carried through the darkness, from the tree itself.

‘ _Jon.’_

_“_ By the gods…” He backed away from the weirwood’s ancient carved face and Arya grabbed at his hand. They both clutched each other tightly against what was unfolding before them.

_‘Jon.’_

The word was drawn out, barely a whisper but the leaves shook it forth again and again. Something about the impossible voice sounded so familiar. Beyond how it sounded though, there was the feeling it ushered forth. From his head to deep within his bones, every part of his body told Jon that he knew this voice.

As soon as he accepted that truth, the disembodied voice changed its words. Arya cried out and jerked in his grasp, for now the tree was calling to her.

_‘Arya...’_

Arya wrenched free from his hold and put her hands to her ears as Nymeria and Shaggydog threw back their heads and began to howl. When Ghost joined in, the chorus of the wolves’ howls seemed to drown out every sound in the world.

All except the tree. In truth, the voice seemed to grow stronger.

_‘Arya…’_  It carried through the wind and over the howling of the wolves.  _‘Jon…’_

_‘Wall…’_

_‘Fall…’_

“It’s him!” Arya screamed suddenly, her fists beating at the sides of her head. “It’s Bran! Bran! He’s crying!

_Bran, oh please no._

Once Arya said it, it was like a dam broke and Jon knew it was true all at once. For it was Bran’s voice calling their names through the false wind. As the wolves howled, Jon realized he’d never been so scared in his life.

_‘Jon…fall…’_

“Jon, he’s scared!” Arya shouted, falling to her knees. “He’s crying!”

That’s when he saw its face.

Jon had known the face carved within the heart tree since before he could remember. Yet the face he saw now was different. His eyes lied to him, showing it to be exactly as it was the hundreds of times he’d visited the godswood before, but something else in Jon screamed at him. That the face was not what it was supposed to be. That the face was someone else.

The streams of red sap dripping from its carved eyes had never come forth so thickly, coming in waves that pooled around the trunk.

Jon stared into the red pool at the base of the tree as the rustling of the leaves beat against his mind with a thunder. Filling him with intense feelings of joy and loss, of a great terror as well.

He could hear his little brother. He could hear Bran. The boy was crying right in front of him yet he was nowhere to be seen.

All he could see was the weirwood, which wept in its gruesome way.

Weepings its tears of blood.

 

**SANSA**

“He’s crying! Let me go!”

Rickon screamed as he fought against Morgan Liddle’s hold. Her little brother was almost a terror right now and the Sworn Guard had been enduring the worst of it. Rickon’s clawing and kicking at him had been bad enough but when the young king’s teeth sunk into Morgan’s arm the clansman grunted in pain.

“Rickon please!” Sansa pleaded with her brother as Morgan carried him back towards the bed.

The boy ignored her, just as he had when she’d tried to stop him from fleeing the chambers in the first place. Rickon might have darted right by Morgan had her cries not alerted the large man, who moved quickly to gather the boy into his arms. The poor Sworn Sword did not appear to relish carrying his king about the room. He held Rickon out to her as if he were a sack of potatoes.

Or as if the child would suddenly catch on fire.

_He gladly swore to guard our family against all threats, pledging his life to what could be a very blood task._

_Yet he balks at carrying a boy?_

_Men. Honestly._

“Mother, I have to go! He’s here!” Rickon shouted as she took him into her own embrace, sitting upon the bed and setting him on her lap. He didn’t kick or strike her but he squirmed about terribly. “Please, we need to go to him!”

“I know… just hush now, I know.” She lied, cradling him to her.

For she had no idea what Rickon was talking about.

Moments ago he had been sleeping so peacefully that watching him had helped calm Sansa after the fight with Arya. Jon had left to find her errant sister and being left alone with her thoughts in Jon’s chambers, after all Arya had accused her of, had been a horrible thing to endure. So she’d done as Jon suggested, returning to her room to await his coming.

She’d been surprised to find Jeyne sitting vigil over Rickon. Her friend had been doing needlework just as they had done together as little girls. It was as if she stepped through a doorway into that simpler time and Sansa was thrown off for a moment by the memory.

There were differences of course. Jeyne had become a young woman since they’d last sewed together and her scarred nose blighted her once pretty face. A welcome change was the kitten Jeyne had not kept before, a tiny thing curled up in her lap, slumbering as if it had no care in the world.

All that made Sansa pine for a time when her greatest worry was ensuring her sewing was the best of their small circle.

_Sewing with Jeyne would be a fine thing to take up again._

_Getting to know my friend once more would be even finer._

Proving Arya wrong was also a good reason for doing so. Her sister would see what Sansa already knew in her heart, that it wasn’t in her to abandon her friends or loved ones.

For Sansa had few enough left.

She’d just softly closed the door when Jeyne gasped. Her friend had taken notice of Sansa, suddenly jerking to her feet, the slumbering kitten falling to the floor. Jeyne uttered a choked cry from behind her hand at the kitten’s tumble and cry of pain, the hand having gone up to cover her face. Even with the word as muffled and quiet as she said it, Sansa still heard the name Jeyne choked out.

The name turned Sansa’s blood to ice water. The thought of that ruined thing of a man locked up in the kennels almost made her stomach turn. Jeyne had scooped the kitten back up into her arms, her face flushed and her eyes on the floor.

“Sansa… I didn’t hear you come in.” Jeyne had whispered. “Arya said she would be back soon and Rickon sleeps soundly-”

“You named your pet Theon?” Sansa asked, as calmly as her shock would allow her.

Jeyne paled some, clutching the animal protectively against her chest and bowing her head even more. Her nod had been barely visible with her acting in such a way.

“He saved me. He didn’t leave me behind when he could have. Theon wouldn’t leave me with Ramsay.” Jeyne backed away from both the bedside and Sansa. “I just wanted to be able to care for him. To speak with him. Only he understands what I had- what Ramsay had me do…” With that, Jeyne’s eyes had finally found hers, glistening yet hopeful. “It would be good to speak with him, the guards won’t let me.”

“For good reason.” She’d hissed. “The man is a traitor, a turncloak, and a murderer.”

“But he didn’t kill the boys.” Jeyne protested, pointing to Rickon. “Rickon’s here and Bran is still alive somewhere so Theon-”

“Killed two other boys in their stead. He is a killer of children along with being the invader of our home.” She remembered her words being spoken more harshly than was needed. “And what of the others he had killed? Alebelly? Mikken? Septon Chayle? Farlen?”

The names and faces of the dead were burned into Sansa’s heart, their memory being the only thinkable way she could honor those who had fallen in service to House Stark. Their names spurned her on in her wrath at Jeyne’s foolishness.

“He is the one who loosed Ramsay Snow’s evil upon Winterfell. All the women and girls Ramsay stole, our friends, who spent moons beneath the Dreadfort, all the ones who died, it’s because of Theon Greyjoy’s actions. His decisions led to ruin for the North, he betrayed Robb just as surely as Roose Bolton did-”

“He didn’t mean it.” Jeyne had interrupted, shaking her head violently. “Theon is still good inside. He’s a hero.”

“He’s a dead man.” She had replied. “There will be no other fate for him but the blade or worse. Which is what he deserves. Jeyne, we can’t be foolish maidens anymore. We don’t live in a world where we can be so naïve…”

Jeyne hadn’t heard the rest, for she had broken at Sansa’s words. Her friend had sobbed and run by her, struggling some at the door before fleeing down the corridor. As she watched her leave, Sansa was stricken with a thought. This was the second time tonight she’d sent someone she cared for running from a room in tears.

The one who truly deserved her anger had not been the one to receive it, nor for the right reasons. It was Arya she was truly mad at, not Jeyne, and her sister’s flight had robbed Sansa of the chance to defend herself. So her unreleased rage had boiled over at Jeyne and her sad, misguided vision of Theon Greyjoy. Her anger was truly meant for Arya, for how hurtful her sister had been and how selfish she could be.

_A charge you could lay just as easily at your own feet right now, you unthinking child._

“Why do all the girls keep running?” Morgan had asked, scratching his head before closing the door once again.

When she took Jeyne’s place at Rickon’s side, her thoughts returned to Theon Turncloak as she watched her brother sleep.

In truth, Rickon’s arrival had offered her some freedom in deciding the traitor’s fate, even if she couldn’t spare him. Death was the only fate Northmen could have accepted for the turncloak who had killed her younger brothers. Yet with Rickon alive and well for all to see, and the hope that Bran could be found in very much the same way, things had changed. So Sansa was now free to act on the fate of two other innocent children.

And of the ironmen gathered about Winterfell.

“You are certain Rodrik Harlaw would be willing to make a trade for the release of Asha Greyjoy?” She’d asked Tristifer Botley in the secluded chambers they’d kept him hidden away in.

Jon had accompanied her, standing behind their imprisoned envoy. He was acting more like a guard than the partner he’d been in the planning of this strategy.

Tristifer been allowed to bathe and shave since his arrival, and with a wash and clean clothing, the lordling had revealed himself to be a handsome and comely man. Knowing that he fought and killed Northmen at Deepwood Motte, along the wild desperation borne clearly across his face, it seemed that his character was his most unattractive quality.

“He would, your grace, I am certain of it!” The Lordsport heir had nodded, his hand over his heart. “On my father’s grave, I swear it. Stannis would take Theon over Asha as well, he said as much in my presence!”

Apparently Stannis felt as if he held the lesser of the Greyjoy siblings. His opinion was that the son of Balon Grejoy would hold more value than a daughter who only thought herself a son.

The Botley man’s recitation of Stannis’s words had been so well done in the king’s gritting and terse tones that she’d almost laughed. Yet the mood had darkened afterwards when Sansa remembered her goal here, for the issue of lost sons and daughters was a grave one indeed.

“I am willing to propose such a trade to Stannis if the circumstances allow it. I intend to demand Lord Harlaw return the children of Robett Glover, young Gawen and Erena. They are relatives of a good man who was lost to me and it is the least I can do to honor his memory.”

Thinking of Galbart Glover had been a sad thing but the ironman took little note of Sansa’s grief. The relief that flashed across the Tristifer’s face at her words was a quick reminder of where his loyalties truly were. His smile was an open one though, on what seemed an honest face despite the secret deeds they were dealing in.

“The two Glover babes for a niece he loves so much? The Reader would have the children on a boat as soon as he had word!”

“That is not all.” Sansa had continued. “I’d have him swear a vow to me. That House Harlaw and all of the lords who are sworn to its service will never again take up arms against the North while he remains Lord of the Ten Towers.”

Sansa knew that to be a hollow demand in truth, as the word of ironmen meant little to most with sense. Yet it would make the next demand she had more likely to succeed, the one Jon gave voice to.

“We know that longships have been raiding the Reach for the past few weeks and that it is likely they’ve taken a great many spoils, just as they did from our lands.” Jon’s expression had darkened at that. “This means there should be food and maybe even glass for trade now in the Iron Islands. We want Lord Harlaw’s cooperation to assist us in gaining such things.”

“We have lumber and fur to offer in trade.” She’d shared Jon’s distaste at trading with a people who’d done their lands so much harm, yet her people needed to eat. “And soon enough we’ll have gold to pay for food as well.”

After further deliberations with Maester Medrick and Lord Wyman on the state of their supplies, Sansa had decided to accept the offer of the Iron Bank. For if winter lasted as long as the maester feared it would, Winterfell and the rest of the North would not have enough food to see their people through to spring.

Old Nan told stories of winters so harsh that old men would wander out into the snows to die rather than burden their families with feeding them. Sansa thought the Iron Bank just as cold and unforgiving as the conditions those men faced, yet if it fed her people, she would do as she must.

Tristifer had nodded solemnly at that, his fingers going to his chin as if in thought at their proposal.

“Once, there would have been many willing to do so but that time has passed. Most houses on the Iron Islands follow only the Old Way now. They take only what goods they gain through reaving, paying the Iron Price.” Tristifer spoke in a strong tone but Sansa thought there was a hint of reproach at his people there too. “Yet, there are some I know of who would be willing. The Reader might not have the same contacts though. My home at Lordsport saw more traders than his castle...”

“Which leads me to my final demand.” She’d glanced to Jon who readied himself for any foul reaction on the part of the lordling. “This one is not for Lord Harlaw to fulfill, but for you Tristifer Botley.”

“Me?” The man had been confused yet shook it away quickly. “Anything. I will do anything to get Asha away from Stannis.”

Hearing his tone and seeing the deep well of hurt in his eyes, Sansa finally saw what Jon had told her he suspected from the first time they’d heard the envoy speak of Asha Greyjoy.

_He loves her_ , she thought,  _only love can make you so brave and weak all at once._

“You will have to, for I have need of you.” She’d said before Jon lowered slightly to grip the lordling’s shoulder firmly.

“We know little and less of your islands, of Euron Greyjoy or of the other lords of important standing. Theon Greyjoy can yield barely anything in that regard as he was raised in Winterfell, and what he does know is most likely old information. In truth, it seems he betrayed this home for a home he knows barely anything of.”

She had nodded at that, for it made Theon’s betrayal all the worse to her.

“And if I trade him for Lady Asha, she will be more a guest in truth than a prisoner so I could not force any answers from her in good conscience… but I could learn much from a man who was willingly sworn into my service.” Sansa stared hard into Tristifer’s face as he grasped her meaning. “As you entered into the service of the Iron Bank to free Asha Greyjoy, you must now enter into mine and serve the North.”

The ironman stared at Sansa in thought before realization came to his eyes and his eagerness to serve disappeared, replaced by a look of disgust.

“You’d have me speak to possible weaknesses of my people? To become a turncloak?” He asked, jerking his shoulder free of Jon’s hold. “To replace the traitor you will lose?”

“Call it what you will.”

“I was supposed to go back home with her!” Tristifer tried to stand but Jon slammed him firmly back down into his seat.

“I would not wish to hurt you, my lord. Do not force me to.” Jon warned, to which the ironman laughed.

“Lord? I’m lord of nothing! The Crow’s Eye saw to that!” The lordling raged. “Our new king killed my father and your crannongmen killed my older brother in the war. I was heir after them but Euron Greyjoy stole my title and gave it to my uncle!”

All of this Sansa already knew from their earlier conversations yet Tristifer had pressed on with things she hadn’t known.

“I have nothing left there! I wanted to become a sailor on some trading galley bound for Qarth or even Asshai! Tycho Nestoris was even speaking of offering me the names of traders he knew, to help me become one, but I turned him down so I could return here! So I could free her! So I could be with her!”

The man was near tears with the dilemma she’d presented him with. Some might have found it romantic, perhaps even Sansa would have swooned at such a declaration when she’d been but a foolish girl, but she could not afford to let such notions sway her.

So she’d pushed it all away, keeping her thoughts on the Glovers. Of Galbart’s bones resting at Winterfell, his brother awaiting the chance to return them to his home. Of his niece and nephew held prisoner at the Ten Towers. She thought of the Lady Sybelle, frightened for her children and alone at Deepwood Motte, which was still very vulnerable to future attacks from the sea.

She’d left her chair then, standing above the lordling as she smoothed her skirts.

“My final decision has not yet been made, but think on what I offer you now. I still cannot allow you freedom of the castle, so you will have little else to do in truth.”

They’d left Tristifer Botley looking helpless and forlorn, Sansa unable to stop the feeling of pity that welled up inside of her. Those feelings would later be washed away with the joy of Rickon’s return that very day.

With the authority she had as regent and the truth of Bran and Rickon’s survival soon to be well known, she planned on proposing a trade to Stannis as early as the next day, Theon for Asha. Word would also be sent to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, to await the coming of the Iron Banker. Scrawled across a parchment with the grey wax-seal of the Direwolf sigil of House Stark, would be a simple two word message. The message would hopefully be vague enough to anyone who might intercept it but clear enough to the Braavosi banker.

_‘We accept.’_

As Sansa had watched Rickon sleep, she prayed that her schemes were the seeds for the North’s survival rather than its doom. It was Rickon’s kingdom until they found Bran, and she wanted it to be strong and whole when the rule came to the boys.

Those worries were minor now compared to other ones facing her.

She feared that Arya would expose the truth of Jon’s parentage before they were ready. She feared of how Stannis would take the news and if there was anything they could offer or say to negate his worries of what Jon truly represented to his rule. There was only one solution available to her that Sansa could think of, yet to propose such so soon after Rickon’s return made her feel terrible.

Especially when she thought of how she was going to break Rickon’s heart when he awoke. As much as she wanted to spare him the hurt, Rickon could not continue believing Sansa was their mother.

_I can never be mother_ , she thought,  _she was brave and strong for true while I can only try to be._

_Mother wouldn’t be scheming with ill-omened bankers. She wouldn’t force love-struck men into her service._

_She wouldn’t be thinking on how to give Theon away to a man who will most likely burn him alive._

_A man who you might have to offer her youngest son to as well…_

Her mind was still wrangling with those thoughts when the first signs of trouble had started.

Rickon had started to make noises as he slept. Small grunts and whines that gradually became louder. The sudden howling of the wolves from somewhere beyond had frightened her. The wolves rarely howled so loudly within the castle and, even more shocking, they weren’t the only ones howling.

For her little brother was uttering a muffled sound much like a howl itself.

_Is he having one of those strange dreams? The ones Howland spoke of?_

She knew Arya and Jon had strange dreams of their wolves but they hadn’t spoken to her of it since. She was glad of it for something deep inside of her didn’t want them to. The idea of dreaming as a wolf had caused a deep and irrational fear to arise within Sansa.

With thoughts of a dark place and the sounds of a great many crows. A bright red eye that saw her.

Then Rickon’s eyes had shot open suddenly, his eyes darting about wildly. When they focused on her she smiled despite her shock and was about to soothe him when he sat straight up in the bed. He’d mumbled something before kicking away the sheets and climbing from the bed.

“Rickon? What’s wrong?”

“Come, mother.” He’d said, trying to pull her toward the door. “We have to go to the tree. He wants us to go…”

When she’d held firm and told him they could walk to the tree in the morning he had attempted his escape. Now, with him returned to her lap, he continued to try and jump down as Morgan watched with an expression of befuddlement.

“Thank you, Morgan, you may take your place again. I have him.” Sansa said as she pulled the fierce little boy to her even tighter. The warrior nodded and seemed relieved as he rushed to leave.

“Mother, please. He’s at the tree.” Rickon whined as he squirmed. “He wants us to listen…”

In a selfish way, she almost wanted to join Morgan in leaving.

_I can act a queen and talk to kings, but I have no idea how to be a mother._

Tending to her younger siblings had always fallen to her mother and servants. Even at ten, being a lady had been of the utmost importance on Sansa’s mind and any interest she had in fussing over her younger siblings had passed when Bran was still a babe. Those wasted opportunities to learn more about dealing with children tormented Sansa now as she faced the prospect of having to raise her youngest brother who looked half a wildling and acted little better.

_What would mother do?_

_How did she act whenever Rickon acted up?_

“Rickon Stark.” She said suddenly. “You will stop this at once or I will… I will…”

_He always fussed so when mother would leave his side._

_It was mother he wanted more than any of us._

“Or I will take you back to your own chambers where I will leave you to think about your behavior.”

Sansa did her best to sound firm without being angry. She didn’t want to sound angry, which she truly wasn’t. Nor did she want to sound scared, which she was. Rickon looked up into her eyes with his own bright blues ones. He seemed to be searching in her eyes for something. Yet his squirming lessened, his back even settling some against her arms.

“I don’t want to take you to your rooms. You had a dream. That is all. It is not a bad thing to do so.” Her tone was soothing as she stroked his long hair away from his face. “What did you dream of, sweetling?”

“They were at the tree.” Rickon answered quietly, gazing back towards the door again until she turned his face back to hers.

“Who was at the tree?”

“Bran and the wild sister and father. I think it was father…” He seemed unsure of the last thing. “If you’re here, then father might be too. I thought I saw his ghost before.”

“A dream, Rickon. I promise, tomorrow we will walk around the castle and I’ll take you to the godswood.” She took his small hand in hers and kissed it. “You played there as a boy, with all of us. Father and mother would take you there to let you bathe in the hot springs, just like they did with Robb and Bran, Arya and I. You used to call me big sister…”

She moved to stroke his hair again but he jerked away from it.

“You’re my mother.” He said stubbornly before he hugged her tightly, pressing his face against her chest.

Rickon’s behavior reminded her of Sweetrobin all of a sudden. The comparison came to her mind unbidden, what with his long hair and his mood swings. The way his head rested upon her chest brought up uncomfortable similarities as well.

She pushed the last thought aside, for Rickon did not nuzzle at her as Sweetrobin once had nor did he try latch onto her breasts. He merely seemed to be embracing her as tightly as he could, like a scared child would.

“Rickon, I’m sorry but I’m not mother.” She pushed him back so he was forced to look upon her face again. “I’m your sister, Sansa. Remember? Our mother died and our brother Robb-”

The boy’s eyes flashed angrily in a way so similar to Arya it made her breath catch.

“No!” He screamed so hard that her ears rang. “Robb and the quick brother died, but you’re here! The dream was wrong because you are here!”

“Rickon, I am your sister. Robb and mother died together.”

“Don’t lie! You came back! Like you said!” Rickon swung a small fist against her chest, beginning to weep. “You said you would come back!”

Then he was struggling again and she fought to keep her back upright and her arms around him. Sansa was doing her best not to cry despite the tears she felt coming. He needed her to be strong so she could not let him see her weep.

“Rickon, she’s gone. I miss her too but I’m here now. I won’t let-”

“You left! You left and then Theon came! You left and didn’t come back!” Rickon wept and clawed to escape her. “We hid in the dark and-and I begged you to come back. Only the ghosts were there. I won’t go into the dark again! I won’t!”

They’d told her Bran and Rickon had come from the crypts after the sack, having most likely hidden there to escape the ironmen and the Dreadfort men. That dark place had scared her so much as a child and Rickon had been so young she could only imagine how terrifying it must have been for him.

“I’m sorry, Rickon. I’m so sorry, but I’m here now. You won’t have to go in the dark again, I swear it.”

“Be mother! Just be mother!”

Rickon’s hands beat against her chest but they were more like the frantic strikes of a child than a violent savage. His cheeks flushed and his eyes screwed shut then and when those blue eyes, the eyes that reminded her of mother’s eyes so much, were lost to her something finally broke within Sansa. Her strength fell away and her own tears came.

“I can’t be her, Rickon! I want to but I can’t!” She sobbed as he beat against her, catching his fists in her hands, holding them tightly. “I’ll take care of you though, I swear. I love you and no one will ever hurt you again! I swear!”

Sansa did swear it. She failed so often at protecting Jon, the hurts he bore were evidence enough of that. Arya clearly hated her but she was so strong and she would always have Brienne and Jon and her friends to protect her, even if she wouldn’t let Sansa do so. Bran was far and away, and while he would always have her love, she could offer him little in protection.

Yet Rickon was here, in her arms, and he needed her. So she would be there for him.

Whatever she swore to herself though, her words failed her. Their mother once again guided the way though as Sansa remembered how Catelyn Stark would calm her children out of their anger and sadness.

Sansa’s voice struggled at first but the words came back to her quickly.

_“Now is the time, the coming of night,_

_Time for the babe to sleep,_

_The winds will blow, the hounds may howl,_

_Not so in the keep.”_

Rickon slowly stopped hitting her, his sobs becoming less powerful, his breaths calming. The reaction spurred Sansa on, doing her best to sing as their mother had.

_“The lord is strong, the lady is loving,_

_Stars bright above their heads,_

_Their home is safe, the child laid down,_

_All warm in the beds._

_For dark it shall be, so hard to see,_

_The babe doth cry some._

_Fear not sweet child, the lady shall rise,_

_The light will always come.”_

Rickon still wept but the sobs were less labored, his face resting against her shoulder and his hands holding onto hers tightly. She sung numbly at first, slowly gaining confidence enough to add extra feeling to certain parts like mother had, rocking the whimpering boy and kissing his head as she did so.

When the song ended she just kept doing as she did, holding and comforting him. That she appeared to be helping filled Sansa with a deep joy. Not one she could revel in like when she succeeded at acting like a queen, but one she aspired to have again and again.

So lost in the moment, she didn’t hear them enter, only catching the movement out of the corner of her eye.

Jon and Arya now stood within the room, watching what unfolded upon the bed as Morgan made a face and quickly shut the door. The pair looked terrible. Jon’s bruised face was courtesy of the Greatjon and Arya, while her sister had a cloth bound about her hand, blood seeping through. Along with their injuries, they both appeared pale and almost drained in a way.

“Is everything well Sansa?” Jon asked before she could ask the same of him.

“No, please be mother… not Sansa… please…” Rickon pleaded as he opened his eyes, looking over to the others.

“I’m Sansa, sweetling.” She whispered to him softly. “I can’t be mother, but I will always be your sister and I will always love you.”

Rickon whined some at that, before his eyes focused upon Arya. When she looked to her sister, Arya wouldn’t meet her gaze and a flash of anger suddenly gripped Sansa at the girl’s childishness.

“Hello, Rickon.” Arya said softly, taking a step forward. “I’m Arya, your sister. I missed you so much.”

Arya’s tone was so gentle Sansa couldn’t believe this was the raging girl she had seen an hour ago.

“Do you remember me?” Arya moved even closer. “I used to sneak you sweets when you cried. I would steal Sansa’s dolls so you could play with them.”

Rickon squeezed Sansa’s hand again before offering Arya a small nod.

“You left too.” His words apparently emboldened Arya to come sit beside him on the bed, her eyes still not offering a single glance in Sansa’s direction.

“I didn’t want to.” Arya spoke softly. “Winterfell is my home. It’s your home too. We’re all supposed to be here together.”

Rickon sat up somewhat straighter, gazing at Arya in a strange way, his brow furrowed in thought.

“You’re the wild sister.” He said as he gazed at Arya, his head resting upon Sansa’s shoulder. “You look different than mother and the others.”

“I look like father.” Arya nodded. “Robb and Bran looked like mother. You do too.”

“As do I.” Sansa added, noting who her sister had left out. 

“You sing like mother.” Rickon stared up at Sansa, pushing out of her lap now to sit between her and Arya. He looked to Arya then and seemed to be struggling with something. “Mother would be mad at you a lot. Bran always thought it was funny. I did too sometimes. The white lady yelled at you too.”

“White lady?” Arya glanced to Sansa for a moment before quickly looking away.

Arya could act that way if she wanted as far as Sansa was concerned, for she was confused by Rickon’s comment as well. Jon, however, made a noise almost like a laugh. No matter how off-put he appeared, he was somehow grinning.

“Septa Mordane. I think he means Septa Mordane.”

Arya snorted at that and even Sansa smiled that Rickon remembered such things. She would have to remember that he saw only Winterfell as it was through a child’s eyes. If she was to help him remember the greatness of their home, she would have to start with what he already knew.

Jon’s comment had brought Rickon’s attention to him now, the boy peering at his face with a sad expression.

“Father died, he told me he was going down to the crypts… you’re not him.” Rickon shook his head before glancing at Sansa. “She’s not mother. You’re not father.”

_Of course,_ she thought _, that explains his earlier talk of seeing father’s ghost._

When Sansa had first glimpsed Jon in the Vale, she thought she had seen father through the snows. She still saw him in Jon when he had his most somber of expressions but there were more differences there besides Jon’s build. His hair was the same color but finer, softer than father’s somewhat coarse hair had been. Jon was warmer too. Smiling came more easily to Jon than it had to father and he had a clever tongue in a way that father never did, joking like Robb or Arya did sometimes.

_At least he’s like that with me._

“I’m Jon.” Jon paused then and seemed at a loss for words. “I’m… I’m your…”

Then he shifted his stance and she thought he seemed distraught.

_Oh gods._

_What is Jon to say? That he was Rickon’s brother but now he is a cousin?_

_And soon to be a good brother?_  

She did not think the boy could weather any more confusion and she was tempted to bring the old lie back out when Arya spoke first.

“Jon’s our family too Rickon.” Arya said and she finally met Sansa’s eyes. It almost seemed a challenge for Sansa to say differently. “He has a direwolf, like us. His is Ghost. Mine is Nymeria.”

“The quiet brother and the wild sister.” Rickon nodded at Arya’s words.

“And you’re the savage brother.” Arya ruffled Rickon’s hair and he actually laughed despite how little Sansa cared for the title. “We all have direwolves.”

Suddenly he began to smile widely, beaming up at both of them.

“His name is Shaggydog! He’s strong and he’s gotten so big and he’s the best at fighting! He killed a unicorn for me!”

_A unicorn?_

At that, Rickon leaned forward and lifted up the ugly necklace he wore. His hands wrapped around a strange looking horn at the center of the thread. He seemed so concerned over his trinkets but Sansa was more concerned about how quickly his mood had swung and how they might try and help him keep his moods more stable in the future.

“And Bran’s wolf is Summer!” Rickon added clapping. He began to climb off the bed again. “Bran was at the tree but Summer wasn’t there. We should go and find him…”

“Sweetling, we talked about this.” As Sansa moved to stop him Arya had leapt off the bed as if scared by something. Her reaction was nothing compared to Jon’s though, who had knelt down to grab Rickon by the shoulders.

“What did you say?” He sounded frightened. “About Bran? About being at the tree?”

“Bran was at the tree.” Rickon said with certainty, pointing out the window. “Where we found Maester Luwin. He was trying to talk to us.” Rickon then paused to look between Arya and Jon again, as if he was piecing things together.

“You were there! You know!”

“How could he know?” Arya’s face was as drained as Jon’s and her eyes were wide. “It was real wasn’t it? It can’t be real…”

“The wolves smelt him and we heard him, Arya…”

“What is going on?” Sansa asked, their tones filling her with dread. “Please, you’re scaring me.”

At least Sansa thought she was scared. When Arya and Jon shared their tale of what happened in the godswood with her, Rickon nodding the whole time, true terror worked its way into her heart.

For they spoke as if Bran had returned to Winterfell as well, a return which brought no warmth into their hearts, only a deep dread. For their brother who had been a sweet, happy boy had become but a spirit speaking through the darkness.

A harbinger of doom.

Deep down in her heart, she somehow felt like this tale was familiar to her. As if she half-remembered something that happened moons ago in a dream.

The blood of a hare against a bone white tree. The feeling of being watched, of being scared.

And of someone speaking, through the tree, through the wind.

_‘Sansa.’_

The voice whispered in her mind. A voice she remembered as being so sweet and happy but now seemed so distant and sad.

_‘Sister.’_  

**BRAN**

“Arya!” He screamed as the vision of Winterfell’s godswood fell away. “Jon!”

No matter how hard Bran fought against it, a force was pulling him farther and farther away from them. The images of Jon and Arya became distant and then lost in a strange mist.

“Jon, don’t go to the Wall! You’ll fall! You’ll fall!”

Suddenly he was in the dark again, sitting upon his weirwood throne in the great underground cave. There was little if any light in this place and the great abyss near where he sat hid a river that flowed far below. The sound of its rushing waters was the only clue to its existence. He could barely hear it over his own labored breathing now as he struggled to control himself and his emotions.

Bran was surprised by the feeling of sweat stinging his eyes, but it was no real shock that upon his lips, he tasted the salt of his own tears, for he knew he had wept when he saw his family.

_They’re all at Winterfell,_ he thought _, I saw them, I heard them!_

_Jon and Arya talked about Sansa, and I could see Rickon in Shaggydog._

_My family is home again._

As Bran wept in happiness and despair, the sound of gruff wheezing and wood creaking against bone brought his attention to the similar throne beside his own.

“I warned you against that, Brandon Stark.” The hoarse voice spoke slowly through the dim light. “You cannot change what must be…”

“Then why tell me what is to come!” Bran glared angrily at the decaying creature beside him.

His milky white skin and emaciated body looked so much like the weirwood roots growing around and through him that Bran could barely tell where the man started and the trees ended. One blood-red eye fixed itself upon Bran. The eye was fascinating and sad. The eye held no warmth as it looked upon Bran but instead, a terrible kind of knowledge.

“Shall I name the thousands who are to fall in this year? The ones the year after?” The Three-eyed Crow asked. “What of all those who walk this world even as we speak. Will you warn them all of their fates?  Will you waste precious time and power trying to refute the one truth of life, that all things must end?”

“He’s my brother!”

Even as Bran spoke the words he knew he was wrong. For the trees had shown him much and more during this last journey through the past. The weirwood paste had taken him deep within those old roots once again. He couldn’t say how long he’d been with the trees that time. Sometimes it was hours, other times it was days. Sometimes Bran thought he never truly woke up.

Meera had told them that they’d been in the caves now for almost half a year but it hadn’t felt so long to Bran. He would lose himself in the greenseeing with this man, every lesson feeling like a dream and every dream becoming a lesson.

He still thought of his teacher as such sometimes, the mysterious Three-eyed Crow from his dreams, despite having already learned the truth of him.

Before them sat Brynden Rivers, one of Aegon the Unworthy’s royal bastards, a man that Bran had learned about from Maester Luwin. The maester had called the man a rare one in the realm’s history, one of great deeds and dark tales. He was a man who had been old long before Bran’s father had even been born, a man who had been styled Bloodraven by friends and enemies alike.

“My father was a king. My brother was a king. To most I was but a bastard.” Bloodraven had told him. “Yet once I was Hand to a King, to my half-nephew Aerys. I rose to become Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch. Truly, I soared high for a bastard… I still do.”

“You’re a Targaryen.” Bran had said, worried at the revelation. “Your family killed my grandfather. My aunt Lyanna and uncle Brandon…”

“Your namesake, one of them at least. Yes, I know of his fate. Fear not, Brandon Stark, for there are no scores to settle between us.” Bloodraven had leaned back against the roots, his red eye closing. “I have been with the Children for more of my life than I was with my own family. Such debts and squabbles are beneath the path that I have been set on. What blood was spilled between our houses was done by men who lived long after my time and well before yours… and even during that strife, our bloodlines were joined.”

“Joined?” He’d been confused at that. “Joined how?”

Bloodraven had opened his eye again and pointed one gnarled finger towards the smaller weirwood throne, beckoning him to sit.

“You have glimpsed at times passed once already, though you lacked control then. I will show you how to move through the memories of the trees at will, so that you may find the answers you seek. So you can see for yourself... hear my warning though, young Brandon. It is a hard thing, to lose a brother you love to a crown…”

Bran had thought Bloodraven meant Robb, and that somehow he would be shown how his brother had died. A part of him still wanted to deny that he knew, that he had felt Grey Wind’s death, yet he’d climbed up onto his throne despite his fears, for he wanted to see.

He wanted to fly again.

When he’d drifted into the trees, the feelings were confusing and he became lost in them for a time. That was before Bloodraven began guiding him, taking him through the roots and the years to places and times he’d never been before. The people he saw were familiar though, so much so that his heart yearned to be free of the tree and beside them once more.

The first vision took him to a weirwood in a strange place. It was a place of lush woods, on the shore of a great body of water which reflected the moon above them. He thought they must be in the south, for the woods were warm and the tree was soaked in a dew that didn’t come to the North, even during summer. The breeze moving across the water was a gentle caress, far different from the cool winds he’d grown up with.

Around the tree, Bran saw even more weirwoods, more than he’d ever seen in one place before. Each bore a face of its own. Some, Bran thought, even looked back at him with eyes of their own. All stood as silent witnesses to what was happening at the base of Bran’s trunk.

For there stood a man, bare save for a simple cloth tied about his lower half. Bald of head and long of beard, the man’s skin was dyed a deep, dark green. His headdress was made of antlers and weirwood leaves, it made him appear both savage and mystical all at once. The greenman raised his arm up and looked to the sky before lowering it and placing two fingers on the hands of a man and a woman, joined together. The couple clearly expected the touch, accepting it with a bow but they could not have looked more out of place.

The man was handsome and dressed all in red and black. He was tall of body, lean of frame, with long, flowing silver-blonde hair. His skin was paler still, giving him an almost ethereal glow, making the dark indigo color of his eyes stand out even more than they already did.

The woman was so familiar Bran cried out.

_‘Arya!’_

Somehow he felt Bloodraven’s denial of that though. The man and woman looked up at Bran, as if they’d heard his call.

That was when he saw that this was not his sister. The woman shared his sister’s dark coloring and long face and even her gray eyes were of a kind to Arya’s. While he remembered Arya as a young girl with knotted and tangled hair, this woman was older and beautiful to behold. The crown of blue winter roses upon her brow made the woman look as lovely as a queen.

“The gods are with us.” The greenman spoke, his voice quiet and far. “They whisper their approval at this joining…”

The scene fell away as Bran was pulled somewhere else by Bloodraven, far away and colder than where he had just been. Somewhere north.

The tree he now peered through was surrounded by bogs and marshes, where mists moved between skeletal trees and pole boats sat unused upon brackish water.

He saw his father then, although he looked much younger than Bran had ever known him. For as young as his father was, he appeared to be just as solemn, his eyes red and his face gaunt. In his arms he held a small bundle and within it was a sleeping babe. The child was as quiet as the still lands around them.

Another man appeared just to the side of father, a man Bran almost took to be Jojen before he saw that the man was older with slightly different-colored hair. He was a short man, sharing much of the same features as Bran’s green-dreaming friend, including those strange colored eyes.

“They will spread the tale, Ned.” The man had said. “My crannogmen will speak to the sea traders who come from the Bite. There will be talk of how you fathered a child upon a sailor’s daughter…”

“The Dornish will tell tales of Wylla.” His father had shaken his head. “And Ashara, the poor woman. She deserves better than to be slandered as such Howland. If not for her, we would have never known where Lyanna was.”

_Howland Reed_ , Bran realized,  _this is Meera and Jojen’s father._

_Are they talking about Jon’s mother?_

_Why does father sound so confused about who she is?_

“It is what we must do.” Howland Reed answered through the mists. “What Lyanna tasked us with.”

“I know that. I will not fail her in this. It is just… I hate the dishonor that I will bring upon others in doing so, to my wife and my new son.” Father had paused then as the babe shifted in his arms. “The dishonor I will do to this boy by making him a son.”

“He will have a father who loves him, a chance at family, and a chance at life. There is nothing else we can offer him. The truth would only mean that more blood of innocent children would be shed… fire and blood.” 

“No. Not while I live, not while I can keep my word to Lyanna. To her son.”

Father’s voice had started to grow distant then, the world around him becoming foggier as Bran drifted to a different time but Bran fought against the pull. He wanted to look at his father’s face. Just a little bit longer.

“We will protect the boy… can never know… Rhaegar’s seed… swear before the weirwood...”

His father’s words drifted through the leaves to Bran. They sounded old and distant now, like Bloodraven’s voice did at times. Howland’s words were much the same.

“I swear… your son now… protect him with my life… for her.”

Bloodraven urged him onward again, harder this time. Bran tried to protest but the man either couldn’t feel his confusion and grief or he didn’t care. Then he was in a different weirwood, yet he felt this one stood close to where the other had. They were still in the land of marshes but it felt like many years had passed.

Like summer had ended.

As it felt colder now. Much colder.

The man standing before the weirwood looked much like father yet Bran knew him too well to confuse the two.

_‘Jon.’_

Once more Bloodraven’s anger flowed through him. He began to get the impression that his guide didn’t want Bran to speak during this journey.

Jon had heard him though, he was sure of it. His brother looked up, surprising Bran by laughing some and then drinking of a skin in his hand. Bran was so happy to see Jon again that he pushed aside his worry at how unhappy the laugh had sounded. How angry and hurt Jon appeared.

His heart leapt again when Sansa came to join Jon, Bloodraven’s unspoken warnings rattling his mind before he could think of speaking to her. Sansa and Jon spoke though, their words full of anger and remorse. Their talk was rife with betrayals and secrets yet clear enough that he now understood.

Before Bloodraven thought to pull him from the tree Bran had somehow done so himself, wanting to leave this moment of the past. He had heard enough to piece together the truth now, his father’s words to Howland Reed making horrible sense.

“Jon isn’t my brother.” He had admitted out loud and that helped it feel true. “He’s the son of a Targaryen… he’s one of you…”

Bloodraven had left the trees as well and looked at Bran with his one eye, nodding so that the root going through his missing eye trembled.

“In some ways, you are right. We were both raised as bastards. We both share the blood of old Valyria and of the First Men, both ancient and powerful bloodlines. His mother was a Stark, just as mine was a Blackwood.” To hear Bloodraven speak of having a mother made Bran’s mind reel, yet he continued to listen. “Yet your false brother has more claim to the name Targaryen than I ever did. While I was legitimized by my father in adulthood, Jon’s father made sure to bind himself to your aunt in wedlock. He is a trueborn prince… heir to a line of kings, sorcery and dragonriders. A bloodline that is almost lost to the world.”

Hearing that Jon could be king shocked Bran and he was still reeling from learning that Jon’s father wasn’t Eddard Stark. Jon must have realized the truth too yet he’d looked crushed and full of despair to learn the truth of his birthright. He was the blood of kings. Bran thought that Jon might be honored, to suddenly go from being a lowly bastard to becoming the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Bloodraven’s eye had locked on Bran then, as if knowing what he thought.

“He is heir to nothing but death and sorrow young Brandon, soon to embark upon a doomed cause. The Kingdoms of the First Men could not throw back the darkness by themselves and the North cannot do so now. The throne to the south will be painted red by its claimants, the blood frozen upon those iron blades from the cold that is to come.” Bloodraven had rasped. “The throne you sit upon is the only one that matters. For when the true war moves south...”

“What do you mean by that?” Bran suddenly realized. “What doomed cause?”

Bloodraven clearly didn’t want to tell him, for the creature became quiet for some time. His bony fingers tapped slowly upon his leg, the sound echoing through the cave like a branch softly striking a rotten log. Bran persisted though. Jon might not be his true brother but he would always love him the same.

_If he is in trouble I will help him._

_I’ll help them all._

“The Others march again, you know this. The Wall will hold them for some time, as it already has, as it was always meant to. My dreams tell me that it cannot do so for long though. Your cousin, blood of our blood, will go forth to fight against the inevitable. The fall will come. Then he will share the fate of his fathers…”

“No!” Bran had screamed, his voice ringing off the cavern walls. “No, we can stop it!”

Bloodraven had tried to argue with him but Bran’s eyes were already closed. Without even trying, he went back into the trees. His heart drove him this time. Bloodraven’s attempts to catch him were lost as Bran forged his own path. It was journey he knew deep in bones. He flew through the cold and the earth, towards a place as old as it was warm to him.

For he found himself at the heart tree in Winterfell. Dawn had come to his home yet smoke rose from different parts of the castle he could see. Jon was there, cleaning his sword of blood like Father always did while Sansa leaned against him. They were both weeping but when Bran tried to call out to them, he could not find the strength to do so. His voice was lost to him.

So he travelled again, emerging once more in the heart tree of the godswood, except now it was night.

And the tree throbbed with a power he had felt only once before.

Weeks ago, when he had gone into a weirwood tree somewhere else in the North, where Ghost had been enjoying the bloody meal of a hare. Yet someone else had been sharing in the meal, someone who shared in the wolf’s skin as well. Bran could feel Sansa within Ghost, his heart recognizing her somehow, as if he could sense the light and laughter she’d always offered him. He had been able to talk to her for only a short time before Sansa broke the connection, Ghost forcing her out before another came upon them.

The power he now felt in Winterfell was much stronger. It flowed through his entire being, making him feel as tall as the heart tree itself. The direwolves must have sensed it too, for Ghost, Nymeria and Shaggydog all retreated before his coming. Save for the glimmer of his little brother in Shaggydog’s eyes, Bran ignored the wolves. It was the pair of loved ones embracing by the heart tree that he sought.

Arya and Jon became scared when he called to them. He wanted to tell them so much. How he loved them, how much he missed them. How he wanted to be with them so badly.

Instead Brad had done what he needed to do first. He had screamed his warnings to Jon and Arya.

Of the threat which was coming, of the Others and the wights, and of Jon’s doom.

Of the cold and the darkness.

Bloodraven found him before he could make them listen though. He fought against the man’s pull as long as he could. Yet in the end, Bloodraven had won, dragging him back to his crippled little-boy body and away from his family.

“You can help them all, Brandon Stark, but not in such a foolish way.” Bloodraven shook his head stiffly. “I have much to show you. Of your power… of your namesake’s power…”

“I don’t care! Hodor!” He yelled, looking back towards the part of the cave the stableboy usually came from. “Hodor!”

If Bloodraven wouldn’t let him warn his family, he could sit here in the dark by himself for all Bran cared.

_I can tell Hodor that everyone is back in Winterfell._

_I’ll tell Meera and Jojen that my family is alive! Happy news would be good for them!_

Meera had been waiting for him less and less when he awoke from his lessons. Usually it was him that had to seek her out on Hodor’s back. Almost always he found her with Jojen, who was becoming weaker by the day.

“He needs the sun, Bran.” She’d said the last time, angry and shaking with worry at how morose Jojen had become. “This place… it’s bad for him. I’d try and take him away from it but even if we could get by the wights, I don’t think he’d go.”

Her sadness made Bran want to touch her, to hold her, to tell her it would all be alright, just like mother had done for him a thousand years ago. Yet Bran had spoken with Jojen, had heard the despair in his friend’s voice. In truth, Bran feared for him as well.

“My father, he travelled south when he was a young man.” Jojen had whispered to Bran from his place near the entrance to Bloodraven’s cave. “I went north… farther north than any crannogman ever has, I think. Make sure Meera tells our people that. Bringing you here, it was what I was meant to do but I want my mother… my father, I want them to be proud of me.”

“They will be.” Bran had argued. “You’ll tell them yourself. You’re a hero Jojen, all will know that. They’ll sing of you and tell stories about your bravery and carry you on their shoulders like Hodor carries me.”

Jojen had let a single tear slip then, his eyes never leaving the snowy entrance ahead. Where the cold winds blew and the wights slept below the snows.

“The only place I’ll be carried is into the dark Bran.” Jojen wept. “Don’t let that be what I’m remembered for. Please, Bran.”

“Hodor.” The large stableboy had said, as if to remind him that Bloodraven awaited him.

So he left Jojen’s side then but now he wished he hadn’t. Bran was angry and with Bloodraven, confused with the man’s lessons and unwilling to accept that he couldn’t help his family. That he couldn’t speak to them. That he couldn’t tell them he was alright.

“Hodor!” Bran cried again.

He called a few more times with his weak little-boy voice, finding it strange that Hodor did not come. There was only silence and the sound of running water from the abyss, Bloodraven watching him silently the whole time. Crawling from the cavern would take forever and Bran felt strong enough to take a different kind of journey.

He slipped his mind from his skin, as he had done so many times before. Except this time he didn’t seek the ravens or Summer, he sought Hodor. He found the stableboy far above him, crouched down near the entrance of the cave, Meera beside him.

As he slipped within Hodor’s skin, his friend fought him, struggling within his mind against Bran and crying out. Soon enough he retreated back to the safe place he would go whenever Bran would take over. He never hurt Hodor when he wore his skin. He only did so to explore the caves or to feel what it was like to have legs again.

_Hodor doesn’t understand that it’s just me, that I won’t hurt him._

_It’s just like when he carries me, except now I do it myself._

A part of Bran knew that wasn’t true though.  Deep down, he knew the truth. That if Jojen or Meera found out that they would be disgusted and ashamed of what Bran would do to poor, simple Hodor. They wouldn’t understand. But then, how could they? They were whole and fine and he would always be broken. Wasn’t he allowed to have this, to walk and climb with Hodor, just for a little while? Bloodraven said he would wed the trees and be a part of them forever. It sounded so lonely and all Bran wanted was to have legs one last time.

_My friends might understand that._

_Just like Hodor understands._

As soon as he though it he knew it was foolish. No one could ever know.

When Bran was in full control of Hodor, he knew something was wrong. His senses came to him all at once.

His eyes were sore and wet, his knees aching with pain from kneeling on the cold stone for so long, but the sounds of Meera’s weeping were the real pain. Her sobs tore through his heart. His eyes beheld something even worse, for Meera knelt over a prone, pale form.

Jojen lay still upon the ground, his mouth open yet it drew no breath, his lips a light blue color. His eyes were even worse. They were cloudy and held no sign of the life and wisdom that had always been there. When he reached out to touch Jojen with Hodor’s hand, he found his friend was stiff and cold, far colder than he had any right to be.

“No… not like this… please…” Meera wept, rocking back and forth as she clutched her brother’s lifeless hand. “Not after coming so far. Jojen, wake up. You have to wake up.”

Bran’s mind screamed the very same thing.

_Wake up! Jojen!_

_You’re a hero! We are all going to be heroes!_

_We’ll fly together! Just wake up!_

All that came forth was Hodor’s grunts and wheezes. They sounded pathetic and wrong next to Meera’s weeping and pleading. Yet he would’ve given anything to hear the same from Jojen.

His friend lay quiet nonetheless.

Dead and cold.

_Bloodraven,_ he thought _, he has to help._

He fled back to his own body as quick as he could, leaving the mourning pair behind to seek his teacher’s throne. Bran jerked so violently back into his broken body that he almost fell from his weirwood throne. Bloodraven sat firmly in his own, listening as Leaf spoke to him.

“…he gave enough before his passing for a final offering.” The small creature said in her songlike voice, her green and yellow eyes shining in the darkness. “We will bring his bones down into the caves soon.”

“Bloodrav- I mean, Brynden!” Bran had thrown himself from his throne, gasping at the impact from his fall. The pain was nothing compared to the hurt within him though as he crawled towards the rotting man. “Jojen! It’s Jojen! You have to help him! The children can save him!”

“He is beyond saving.” Leaf watched his efforts with a strange, detached concern. “The only return we could offer is not a fate you would wish upon your friend.”

“Within this sacred place he is spared becoming a thrall to the White Walkers.” Bloodraven looked upwards. ‘’He will be one of the last to claim such a right for years to come.”

“I don’t care! Help him… we can help him, he dreamt of you too! He brought me here, for you.” Bran had reached the edge of Bloodraven’s throne, reaching up to try and grasp at the man’s limp foot. “I’m begging you… save him…”

“He has given us all he can. His journeys are ended but so too has his suffering ended. Be glad for him young one.” Bloodraven’s voice was cold and unyielding. “For I can do nothing for him.”

Bran couldn’t reach the man no matter how hard he tried, his broken body unable to make the steep climb. So instead he collapsed at the foot of his throne, sobbing. He had no idea how long he’d been in the trees. If he’d been awake, maybe he could’ve helped Jojen.

_I can see through time! They tell me I can fly…_

_But I can’t even save my own friends._

“Grief is nothing to be ashamed of Brandon Stark.” Bloodraven’s dusty voice drifted down to him. “I tasted my share it during the lifetime I had before the trees. I offer you the opportunity to spare yourself more of it… to save the realm… to save your loved ones…”

He’d wanted to tell Jojen about his family. He would have told stories about Sansa and Rickon, Jon and Arya, about all of them surviving and being back at Winterfell. He wanted to make his friend smile, to spare him his suffering.

Yet he’d never have that chance now.

What Bloodraven was offering… the chance to save the people he loved, he couldn’t ignore that.

_I couldn’t help Jojen but maybe I can keep Meera safe._

_And Jon too._

He realized then that Bloodraven had never warned him of Jojen’s fate. If he was so powerful, so all knowing, it made him wonder why the greenseer hadn’t seen that.

_He could be wrong sometimes, everyone can be wrong once._

_If he’s wrong about Jon, he might not be doomed._

_And if I get strong enough, I can stop Jon from falling and maybe even the Wall itself!_  
  
He gazed up at Bloodraven through his tears, his body weak and his stomach screaming in hunger. Ignoring all of it, he began the tortuous journey back to his throne. Leaf helped him gain his seat again, the whole time he’d begun trembling as he accepted the loss of his friend.

And the task ahead of him.

“What do I have to do?” Bran asked the last greenseer. “To save them? To get strong enough to save them?”

Bloodraven hissed then, his hand weakly waving off to the shadows. One of the children emerged from nowhere, Snowylocks Meera had named her, the small creature hurrying forward and carrying a wooden bowl. Within Bran saw a substance he’d grown too used to.

_Weirwood paste_ , he felt his stomach growl,  _when did I start liking it so much?_

“Eat young one.” Leaf took the bowl and held it up to Bran’s lips. “It is fresh… it will not be so fresh again for some time.”

The first taste was bitter, then sweet, as it always was. As Bran drank and ate, Bloodraven spoke in the darkness.

“You have learned so much about the truth of your cousin. It is time you learned the truth of your life, Brandon Stark. You must see the strength of your namesake, the power of the greenseers, and what it will take to save the realm of men.”

Somewhere far away he heard the footfalls of people coming closer, of a girl’s shouts which sounded worried and sad. Yet he was already drifting back into the trees, Bloodraven’s voice echoing in his mind.

_‘Follow me young one, let me show you the greatness from which you spring.’_

They did not go far, and somehow, despite the tingling of power and promise all throughout his mind, Bran knew that they had not slipped too far back in time. The weirwood he was in stood at the edge of a great, snow-covered field. The cold winds were so powerful here that he knew they were in the lands Beyond the Wall.

The creature he saw was proof enough of that. It was almost twelve feet tall, covered in thick brown fur with legs that were too short for its frame and arms that hung too long. Bran knew this to be a giant, and he also knew it was in great danger, for it was fighting alone against a half score of wights.

The large creature roared in rage, or possibly fear, Bran didn’t know. It was waving around a great log from a tree as if it was a maul, crushing one wight after another with its weapon in a violent flurry. The corpse of a naked dead woman was struck so hard she flew halfway across the field.

She rose up again though, her upper half crooked in a grotesque way, moving slowly to rejoin the attack. The giant was gradually gaining the upper hand against his attackers, never truly stopping them but smashing them and hobbling them in such a way that it could slowly retreat.

_‘It may defeat the servants.’_  The voice rang in his head.  _‘But even the might of the giants cannot last against such an enemy.’_

The giant clutched at a bloody gash at its side, snuffling at the air and looking about worriedly. Bran felt very cold then. The giant seemed to shiver through its fur, the creature throwing its head back and roaring suddenly into the dark.

_‘As it was thousands of years ago, it is now. The giants cannot stand alone. Nor can the Children. Or men themselves. Not when the masters of dark and cold come forth.’_

Out of the darkness they came. There were three of them, all tall, gaunt-looking creatures with a frightening beauty to them, their flesh as pale as milk and their eyes glowing a deep blue so cold that they seemed to burn. Their armor shimmered in the air, as if reflecting their surroundings.

They moved out of the darkness across the snow covered field, so swiftly that it was as if they glided across the ground. The giant roared again, smashing the log against the ground at their coming. When they were close enough that the large beast could try and hit them, the log swung through the air with a speed that defied logic for something so large.

Yet the white wraiths avoided the attacks easily, their thin blades raised and slashing forward between the giant’s feeble attempts to defend. They moved about their prey quickly, striking then retreating, filling the air with the giant’s blood before it stained the snows red below.

Bran was terrified. He didn’t want to see this.

_‘You must.’_  The Three-Eyed Crow’s voice came again as the scene shifted.  _‘If you are to protect those you love, you must.’_

Where they went next made him feel sick, for they had journeyed to a time that was farther than any Bloodraven had ever showed Bran. Years flew by like a blur, seasons just the same. Bran’s head filled with a strange white noise as the pace quickened. He felt as if Bloodraven was dragging him across the ground like a man might drag someone behind their horse at full gallop.

When it finally stopped he heard the roars of a giant again. Many giants in fact. There were so many that his head hurt to try and count them all.

The tree they gazed out from was an old one, near death Bran felt. Yet it surged with that familiar power, for below lay the bodies of a dozen men, all tied about its trunk, their throats slit.

Beyond that, he was shocked to see a wooden palisade made of tall logs. They stretched in a long line, far in either direction. So far in fact, that he couldn’t see an end from where they gazed.

_‘The Wall… or at least the beginning of it. Shortly after the end of the Long Night, before the Builder and the children’s magic was worked upon it, before the ice was piled high… before the giants joined the effort.’_

The giants stood before the palisade, a great many of them, hundreds if not more. These ones were different somehow than the one he’d just seen. These giants were much larger and stronger-looking, thicker of fur, and some had even clad themselves in giant strings of bones and tusks. All were roaring and shouting in a strange, rough tongue towards the palisade.

At the top of the palisade, out on a landing, stood a number of men and some of the children of the forest as well. Many of the men held bronze weapons and large, leather shields. Most were bearded and adorned with bronze armor, bearing old runes that Bran had never seen before.

Two men stood out amongst the others. They were to the fore of the landing, staring down at the raging giants below. One was slighter of body and handsome, with hair that fell in golden locks well past his shoulders, his green eyes shining with intelligence and grace. The other man was strong-looking and large of body, his beard full and his grey eyes hard and unflinching. His face was scarred and unfamiliar but the great grey direwolf to his side marked his identity for Bran even before Bloodraven told him.

_‘Brandon the Builder… the first of the Starks… a great greenseer… more powerful than even myself…’_

The largest of the giants stepped forward, dragging a long mammoth fur pelt behind him, shaking a tusk up at the men. The man Bloodraven had named as the Builder pointed down at that giant, shouting something in a language that Bran didn’t understand. When he was done, one of the children offered him a bowl and the Builder drank eagerly of it.

After he finished, his gaze returned to the largest giant, and Bran recognized something in his eyes.

That was when the giant’s leader let out a sad cry, clutching at his head for a moment or two before collapsing to his knees upon the ground. Then the Builder turned his attention to another, who soon fell as well. Then another and another.

Many were raging, shouting out and protesting, but some appeared to kneel voluntarily rather than having to be forced. Soon enough, the entire army of giants were bowing before the might of the Builder.

_‘This is strength Brandon Stark, the kind of strength that the realm of men needs once more to survive the coming winter.’_

A great moan was rippling through the giants, a mournful sound which tore at Bran’s heart. As they did so another of the children appeared with a warhorn, carved from an auroch's horn and banded with bronze, one his ancestor took and raised high above his head. The Builder shouted down to the giants and they rose from their knees and shuffled off, appearing to begin work on the Wall, despite the lack of ice.

_‘Some will go north for such while others will go south, to build your home, Winterfell.’_ The voice spoke through the giants’ suffering.  _‘The rest will build here, to hold back the night…for the good of all that lives…’_

Even through Bloodraven’s words, Bran remembered the feeling Hodor always had when he slipped within his skin. The sad, scared feeling Hodor would have as he wept silently within his own mind.

Another worry gripped Bran even more.

It was a thought that made him feel scared and sad all over again. As upset as he was to see how Brandon the Builder forced the giants to help raise the Wall, as afraid as he was of Bloodraven needing him to do such a terrible thing too, Bran worried more whether or not he was strong enough to even attempt it.

_If I was, no one could touch my family._ _I could save them all if I was so strong._

_To wield that power, to become what I must… I have to learn._

_For them._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, A Cold Wind, thanks for everything.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Winterfell's guests, prisoners and lovers. 
> 
> The calm before the storm.

**DAVOS**  

Davos instinctively reached up for the sack of missing finger bones he once kept about his neck. It was still gone though, long lost on the Blackwater, along with his four sons.

What sat on the table before him was supposed to be lost as well.

_Lost and buried, just like its owner._ _And his dynasty._

_Seven save me what I have landed myself into this time?_

There it sat, a magnificent silver high-harp, gleaming with the daylight streaming through the window. The three dragonheads at its front faced him, snarling in a silent threat, their eyes flickering from the flames of the hearth.

_Even a simple lowborn smuggler understands that the true value here does not come from this harp itself but from what it represents._

With that though, he lifted his eyes from the glorious harp of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, to behold the young man who’d revealed it to them. When Davos had first met him he’d been barely out of boyhood, just a fearful and desperate squire. When they’d met outside the walls of Winterfell, he’d found that the boy had been replaced by a young man, a knight, whose eyes were hard and firm with resolve.

Now that knight claimed to be something even greater. To rise from bastardy to knighthood was a rare and noble feat in itself. For him to now claim kinship with a line of kings bordered on madness.

Jon Snow did not appear mad to Davos.

Nor had the Northman ever struck Davos as a liar or a particularly ambitious lad. When they had first met, Snow had seemed more concerned with honor and serving his family’s cause than with earning favor of highborns. At the time, Davos had thought his King could benefit from having more of Snow’s like among his men.

_Knowing what we know now, it would’ve been better to keep him locked up..._

Stannis might have been thinking the same thing. His king stared unflinchingly at the harp, his jaw set in a line, the man appearing to be made of stone. He’d remained silent and unflinching throughout Lord Reed’s tale, while Davos’s stomach had been churning like a ship that had struck a winter storm. That the most powerful lords of the north accepted this tale as truth had turned his blood cold.

His king however, had not reacted at all from what Davos could tell. He had looked to see if his king’s teeth were grinding but his jaw had been still which strangely worried Davos even more.

_How much more can he be expected to endure? How many more setbacks can his campaign take?_

_How many more of my failures will he accept?_

“Just to be clear, we all hold this to be true.” Lord Manderly said from his place between the lords Reed and Umber.

“There is no doubt among us.” Lady Maege Mormont spoke from her place beside Jon Snow. Robett Glover nodded along with that, elbowing the Ryswell heir into doing the same.

“Only a dragon.” The Greatjon drank of his wine deeply. “And the princess he helped return to her home.”

At the center of their delegation was the young woman the giant lord spoke of. Sansa Stark had been a queen when Davos had arrived and she still looked the part. Not because of the bronze crown she bore upon her brow, nor her obvious beauty. Rather, it was the air about her, the way she sat and stared at his king, as if to challenge him. Few had the courage to stand up to Stannis in such a way.

It was a far cry from how the young man, apparently now a prince, to her left acted. He too looked to Stannis, yet he seemed more guarded in demeanor, acting more a newly spurred knight than the king some lords in the realm would consider him. While Davos saw fire in the eyes of the harp’s elegantly carved dragons, the knight’s eyes were as grey and cold as the winter sky.

If Stannis’s face was cut in stone then Jon Snow’s was surely cut in ice.

Suddenly Ser Lyn Corbray began to chuckle from the opposite side of Stannis. Besides the king, the Vale knight, and Davos himself, their own delegation consisted of Ser Godry Farring, Ser Corliss Penny, and Ser Richard Horpe.

_All highborn, all Melisandre’s followers_ , Davos lamented,  _and Ser Lyn Corbray acts more in his own interests than in being a king’s man._

“There are easier ways of signing the bastard’s death warrant than by story-telling and grave robbing.” The Vale knight smirked. “Perhaps a duel with a true knight?”

“Do you speak for one, Lyn?” The short Royce knight answered back from where he stood behind the princess. “Fear not, while Jon awaits such a challenger to present himself, I’d spare some of my time to take on a dreg such as yourself.”

“Fine talk from the likes of Willem Royce. Isn’t there some burnt-out keep you should be weeping over?”

Ser Willem jerked forward before the princess’s hand shot back and grabbed his arm. Their eyes met and some sort of unspoken word passed between them. Davos noticed how Ser Jon watched it with a look of confusion.

“No fighting. No duels. No threats.” The princess-regent spoke in a stern but regal voice as she turned back to them, her face flushed with anger. “Not between allies.”

“For we remain allies.” Lord Reed added. “This changes nothing.”

_Says the man who has just changed almost two decades of history with a single tale._

“Much has changed from what was and I can speak to that myself.” Davos said, pushing through his inhibitions at being a smuggler deigning to speak before a collection of high lords. “For Lord Manderly and Robett Glover here sent me to that accursed island to find their liege lord, not the King in the North. In exchange, they were to offer my king their strength and their fealty. Yet now they serve a different king, their strength being his to command now.”

“You are mistaken, my brave smuggler lord.” The fat lord sounded as abashed as Robett Glover looked. “My family’s strength, the strength of White Harbor and its knights, the men of the Sheepshead hills and the Ramsgate, even perhaps Widow’s Watch, they will offer King Stannis a renewed army. All of the ships that I have hidden up the White Knife will give him strength at sea once more. All at your king’s command when he chooses to go south and reclaim his throne. You must understand my lord, when we made our pact, I believed the Kingdom of the North lost, yet it rose again from the ashes.”

“My brother died seeing that done.” Robett added. “I cannot abandon the kingdom Galbart swore House Glover to. I must serve the crown that my brother fell in service to.”

Davos was about to argue against that when the young princess-regent’s gaze fell upon him, her expression filled with sympathy.

“Indeed, Lord Seaworth has done a heroic deed that my family, that House Stark, can never fully repay, though we shall do our best to try. Be at ease knowing that rather than driving us from your king’s noble cause, it will bind us to it all the more. I believe your actions have paved the way for our kingdoms to-”

“So this is how you plan to take my throne?” Stannis’s voice rang in iron tones. “Bleed what northern strength I have gained, placate me with false promises, all the while you raise up a pretender from the snow?”

Davos knew this tone quite well. If the northerners had expected this to go any differently, than they were about to be disappointed, for King Stannis did not bend.

“If I do not believe this tale, are there more fables you’d tell me? Perhaps one about the Lady Brienne? Is she the maiden reborn?”

That brought forth some laughter from the knights on their side of the table. No such mirth could be found to the northern side.

“No one here plans to take your throne.” Lady Stark said coolly. Her features had hardened again, yet if Stannis has insulted her, she did not show it.

“Then I take it I am to hand it away. My guards may be few but if you plan to force me to abdicate, you will see more blood than a child should be ready to handle.”

“Your grace, you are always so quick to bring that up.” The princess-regent said blankly. “You seem to think, that at any moment, my much larger army will simply come upon you in your camps and kill your men in their sleep. Yet I have done nothing but try and to offer my alliance to you, to help you regain the iron throne! A throne that Ser Jon has no interest in!”

Davos could not help but feel a moment of awe at the boldness of a girl so young and he could see that the Northmen behind her were brimming with pride as well.

His king was not impressed however.

“Fine words. You have a talent for speeches, Lady Stark. No doubt a trade you picked up from Lord Baelish.” Stannis’s words caused broke some of Lady Stark’s cool demeanor. “Yet I will not be fooled, nor should your lords. A girl with pretty speeches and good manners is not what the realm needs right now. The realm is broken make no mistake, and only a strong hand can put it to rights. A king who does not shy from the sight of blood. What pretty words will you say when more blood needs be shed for the sake of your people or your brother’s false crown? I have already shown that I will not balk from the shedding of any usurper’s blood who threatens mine.”

“Do not threaten her.” Ser Jon said quickly. As far as Davos could tell, it was the first time the young man had spoken during this meeting and his king made note.

“He speaks. I thought you’d lost your tongue along with your sense.” Stannis ground his teeth finally. “You let others tell your tale while you sit in silence. Well I say the Others can take your tale. Remember the fate of the Targaryens long ago and remember whose family brought them to such ruin.”

Davos hoped the party of guards they had left without the doors were ready. From the foul looks on Godry and Corliss’s faces, and the uneasiness among the northmen, he felt they would be needed soon.

“I know that story well, your grace.” Jon looked to the other lords gathered about him. “Many of the people at this table helped your brother in that rebellion, as did the man who raised me, the man who brought the entire strength of the north to the Baratheon cause.”

Lord Reed nodded. “Eddard Stark believed in King Robert’s cause but he could not allow his kin to suffer the same cruel end as Rhaegar’s other children. Deaths that you must admit, your grace, King Robert revelled in.”

Stannis did a strange thing then. He sounded as if he laughed. It was a foreign noise to hear from his king. Davos could not say it was altogether pleasant.

“Ned Stark’s honor. If your story is true, then Robert’s greatest friend also dealt him the greatest treason. To think, all those years he treated the man as more a brother than I… but that was his folly, for it appears the Lannisters were right to take Lord Stark’s head. The man was indeed a traitor.”

“Ned Stark was a good man!” The Greatjon boomed suddenly, rising from his chair even as the efforts of Lady Stark and Ser Willem kept Ser Jon firmly in his own.

Davos was on his feet as well, along with Ser Richard. The Greatjon appeared satisfied enough to glower across the table at the king, yet he would take no chances. Davos felt for his dagger and he thought he saw Ser Willem’s one hand flick towards his sword when the Stark woman shouted.

“Stop this!” The girl yelled at the Greatjon. “The man is a guest in this castle! My father’s castle! We will not behave as Freys!”

“He said-”

“I heard very well what he said, my lord!” She cut off the giant man’s words. “Lord Seaworth and Ser Richard, you will take your seats this instant! This is not how I expect good men to behave.”

“Sit.” The king commanded as well, before adding. “After, he does.”

The Greatjon stood a moment more, the withering gaze of his princess-regent finally forcing him into his seat with a grumbled curse. Davos took notice then that Ser Willem had faced little trouble in restraining Ser Jon. He knew Ser Jon to be a strong and able warrior from his time at Dragonstone’s yards so Davos was confused until he saw that it was not the Royce knight who had truly kept Ser Jon in check.

It appeared Lady Stark’s hand upon the northern knight’s had been more than enough to keep him seated. Even more interesting was how quickly Ser Jon jerked his hand free from her hold when he took notice of Davos gazing upon them carefully.

_What is this? I’m missing a piece here._

“Ser Willem.” The lady said. “The next person to rise from their seat in anger, no matter who they are, is to be escorted from this room and the Great Keep itself. Am I understood?”

“Aye, your grace. Next person, no matter which Jon.”

“And we will speak no more of my father or of treason!” She snapped at Stannis. “You are a guest in his home and you will remember that, king or not.”

_A fierce young thing, this Sansa Stark,_ he thought _, a sister to that Rickon lad for sure._

“A child’s threats.” Stannis dismissed her warning while glaring right into Jon’s eyes. “You should not have stopped the pretender there. I want to hear more from him. You’ve hid behind her skirts long enough, so do as she asks and pay her father’s home some respect and act a man. If you mean to take my throne, speak to it so we can end this mummer’s farce.”

The entire northern delegation bristled again, the queen included. Yet Jon and Stannis continued their stand off, neither flinching.

“I do not want a throne.” The knight almost spat the words out . “Nor do I want your crown. The only crown I care about is the one I swore to serve. The King in the North’s. The Iron Throne is yours and all those here would gladly help you take it. As the queen… as the regent promised.”

“The word of a traitor’s-”

“Your grace.” Davos interrupted and the look Stannis gave him made him reach for the bag of finger bones that weren’t there. “Even if we do not believe the tale… others might. In fact, it seems others do.”

As he looked to the northern lords, he saw his interruption had barely restrained the fury of the others. He saw few enough faces not tainted by anger or an urge to do violence. His side could not be faring any better.

“They believe that the son of Rhaegar Targaryen sits before us… claiming you as the rightful heir to his father’s throne.” Davos continued after he let that sink in for a moment. “You always ask me to speak the truth, so here it is.  It’s been seventeen years since your brother took the throne and yet there are still dragon sympathizers in the realm. Perhaps not so much in the Stormlands anymore, but think of the rest of your kingdom, the Reach, the Crownlands, the Riverlands… now you are their king, declared not by rights, but by a dragon himself. With that, you could take hold of the realm in a way that even King Robert himself could never do.”

Stannis did not appear pleased at his counsel, nor did many of the others. Displeasing his king had become something of a sad routine for Davos.

When he’d first been reunited with Stannis within his tent, he’d been shocked to find his king living in such drab circumstance. During his journey from the Dreadfort, Davos had learned from the Greatjon that young Rickon would return to Winterfell a king. He’d hoped to find his own king already within the castle, surrounded by loyal allies, ready to retake his throne.

Instead Stannis had been camped without the walls, within his weather stained tent, stakes and trenches dug in around his position as if readying his army for an attack.

Upon seeing Davos, he’d ordered all others out. That gesture was the warmest greeting he’d had from the assembled men. Ser Lyn had shared a look of derision with many of the other knights, some most likely hoping that with Davos’s death, they themselves could rise to becoming their king’s new Hand.

“My Onion Knight. My loyal Lord Hand.” Stannis had taken stock of Davos when they were alone. “I am glad to see you with your head and both your hands firmly attached. I had feared my most wise and loyal counsel lost.”

“All is as my king left me to keep.” He’d knelt. “Your grace, I apologize for my absence… I was doing all I could to secure you the might of White Harbor…”

“A worthy cause, hence why I sent a worthy man.” The king waved at him to rise. “I almost had that fat lord’s head off for ordering your death. It appears they were right to delay me from doing so.”

“Delay you?” Davos asked as he rose.

“They kept the truth of your demise secret from me, even long after Manderly awoke.” Stannis ground his teeth. “And they sent a great many men out to recover that child. It appears the Lady of Winterfell does not trust me.”

“Your grace is one of the few men who says what he means and means what he says.” Davos had offered. “I cannot see why they should mistrust you…”

“Because usurpers and pretenders are neither worthy or capable of trust.” Stannis had scowled as he went to stand before the fire. “No matter their power, the pretenders always prove themselves false to me.”

It was then that he learned what Lyra Mormont had told the Greatjon was true. That Mance Rayder lived despite having been ordered burned by Stannis. Melisandre had somehow spared the wildling king’s life, setting him forth on a task of her own.

_Finally he sees her for what she is_ , Davos had thought,  _a threat, and a servant only to her own cause and that of her terrifying god._

“How many of my men are more loyal to her and her god than they are to me?” His king had finally turned from the fire, picking up some parchments from a table to show him. “How much strength does the Stark girl horde for her false kingdom while mine own lies in ruins? Am I to hope, by chance, that they will all live up to their vows to me?”

“I’m sorry my king, I don’t understand…”

He hadn’t truly, until he’d read what was upon the parchment. Davos had seen the emblem stamped upon the bottom of the contract many times during his days as a smuggler.

_The Iron Bank. He has won them over!_

_There is no greater ally to have. No greater enemy either. His throne is not lost yet._

“They have given me enough gold to send Ser Justin Massey across the Narrow Sea to find me an army of sellswords.” He’d made a face then. “Notoriously unreliable sellswords, but they are men who make their way in this world by fighting. With a force like the Golden Company or perhaps even the Second Sons, I could have an army that is trained and ready for war at any moment. Men who know the dangers of breaking contracts with certain clients.”

Davos followed that easily enough. Sellswords could be considered fickle but they had a greater military training than most forces any lord could muster from the levies of fishermen and farmers, and smugglers, which made up the bulk of most armies in Westeros. The only risk was their loyalty in times of challenge and any sellsword companies Massey could find would be fools to think of breaking their word to a man who was backed by the Iron Bank.

Massey was to bring their new army back to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where Stannis could throw back the danger posed by the Others while simultaneously displaying his true strength to the North.

“We shall see how long they are content to be led by children after that.” The king grumbled. “By then the loyalties of my lords in the south will be declared and the pretenders will face the beginning of their end.”

It was good news indeed to learn that Stannis stood to gain the support of the Riverlands and the Vale. He saw it rankled his king that their fealty only came through the House Stark’s urging rather than true loyalty to Stannis’s cause. Already a good amount of Vale mounted strength had come over from the Stark camp though, under the command of Ser Lyn Corbray.

“Little better than a sellsword himself.” Stannis admitted. “He came over for gold, not to fulfill his duty.”

In the days since his return, Davos had learned to dislike the Corbray knight. He was selfish, cruel, and ambitious, too eager for battle to boot. Worse still were the rumors of the young boys being lured from the Winter Town by his men, lads who were seen entering his tent and later left weeping. He’d raised his objections to Stannis but the king had greater concerns than the knight’s transgressions.

“I have heard nothing from Castle Black since the Iron Banker found us, and his news was old by then.” The king had stared into his dying fire, Davos then realizing his tent was dark and much too cold. “My wife and Shireen, my heir and only daughter. They were to stay at Eastwatch but Selyse did not do as I asked. A fine example of a queen… to endanger her daughter like that.”

“A return to the Wall then?” Davos had offered.

“Of that at least, there is no doubt. The Nightfort should be ready for us by now. It’s a large castle, one I can make defensible and ready for any threat. A seat where I can rally the true lords of the North to demand their mummer’s king bend the knee to the rightful one.” Stannis had appeared worried then, which was so rare that Davos feared he was ill.

The king had waved off any concerns he had then by pointing to maps instead, showing Davos another concern.

“The last march I undertook across this frozen land cost me much men and almost all of my horse. A second one could mean the end of my army by the time Massey returns. We will need good favor to spare us the worst of the weather…”

That was when Davos had clashed with his king. For Stannis planned to burn the Lady Asha Greyjoy should the weather turn against them during the march to the Nightfort. Davos had done his best to point out to Stannis that Melisandre had betrayed him, that her red god could not be trusted. Yet the king had been unflinching.

“Do you deny that her offerings to R’hllor have aided us in our darkest moments?” Stannis asked, sparing a glance to his dying fire. “I need little of heat and light but offering men to the flames. Lives for good favour, it has done us well in the past. Better than the seven ever did for me.”

The matter had not been settled between them when the Starks had invited Stannis to talk days after Davos’s return. He had been surprised when the issue of Asha Greyjoy had come up, even more so when a trade was offered for her. Lady Stark offered Theon Greyjoy, the infamous traitor to the Stark cause, in return for his comparably un-hated sister.

_They would give us a male heir for a female one, who was already rejected by her people once, I hear. Why?_

Davos had always thought that when a deal seemed too sweet, there was likely a catch. Stannis might have seen one as well, yet he called no recess to confer with his men. He accepted the deal with ease, offering only a whisper to Davos in explanation.

“Sacrificing a daughter of a king could see us to the Wall. Think what the last son of a king could gain for us?”

The matter had put Stannis in as good a mood as could be expected of him. Afterwards, Davos wondered if that had been the intent of the Stark girl. For Lord Reed’s tale of the final son of Rhaegar Targaryen had been told immediately after the deal was struck.

And Davos was doing his best to see his king stay on the plans he’d laid out for them. For he knew starting a conflict with the Starks within their own walls was not a part of Stannis’s return to the Iron Throne.

So with all eyes on him, Davos tried to act as a Hand should for his king.

“Your grace, if Jon Snow- I mean Ser Jon, was to spread word that the Targaryen heir proclaims for you, any claimants, such as Daenerys Targaryen, across the Narrow Sea would be all the weaker as well.” He looked across the table to the knight and the princess-regent, the young woman nudging him.

“I would, of course.”

“How gracious of you.” Stannis scowled. “Yet I want nothing from him. Whether he is what he says or a bastard as he was born, he poses a challenge to my reign…”

“Unless he is bound to that reign, your grace.” Lady Stark interrupted. “As we all would be. I fully accept you seeing Jon as a threat, but you have seen for yourself how loyal he is to the cause of the Kingdom of the North.”

“He is to your puppet in the south then?” Ser Lyn put in before Stannis’s hard glare fell upon the knight. Davos knew he did not appreciate his men speaking out of turn.

“I am no one’s puppet.” Ser Jon answered. “Nor am I a pawn to be used against House Baratheon or you, your grace.”

“Words are wind.” Stannis said. “How I am to trust…”

“Trust that Jon was raised by a man who could not abide sacrificing his own kin.” Lord Reed spoke up, gesturing to Davos. “Your Hand brought Sansa’s younger brother home yet he also brought our king… and a suitor to a princess.”

_By the seven,_ Davos thought _, that’s what she was talking about._

_Uniting our causes not through war but through marriage._

Lady Stark cupped her hands before her, bowing her head as if to gain some sort of strength for a great trial.

“King Stannis, as Royal Regent of the North, I hereby offer my brother, King Rickon, as a husband to your heir, the Princess Shireen.”

Silence descended on the room. Some of the northern lords were clearly displeased, obviously eyeing such a match for their own relatives. Even some of Stannis’s knights showed a lack of enthusiasm for the offer.

_The grasping buggers probably want that sweet, sad girl all to themselves._  

_None would love her as she needs. They all just covet her title._  

Once again, Stannis’s face was expressionless. His mood was a mystery to all until he deigned to speak.

“So you offer me the chance to make your brother King of all Seven Kingdoms? How generous.” The king shook his head. “And what happens if the elder brother is found, this Brandon Stark?”

“Bran. His name is Bran.” Ser Jon corrected before Lady Stark continued.

“This offer is not limited to Rickon. For I offer you the King of the North as a husband to your daughter. Should we find Bran, it shall be him. Though, I must be honest with you, after Bran’s fall we cannot be sure of his ability to bear children. That would make Rickon and whatever children he has heirs to Bran’s title. So if you would prefer, you may still have-” Lady Stark paused then, a grimace of apparent pain coming to her face then but she ably continued on, her face and voice clear then. “Then you may choose to betroth Rickon to your daughter instead. We wish to be accommodating in this matter.”

Davos saw the value of it quickly enough. It was their best chance at uniting the kingdoms without bloodshed. Any child of such a union could take the name Baratheon, and should the northmen wish to keep some semblance of a kingdom of their own, a second child could be named heir to the Stark name.

Beyond that, it protected the future of House Baratheon, for it meant if Ser Jon wished the Iron Throne he would have to take it from his own kin. To Davos, it appeared obvious that the knight had little desire for either the throne of the north or south.

Just as it was obvious his king was less than enthused by the offer.

“I did not come here today to wheel and barter like a fish monger for the throne which is mine by rights. Which is my daughter’s by rights.”

Stannis rose then, each one of his delegation doing so as well, including Davos. The northmen all jerked to their feet in following, Ser Willem and Ser Jon both letting their sword hands fall to their belts. The king scowled at them.

“I march to fight the true war, to take my seat at the Nightfort. Any who wish to follow me may do so.” He adjusted his gloves while staring at Ser Jon.

“We have already forged an alliance, your grace. My brother’s armies and our allies in the South are pledged to restore you to the throne.” Lady Stark said as she gestured to the lords about her. “All here are ready to march north to join your men and fight the threat beyond the Wall. What have you heard here that changes any of that?”

_Can she be so blind as to not see it?_

_How else did she expect him to react to this?_

Stannis Baratheon was a hard man and he had bent as far as he could for the Starks. Davos knew it was anyone’s guess whether his king would accept the betrothal. That the northerners had called Stannis king, and promised him their arms, fell far short of what his liege demanded.

_He wants one realm, one king, one god._

“When your armies march to the Wall, have them send word to me. And keep your dragonspawn away from my seat.” Stannis turned away from them, offering no courtesy towards their hosts. “I will leave for the Nightfort in the coming days and I will not be impeded. Have my captive brought to my men as soon as you’re able.”

“And ours?” Robett Glover asked with desperation, his hands gripping the tabletop.

“When we have the Greyjoy heir. Not before. I trust only your deeds now.” With that Stannis left the room, his knights trailing one after the other behind.

Davos knew the king still believed he had received the better of that bargain. The heir to House Greyjoy in return for a daughter. That Stannis would have the honor of killing the turncloak rather than the Starks, his king was confident that the Northmen would see that as proof of his strength and the princess-regent’s weakness.

Davos waited to leave last in case any last minute threat came forth from the visibly angry Greatjon or Ser Willem. When he finally turned to leave, a voice called out to him.

“Lord Seaworth.” Ser Jon had rounded the table, to come but steps away from Davos while the northern lords stared, Lady Stark seeming the most put out. “Lord Seaworth, I would have you know… I never lied to you. I did know not the truth until much later. In fact, I want to thank you, for trying your best to bring peace between us again, just as you did for me on Dragonstone. I never meant any insult to you or your king, I swear it…”

The man stood tall and looked him straight in the eyes without any hesitation. Throughout his life as a smuggler, Davos had met many liars. He did not think this knight was one.

“King Stannis is lucky to have your counsel. I wish you a safe journey, my lord.”

Davos was not a man for speeches. Nor for speaking in general terms that could be taken wrongly. Not in the company of lords and ladies.

So he merely nodded towards the knight.

_Or rather a prince now? A dragon perhaps?_

“Please give my regards to your king.” Davos inclined his head towards Lady Stark then. He truly meant it. The Stark boy had grown on Davos, causing him to miss his sons horribly. Devan, his eldest, had been left at the Wall and he prayed to the seven they would be reunited soon enough, that he would find the boy safe and sound at the Wall.

But as he went to follow after Stannis, he knew what he would say once they were in his chambers. Something about their announcement of Ser Jon’s heritage was strange. Namely the timing.

They had known the truth for some time apparently. If it was merely Stark honor that drove them to reveal the truth, why had they waited? Why was the arrival of young Rickon so important?

Something about the glances between Ser Jon and Lady Stark troubled Davos as well. How the lady’s touch had commanded such authority over the knight, and how shamed he’d appeared when Davos had seen it.

_It is not right_ , he thought,  _something about all this is just not right._

_I know false cargo when I see it._

So no matter how honorable Davos thought Ser Jon, nor how taken he’d become with Rickon Stark, he would do his duty as Hand.

For he felt they hid something and that was something his king would need to know.

**THEON**

“Someone’s coming.”

“Aye.” The wildling answered from behind the bars of his makeshift cell. “That they are.”

Theon tapped what fingers remained to him against the bars of his own cell. Some of the other prisoners the Starks had kept here had complained about the stale smell of nightsoil and dogs which once dwelt in these pens.

_Not me though_ , he’d thought,  _this place_   _doesn’t bother me one bit._

_I used to be one of those beasts._

And after the dungeons of the Dreadfort, the comforts of this dry, warm kennel almost spoiled Theon. He’d said so to Mance whenever the wildling king complained of the smell himself.

They were the only two left now. If the Starks kept other prisoners they were now somewhere else. The kennels were for captives of particular importance apparently.

Only condemned men were kept here.

If anyone came within the kennels, it usually heralded one of three things. The coming of meals, another round of questioning, or a departure of one of the prisoners to meet their fate.

“We already had our meal today.” Theon looked down at the empty bowl at his feet. “And I’ve nothing more to say…”

“More to answer for I’d wager.” Mance pulled some on his grey streaked beard.

“Less or more than you?”

A humorless laugh was his answer.

“Weeks of nothing and now you find some humor?” Mance strained to see who approached. “Come now, Greyjoy, let this old risk-taker make one final wager. I couldn’t get my people through the Wall, or get Arya Stark out of Winterfell, but I might win out in this.”

As the two men bearing torches came into view he recognized them quickly. The Winterfell men carried clanking irons over their shoulders and bore angry looks upon their faces. Mance was still trying to press himself against the bars for a better view when he pressed his desire for wagering.

“Tell me quickly, your guess, who meets the block today?”

“Myself. Theon Greyjoy.” Theon said without hesitation as the men came to a stop in front of his cell. “Hello Quent. Roddy. I hope the day finds you well.”

Rodwell grimaced to hear that old name and Quent spat through the bars at him.

“That’s for your hopes, turncloak.”

_My hopes amount to little else._

Quent was a rare sight in the kennels while Rodwell was a regular visitor. Ever since Rodwell had been named captain of the guards, Theon would often wake to find the man staring down at him. His hand always rested upon a sword, his face grimacing with whatever foul fates he imagined for Theon.

_His thoughts do me little harm, Ramsay had a far crueler imagination than this man._

_And it was nice to have a visitor, even one that loathes me._

Theon saw now that he had more visitors besides Rodwell and Quent, for there were three figures standing further down the kennel, staying just out of sight. He glanced to see more but the two guards blocked his view and moved to unlock his cell then, coming within and roughly clamping irons up his wrists and ankles. It was strange. No others had been treated in such a way before they were dragged off to be executed.

“Seems you were right, Greyjoy.” Mance shook his head then and held his hands out through the bars in mock defeat. “I’m happy to win the wager... but I’ll be sad to lose your company, in truth.”

Theon made to reply but was dealt a backhand by Rodwell for his efforts. So he offered a pained grunt instead, one he thought was answered by a cry from one of the strangers down the hall, out of sight of the torches. When he was securely bound, the guards backed away and out of the cell, Rodwell shooting a nod down the way before going to stand in front of Mance’s cage.

As if to block the wildling’s view.

Now the strangers finally came forth, though he realized two of them were not strangers at all. The only one he didn’t know was a large, strong-looking woman with a scarred face and the bearing of a warrior. Beneath her grey cloak he saw well-polished armor, dented from use, and a sword with a golden lion’s head upon its pommel. Her face was stern but blank of emotion.

This strange woman was of such a height that she could look down upon the tall knight to her side. A man Theon had recently heard whispers of, even within the kennels.

_A bastard becomes a knight becomes a dragon._  

_His loyalty to the Starks has done him well it seems._

_And your betrayal of them has left you anything but a man._

As much as Theon would’ve enjoyed seeking the truth behind the rumors about Jon Snow, the last guest drew all of his attention away from the other two. For the change he saw in Jeyne Poole had caused his breath to catch.

The last he’d seen her, Jeyne had been but a pale, terrorized creature, forever clutching at him for what little protection he could offer. He’d feared the girl driven half-mad by Ramsay’s tortures, yet the Jeyne who stood before him was different. He thought there was a glimmer of the pretty girl he once knew years before in her eyes.

Some of Jeyne’s color had returned to her skin, her pallor healthier. She no longer trembled constantly and while her eyes remained sad, they did not lower themselves in fear to the floor. Instead they gazed into his own, her cheeks tinted with a rosy blush as her hands lay softly against her chest.

Save for the lost tip of her nose, this Jeyne could have stepped from the depths of his memories. From a time when Winterfell had stood strong and unmarred by battle. A time when he had still been a man.

“Go on my lady, you do not have much time.” Jon spoke softly to the girl. “We will be right here.”

Jeyne did not need to be told twice. She quickly rushed within the cell towards him. Despite himself, Theon cringed back. Few ever came at Theon in such a way that did not mean him harm. Jeyne stopped in her tracks as he shuffled away from her, her hand shooting up to cover her face.

“I’m sorry, Theon.” She spoke quickly. “I should have worn my veil…”

_Someone apologizing to me. It is a strange enough feeling._  

_Has anyone ever apologized to me for anything, even before I marched south with Robb?_

“It is not you, I-I am not used to visitors, my courtesies have become quite horrid.” He gave a raspy laugh, holding up his maimed hands. “Quite ugly I think.”

“You’re not ugly. No one so good could be.” Jeyne whispered, reaching out as if to touch his hands.

He jerked them down and away from her gentle touch. Enduring all he had was made easier because Theon denied himself that one crucial thing which always seemed to lead him astray.

Hope had only ever brought Theon Greyjoy pain and grief.

The hope of serving Robb well and becoming his own man again by bringing his father to the Stark cause, had taken Theon to Pyke where all he found was scorn and ridicule. The hope of proving himself to his father as ironborn and worthy of his throne had brought Theon to make war upon the North and earning the hatred of all who knew him. The hope of being a true prince and warrior had led him to his folly of taking Winterfell and the deaths of two innocent boys as well as countless others. His hope that Reek could bring back help from the Dreadfort had led him to deigning to take the black and spending months under Lord Ramsay’s care.

Every real decision he’d ever been allowed to make led Theon Greyjoy to his current state.

Enduring Jeyne’s touch after so much hardship would be a thousand times harder than any beating Lord Ramsay had given him. He would only be left pining after such a touch again when she left. Theon imagined it would’ve been a gentle, warm touch, one filled with dreams and closeness and perhaps even desire, and having to think on it when he was alone again was a pain he would spare himself.

“What would you have of me Jeyne?” He asked, eyeing the straw upon the floor. “My questioners are men and hard ones at that. You don’t seem the type.”

“Have from you? Theon you are… I owe you everything.” Jeyne moved towards him again and, again, he shuffled away. “Please, I must speak to this. You must know you are my hero. That I pray for you every moment. I have wanted so badly to speak to you. I begged them not to give you to-”

“Jeyne.” Jon broke in, his tone not overly harsh. “That is not for you to speak of. Please, Sansa offered you this time to do as you asked. Do not waste it.”

Jeyne gave a small nod, her eyes glistening as she beheld Theon again.

“I always thought you were handsome. Growing up, you were dashing, your laugh attractive, and when you were in the yard you looked to be a strong man. Father thought you were, well, somewhat…”

“I was a shit.” He admitted, uncomfortable with the memories of the boisterous and proud Theon Greyjoy that was. “And I’m an ugly shadow of that man in the yards.”

Jeyne made a pained sound at that, clutching at her stomach.

“You’re better than that man was. You’re my hero.” She wept silently. “Ramsay tried to make you that Reek thing, but I knew who you were. That you would help me. You remembered who you were and you remembered who I was. I wasn’t Arya, I am Jeyne Poole. You did all that to save me.”

“The tree told me who I was.” Theon admitted, noticing how Jon jerked at the words. “When I was lost, when I was still Reek, when I was unsure of who I was or why I had even been allowed to be born, the heart tree whispered to me. The weirwood called my name and it told me who I was. It helped me remember.”

The memory sent shivers through him even as the loud sounds of a good number of men echoed into the kennels. Others were coming now, and Jon gestured at the large woman who came within the cell towards Jeyne. 

“My lady, we must be away.” The woman offered her hand and Jeyne became panicked.

“No! No, no, no, not yet, please!” She begged, looking to Jon and dropping to her knees. “Please stop this! He didn’t mean any of it! He tried to help!”

Jon’s face was somber, his eyes taking in her display without betraying what he thought of it.

“Jeyne, it is at an end.” Jon turned to face the approaching group of men. “Lady Brienne, if you would.”

“Come now, my lady.” The large woman helped the crying Jeyne to her feet, guiding her away from him.

“It was for me!” Jeyne suddenly shouted as the large lady pulled her up. “You said that you wondered why you were born! Well I wondered that all the time as well! Maybe you were born to save me so that I could help you remember your name! So we could save each other!”

Theon thought it was a foolish thing to say but he allowed her that belief. After everything Jeyne had endured, she deserved the chance to be young and foolish for a little while longer, for someday the world would be ready to teach her otherwise, just as Lord Ramsay had taught him and tried to teach her. Just as the world always did. Just as the Starks always warned it would.

For Winter was coming.

“Perhaps.” Theon lied instead of telling her his truth that he had been born only to suffer and fail everything that had ever had any meaning to him.

_Except her. I didn’t fail in one thing at least._

“I’ll pray for you!” She sobbed, reaching back. “I’ll remember you! I’ll pray they free you!”

“Yes, pray! Pray to the weirwood!” He called out to Jeyne, shuffling forward to the edge of the bars as the Lady Brienne guided her from sight. “Jeyne, always remember the weirwood! The Drowned God forgot me because I was too far from the sea for too long but the old gods never forgot! Their memories are as long and as old as the trees. Remember them, remember the heart tree! It will remember you! It remembered me!”

The pair disappeared behind the group of five men approaching. Four were other Winterfell guardsmen, the fifth a large man who struck fear in the hearts of his enemies.

“Fuck me, that’s him?” The Greatjon stared at the ruin that was Theon’s face and body. “You lot told me the Bastard did a number on him but this makes the Freys look like nursemaids.”

“Speak for yourself, they didn’t feel so gentle to me.” Jon replied, holding up a gloved hand as if to make more of a point.

“True, true. You got burnt and lashed some and I lost an ear. Looks like he got more than the whole lot of us put together.” The Greatjon sneered. “Not enough if I’m to judge.”

“Are you the judge then?” Mance called out, clutching the bars of his makeshift cell. “I’ve been locked in here for so long, I fear my trial has been forgotten.”

“Eh?” The Greatjon walked forward and kicked the door to Mance’s pen. “Shut your mouth before I show you how Umbers deal with wildling scum.”

“By bedding them?” Mance threw back, catching the giant lord off guard. “Oh the free folk tell tales of the hospitality your father offered spearwives he captured. He liked his women with a bit of fight they say. Some even got away to tell the tales. Did he ever tell you about the scar on his…”

The Greatjon’s arm shot through the bars yet Mance backed away in a flash, leaving the lord grasping at empty air and cursing.

“Mance Rayder.” Jon went to stand before the wildling as well. “Are you so eager for your trial? As a deserter from the Night’s Watch, and leader of a force which hoped to ravage and burn the North…”

“Escape to the south.” Mance corrected.

“Your life is forfeit.” Jon ignored Mance’s words. “But the royal regent, Princess Sansa, is offering to delay your death for some time more. If you perform a task…”

“Still unmarried is she?” Mance smiled. Theon was somewhat impressed at his defiance. “I just so happen to be in need of a mother for my son…”

“Keep your tongue!” The Greatjon shook the bars so hard that dust rattled from the gate. “Or we’ll be taking that head.”

“The North may soon march to the Wall. You have experience and knowledge of what foes we face there, something we lack.” Jon said in a dire tone. “As we lack word from Castle Black of the state of affairs and what ills could have befallen them.”

Theon didn’t know Mance well but he saw Jon’s words scared him some. Mance grasped the bars tightly, risking the Greatjon’s wrath.

“Is that why we’ve been hearing such a ruckus lately? All those men and horses moving about, have the Others broken through? Is my son…”

“There’s been no breach that we know of, yet the Wall must be put to rights.” Jon’s words were met by a clap on his back by the Greatjon.

“The Others must be thrown back and the North protected from their evil. The Starks will do as they have always done. Good men will be joining them in doing their part as well.”

“Defeated?” Mance coughed out a laugh. “Gods, don’t be a fool. Hold the Wall or run south, that’s all we can do. Fail at one and we best not fail at the other.” 

“It won’t come to that.” The Greatjon turned his back to the man then, Jon following suit. “Not with all the men heading to the Wall already. That’s why we’re here after all.”

With that, both men turned their attention back to Theon and he became confused. He’d assumed his time had finally come, that today was the day they’d drag him to the block. Perhaps even allow him a ride out to some holdfast before they took his head.

_It would be good to ride once more, to feel the wind on my face. Perhaps even the sun._

Their words to Mance implied something different altogether.

“I’m to take the black?” Theon asked. “You’re letting me join the Night’s Watch?”

His question was met by snickers from Quent and some of the others. Rodwell himself grunted as he crossed his arms.

“No.” Jon answered. “You are to journey to the Wall but you won’t be taking the black, at least not as far as I know.”

“You told the wildling his fate!” Theon protested. “Tell me mine! It is only fair!”

“Fair? There’s little and less fairness left in the realm anymore. Ask the boys you murdered about what’s fair. Ask Farlen, Mikken, Septon Chayle.” Jon looked disgusted. “Whether you see the block or something else I cannot say. Get him out.”

Quent and another man stepped within to drag him out into the kennel passageway. It was the first time he’d left it in weeks yet that offered him little comfort.

“I welcome this. The blade is too good for you.” Rodwell growled as Theon passed through the doorway. “I hope Stannis burns you where we can all see…”

“Rodwell.” Jon cut off the man’s words and Mance swore as they led him away.

“You’re giving him to Stannis? That madman?” The wilding shook his head. “Do it here and now! Give him that at least! Follow the old way like a Stark!”

The Greatjon cuffed the wildling for his troubles before leading the other men on ahead. Theon was left with Jon at his side, the knight holding his arm tightly and guiding him towards the kennel exit.

_Stannis? They’re giving me to Stannis?_

_Mance says he burns men alive._

For the first time in a long while, Theon felt true fear. Many things had been done to him but he’d been spared the flames at least. He looked to Jon, almost ready to beg him to use the blade at his side.

To his credit, Jon met his gaze, and spoke to his fears.

“A Lord Rodrik Harlaw has Robett Glover’s children. He’s agreed to return them but only if we return a hostage of our own.”

_Rodrik the Reader?_

His uncle was but a faded childhood memory, Theon knew him even less than his father’s brothers, the Damphair, Victarion or even Euron. What Stannis had to do with it was beyond him but something deep down made him guess at what might motivate the Reader.

_Perhaps my mother asked it of him_ , he thought _, she cried when Ned Stark took me._

_Will she cry to see me again?_  

Once again hope led him to a greater fall, for Jon crushed his dream quickly.

“It’s your sister he wants Theon. It’s Asha he’ll trade the Glover children for… and Stannis holds her prisoner. He won’t let her go for the sake of the Glovers, but he will trade her for the son of Balon Greyjoy.” Jon paused then and Theon thought he’d detected a note of regret. “I won’t lie to you, Stannis intends for you to die still. But his ways are… different…”

“He’ll burn me? That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll let him burn me, won’t you? Won’t you!” His cries brought the attention of the men ahead. “Tell me! Just tell me!”

Jon moved quickly, grabbing Theon’s arms and jerking him violently around to face him. For a moment the knight seemed ready to kill him right there. Yet when Theon quieted Jon merely held him in his place, making no further action to harm him.

In those cold grey eyes, Theon saw little of the malice and disgust he often expected. Instead, his eyes reminded him of a boy Theon knew long ago. A memory came to the fore, of when Rodrik Cassel would have them practice at swords. They’d often stare each other down before clashing.

Theon was always smirking and trying to get the younger lad to crack. Jon’s face was always stern and unreadable.

Now, while they stared each other down once again, much had changed. Rodrik Cassel was long dead. Theon barely had any teeth left to smile with and Jon’s eyes finally betrayed his true feelings.

“I imagine he will burn you.” Jon rasped, apparently struggling to give voice to his fate. “And for that, I am sorry Theon. Truly sorry. I’d rather give you an honorable death. To do it myself, if it had to happen. Take that for what it’s worth.”

Quent and Rodwell were coming back to them but Jon waved them onward. He then pulled on Theon once more, continuing his slow march towards the light of the world beyond the kennel.

“Why didn’t you tell us the truth?” Jon asked quietly as they walked, staring straight ahead. “Why didn’t you tell us Bran and Rickon lived? That you were innocent of their murders?”

“I didn’t know if they still lived.” He shrugged as he tried to adjust the irons so they chafed less. “And I didn’t know if you and Sansa’s lot could beat Roose Bolton or Lord Ramsay. If Bran and Rickon lived, and I spoke the truth to Sansa’s men, they could have spread the word among the thousands in her army.”

He paused then, licking his dry lips and feeling how cracked they felt.

“If Lord Bolton beat you, then he would have to hunt the boys down. He could no longer ignore the threat they represented to his hold on Winterfell. The only thing I ever did right was drive them away, for they were safer the farther they were from the Boltons. Despite my betrayal, I felt I owed it to Robb to not betray his brothers to more danger. Even when Lord Bolton and Lord Ramsay lay dead, I couldn’t be sure. There were still so many dangers. The Lannisters, wildlings, my people…”

He didn’t finish, for a laugh had broken free. Jon turned to him, his face twisted into one of shock as Theon began to laugh all the harder. It was an ugly sound and it hurt Theon to do but he couldn’t help himself. He even reached up to rub a tear from his eye he was laughing so hard.

“I only spoke to it when you learned the truth yourselves.” He wheezed though his laughter. “There you go Jon, that’s my last secret. No one even had to torture me to get it. I didn’t want the blood of those boys on my hands. I have so much already to answer for.”

Jon didn’t find it funny yet Theon was still cackling as their party left the kennel. Then he had to squint at the faint light of the winter’s day.

The cold wind stung his cheeks. He felt the newly fallen snow crunch beneath his feet. The smell of the kennel was long gone, replaced by fresh air and the smell of cooking food from the kitchens.

And when Theon saw the castle around him he almost gasped.

There were still signs of damage from the sack and the battle recently but Sansa’s men had been busy. The castle was closer to its old self than it had been in a very long time.

_Just like that, all the damage I had wrought is almost undone._

_The strength of House Stark can endure even my follies._

_It looks almost like the home I grew up in again._

Some of the people who had helped make it a home for him were gathered about in fact, staring at Theon as he shuffled across the yard. Jeyne was among them, still weeping with the large Lady Brienne at her side. A large, black haired young man was with her as well, and a homely lad, clutching at the sword sheathed on his belt.

Further ahead, before the gate, stood a group of armored men standing beneath a banner with the crowned stag inside a flaming heart.

These people did not belong in Winterfell just as Theon didn’t. At their center, he saw someone from the home he’d been born to.

_Asha_.

_My sister._

“Theon?” Asha paled at the sight of him. “Is it you? Theon?”

“What’s left of him.” A tall, broad shouldered knight chuckled. “Barely enough man left here to burn. You northerners sure are savage.”

“Go on then.” Another knight with broken brown teeth shoved Asha forward. “Let’s be going, King Stannis wants to be on the move and the sooner we’re on our way, the sooner we can burn that thing.”

“Aye, time for Winterfell to be free of the turncloak.” The Greatjon almost shouted and a ripple of agreement went through the crowd.

Theon was gripped with fear, his knees feeling as if they might buckle. Theon did not want to burn. Winterfell could never be his home again but it was the closest thing he’d ever had to one. He’d rather die here than anywhere else.

Then he felt something on his shoulder and he saw Jon’s hand there, almost steadying him.

“For all you’ve done Theon, you deserve to die.” Jon whispered, his grip tightening. “But you should know, what happens today means the rescue of two children... two lives. Remember that. For I believe Robb would’ve wanted you to find some peace… I hope in the end you do.”

Jon’s mention of Robb and knowing he was about to leave the castle for the last time, reminded Theon of when he and Robb had left Winterfell together.

_We were young men riding off to a war, to fight gloriously for a true cause._

_Leaving the castle as brothers._

Theon wished he had something to say to Jon then, to find some sort of bond between them for the brother they had both loved so much. Instead he tongued at the gaps in his gums in silence as he steadied himself. He managed to straighten some, holding his chin up with pride just in time for Jon to gently push upon him, urging Theon forward.

And so he went, shuffling across the yard towards Stannis’s men, passing his sister as she went the other way. When they came close enough he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Hey!” Someone cursed and Stannis’s men started towards them.

“It’s me Asha. Theon.” He said quickly, watching Asha’s eyes widen. “Theon Greyjoy. They tried to make me forget my name but I remembered. Tell our mother that in the end, I remembered.”

“I shouldn’t have left you.” Asha grabbed at him as well, her bound hands going to his ruined face. “We’re a shit family but I knew better. Live Theon! You can still live! Make yourself valuable to Stannis, I told him about the kingsmoot…”

“Off with you!” A cruel looking man tore them apart, pulling Theon towards him and pushing Asha away into the arms of another one of Stannis’s knights.

“Tell them Theon! You’re valuable as more than a sacrifice, don’t forget!” Asha spun around to yell in her captor’s face. “If Stannis wants Euron defeated then Theon’s the way! He wasn’t at the kingsmoot so-”

“Bitch!” The man lashed out, catching Asha with a backhand so powerful it sent her sprawling to the ground and Theon saw blood sprinkle the snow.

“No more Clayton!” Jon was there, standing between Asha and her attacker. “She’s the hostage of King Rickon and the North now and that’s the last time you’ll be laying a hand on her.”

“Protecting krakens now, dragon?” The knight called Clayton sneered.

Jon did not react to the man’s insult, merely glancing to Theon, inclining his head towards him.

“Asha Greyjoy is under our protection now. She’ll be seen safely home to her family, you have my word.”

As Jon finished speaking, Theon watched as the short Royce knight made to help Asha to her feet. His sister scorned the man’s help, throwing his hands away from her and rising to approach Theon once again. He could not face her and her unbreakable strength again, so he showed her his back. Theon was terrified enough already and seeing her own fear for him might break what courage he had left.

“Onward you ugly shit.” Clayton grabbed him by his cloak and thrust him into the group of men ahead.

As the knights surrounded him, he chanced one last look up at the castle, to commit as much of it to memory as he could, to find any comfort in its stone walls.

That’s when he caught sight of her, high above him. Sansa was standing upon the stairs to the battlements, flanked on either side by Ghost and Shaggydog. The black wolf’s head was lowered and Theon thought he spotted bared fangs. Sansa’s hair and cloak was flapping some in the wind while her face was as hard to read as Jon’s had been.

Yet Theon took notice that the young woman was wringing her hands some. She used to do so whenever she was worried or when she felt pressured by Theon or Robb into doing mischief with them that she didn’t want to.

_Does she fear for my fate as well? Am I still worthy of that?_

_Or does she just warm her hands against the cold?_

She was lost to him not long after that, for they had begun to pass through the gate. He thought of when Robb and his army prepared for its march south. Theon hadn’t realized how selfish his joy at leaving had been at the time, but he’d been truly happy as they rode out.

So young and full of dreams, he’d known who he was, and what he was he doing. Theon Greyjoy had been going forth to fight beside the only brother he’d ever truly had.

Now all he had left was his name.

But now at least, Theon knew his name.

**JON**

“Tarstark?”

“No.” Jon rejected his friend’s suggestion.

Willem was enjoying his little game again as the two of them ate of the rationed fair served within the Great Hall. With winter now officially here, Sansa had decreed that there would be no more feasts and that the rationing of their remaining stores was to begin. The room’s tables were filled with fighting men, all sharing in a meager meal just as Jon and Willem did. Yet most were seated next to a great many other people, whereas Willem and Jon sat very much alone.

Their place was at a table below the high table itself, a place of respect yet no others save his friend deigned to join him there. At the table above Lord Manderly ate almost desperately alongside Robett Glover while the Greatjon sat with Lady Lyra, the man the pair erupting in laughter now and again.

“Stargaryen?” Willem asked, chewing on his bread. “No, wait. Starkaryen, it gives more homage to the Stark name.”

“The second was worse than the first.” Jon shook his head. “Stop trying to merge the family names of my parents.”

_For their union brought nothing but death and war._

_And apparently a curiosity for others to gawk at._

Jon did not have to try hard to find men in the hall staring up at him, some merely glancing before whispering to their companions, while others openly gaped. This was how it had been since Sansa and he had declared his truth to the castle and, through ravens, to the realm itself.

The specter of Stannis’s departure, and the trading of the Greyjoys, had not dulled the whispering about him. Most people treated those matters as only sideshows to the infamy of his heritage. Jon knew that many bore harsh feelings towards him because of his blood-father, while others simply thought him a liar.

Yet Sansa and he had made the announcement beside the Greatjon and Ser Symond, men of great standing, and it appeared that few wished to earn those men’s ire by airing their discontent publicly. The Templeton knight had been as shocked as any to learn the truth but Willem’s words on Jon’s behalf had pushed away his doubts.

His friend’s forgiveness and acceptance of him had surprised Jon. He had never allowed himself to hope that Willem would continue to embrace him as a friend, no matter his heritage. It made Jon more tolerant of Willem’s annoying persistence in the matter of what his new name should be.

“No mixing then.” Willem gulped his wine. “How about Snowdragon?”

“Truly? I am trying to convince people I am no longer a Snow, and you’d have me keep it in my name?”

“Oh, right.” The knight smirked, before cuffing his shoulder. “Well, in my opinion there’s been no finer option than Jon Solemnsod. Sums up the two things I think of most when I see you quite nicely.”

Jon allowed himself a small laugh at that. It quickly died away as he caught a group of Mormont men-at-arms giving him an evil look as well. Soon enough they turned away from him and went back to their whispering and he sighed.

“At least you’re honest with your opinion of me. Everyone else seems content to stare openly and talk about me behind closed doors.”

“Oh?”

Willem scanned the room as well, quickly lowering his gaze when a young serving girl gave him a thoroughly reproachful look before turning her nose up in dismissal of Willem’s hiding. Jon seemed to remember seeing the pair leave the hall last night, arm in arm, but it seemed things had soured since between them. His friend shrugged it all off.

“Poor man.” He shoveled a bit of meat into his mouth. “Don’t care to be left in the dark do you?”

_You deserved that._

_For all your talk of hating secrets, you were content enough to keep this one from your friend._

_While you continue to hide another._

“I’m sorry, Will. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you…” Jon struggled to do this apology right. “I swear, I never knew the truth until Greywater Watch and it was burden enough on those few who learned it. I didn’t want that weight upon your shoulders.”

Willem laughed so hard that he spat some food out his mouth, washing away the mess with some wine that he dutifully spat upon the floor.

“You thought that was such a great burden? Compared to what? Helping you lot take on half the bloody realm and the worst of its lords? Shit, you’re thick at times.” The knight grumbled before throwing an arm about Jon’s shoulders and whispering the next words. “I often wonder how a man so thick got himself such a fine woman.”

“What? What do you- what woman?”

Jon felt as if his jaw just about dropped off at Willem’s words. His friend smiled to see it, giving Jon a shake and tapping a spoon against his own head.

“I may be a fool but I’m not a blind fool.” Willem whispered. “Your little glances between one another, the disappearances and private meetings. She was such a sad thing when you left the army on that scouting.”

“I don’t… please keep your voice down…”

“Oh, so I can’t scream it from the top of the keep? Seven hells, imagine my relief to learn that you were a dragon. Wasn’t really looking forward to that whole awkward conversation where you tell me you’re lusting after your half-sister.”

Jon was reeling at all of this, amazed to think of how foolish they’d been. He had thought that none could have taken notice of the love between him and Sansa. Jon’s mind was furiously trying to decide who else might guess the truth when Willem took his arm from his shoulder, laughing again.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone what I suspected. I figured you two would come to your senses at some point, though I’m hoping now you won’t have to.” Willem poked at his food, treating the conversation just like any other. “It is love isn’t it? You’re not just using her for your pleasure?”

“Of course not… no wait” He fumbled at explaining things, his shoulders slumping and his voice barely above a whisper. “I do love her, with all my heart. I could never use her. Never.”

“Good lad.” Willem shot him a look of approval. “I was sure you didn’t have it in you to mistreat her. And I don’t begrudge you that secret Jon, smart thing to keep it hidden a tad bit longer.”

“I hate keeping it all secret, Will. I feel like my parents when I do so.”

“Hey, come on now. We’ve all got secrets.” Willem nudged him again, his face suddenly becoming somber. “We’re allowed to keep some things to ourselves. Our loves, our shames… even our pain.”

_Pain?_

_He’s the most carefree man I know, what secrets could he have?_

“Besides, from what the northern lords say, you take after the man that raised you more than any dragon. That secret you hate so much, it seems to me that it gave you a father and him a son.” Willem’s eyes closed then, turning his head towards the table. “Any father would be happy with such a son.”

While he was touched at the man’s kind words, he was curious as well. What Lyn Corbray had said during the meeting with the king had almost driven Willem to attack the man. Something about a burnt-out keep, which was queer to Jon because he remembered back at Runestone, Mychel Redfort telling him to never ask about the ruined keep a few leagues west of the castle.

Before he could inquire into Willem’s possible secrets, a cry went up from the entrance of the hall.

“The king!”

All at once the entire room, including Jon and Willem, shot to their feet. For soon enough, Rickon appeared, strolling between the tables with a look of boyish glee at the response he’d gotten. He was bundled up in a fine cloak of wolf-pelts and dressed regally in the white and greys of House Stark. The boy-king still wore the necklace of bones Sansa hated so much, the thing rattling as he walked.

Jon imagined that more attention was being paid to the king’s escort though, as Rickon was flanked by a pair of wolves. Shaggydog ambled beside him, the wolf sniffing the air hungrily and growling at a pair of bitches sharing a bone. The other wolf appeared no less fearsome, for Arya was dressed in the leathers and breeches she wore for sparring, her hand on Needle’s pommel as she walked forward, looking akin to a proud knight walking among his men.

“That girl is going to make some lucky lord piss himself one day.” Willem muttered and Jon couldn’t help but smile at that.

Arya smiled right back at him before saying something quietly to Rickon.

“Arya says that I should tell everyone that you may sit!” Rickon called out. “So sit down!”

“Good work, brother.” Arya rolled her eyes but most did as their king ordered. Jon however walked down from his place to meet the two Starks on their way to the high table.

“Am I looking at the newest member of the Sworn Guard?” He asked, pointing to Arya’s sword.

“I wish!” Arya laughed before she nudged Rickon, the young boy rushing forward to wrap his arms about Jon’s legs.

“Theon’s gone!” He said happily, looking up at him. “Arya said that you were getting rid of him and I saw you push him away!”

That surprised him. Sansa had been adamant that Rickon not be a part of Theon’s departure. She feared the poor boy’s demons would return upon seeing Theon again and that it would cause him to have one of his rages and she didn’t want such a thing to happen before his new subjects. Jon knew that Arya had wanted to see Theon gone from Winterfell herself, yet she had surprised Sansa and had done Jon proud by volunteering to keep Rickon entertained elsewhere in the castle.

Arya coughed in an exaggerated manner, jerking her thumb towards Shaggydog, who had just stolen a bit of elk from the plate of some poor Manderly captain. The man put up no fight, clearly seeing the wisdom in allowing the direwolf to have his cut of meat.

_Of course. Shaggydog had been watching the whole time._

_Which means Rickon was probably watching as well._

Jon marveled at the boy’s abilities in a way as they appeared as strong if not stronger than Arya’s and his own. It worried him as well for little Rickon also commanded a violent temper and Jon could only imagine the havoc Shaggydog would wreak in such a situation.

Yet Rickon was clearly happy and at peace now, so Jon let that be a worry for another day. Jon laid a hand upon the boy’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Theon is gone Rickon.” His words causing the boy to smile all the wider. “Off to meet a fate far from Winterfell.”

_Whatever that may be._

Jon was surprised at how much it pained him to deliver Theon to Stannis. The traitor’s late admission of doing his best to protect Bran and Rickon had been startling. He found himself hoping Stannis did not need to burn Theon, that the king would use his glowing sword if he had to do the deed.

“Good!” Rickon released him from his embrace, before sprinting on by him, towards the lords collected at the high table. “Greatjon! Did you hear that Jon is a dragon?”

As if on reflex, Jon grimaced to hear Rickon shouting such a thing. That was when Jon noticed how long their king’s hair remained.

“I thought Sansa was intent on having his hair cut today?”

“Maybe she was.” Arya said, blowing some of her own hair out her eyes. “I was coming back from the practice yard and saw Rickon pitching a fit with Osha over it, so I said we’d take a meal together instead.”

Jon frowned at that.

If there was any peace between the sisters, it was a strained one. He’d forced Arya to apologize for her comments to Sansa yet it had been spoken with little conviction. Sansa’s acceptance of the apology had been little better.

In truth, the pair appeared to be engaged in a silent war with tedious acts of retaliation against one another.

Arya wore her sword to meals against Sansa’s wishes so Sansa had sent Brienne, Ser Gendry, and Podrick Payne on a patrol to rob her of a chance to practice. Sansa made to join Myranda and Jeyne for a ride about the grounds and Arya had “accidentally” ridden her horse right through a mud puddle, spattering her sister’s new gown. The next day, Arya awoke to find nothing but gowns in her wardrobe. The uproar that had come from Arya tossing the garments from the keep window and calling for a pair of riding breeches had been embarrassing for them all.

This all made Jon’s head hurt something terrible, for it always fell to him to hear their separate squabbles about each other. He often caught Brienne and Myranda rubbing their heads much as he did when the two princesses were in a rage about something that the other did.                                                                              

To Jon’s shame, it wasn’t just his head that was put out, for his body ached as well but in a different way. Save for their lone night of passion when Jon had taken her maiden’s gift, and the stolen kiss Arya had witnessed, Sansa and he had not been able to find a single moment for each other.

Worse still, he suspected Arya was doing all she could to keep them apart. It was hard to count the number of times Podrick Payne or some guard or servant had sought him out in the past few days. Sometimes they’d find Jon on his way to have a private moment with Sansa and other times when he was simply seeking the privy. Each time they claimed Arya had told them he demanded their presence.

Sansa had attempted to sneak off to his rooms one night, only to see Ser Gendry standing guard without them. Sure enough, the next night he’d found Arya’s loyal hedge knight outside his doorway once again, apparently with the notion from Arya that Jon had ordered a guard posted outside his door every night. Ser Gendry had seemed so honored for the position that Jon didn’t have the heart to send the young man away.

All Arya’s actions only added to the frustration he felt, for Sansa had not done him the favor of becoming less beautiful in the meantime. Their newfound intimacy had seemingly awakened something inside of her that drove Jon to madness.

Whenever she could, Sansa would give him glances that reminded him of their only night together. How she stared into his eyes made him think of how Tyrion had once advised him to look at a serving girl. Sansa’s fingers would sometimes tease his as they passed one another in the hall and once, during a meeting, she’d even touched her leg to his quite brazenly, no doubt something Myranda had taught her, Jon thought. When the others had been dismissed he’d had to sit some time longer, looking quite the fool.

_They’ll be the death of me_ , he thought,  _Arya and Sansa both._

“Would you eat with us, Jon?” Arya pulled at him. “Rickon doesn’t remember that night Robb and you battled with the potatoes. Tell him! I bet he’ll be throwing them for weeks after!”

_I’m sure Sansa would love that._

Yet he thought to join them anyways. It was good to see the two younger Starks in such good spirits and to share in their childlike mirth would be welcome enough, especially with the guilt he still felt over Theon and the accusing looks other still shot him in the hall.

Before he could however, Jon spotted Myranda making her way towards them, the woman offering wry smiles and teasing waves to some of the men.

“Oh gods, what does she want?” Arya scowled.

“Ser Jon!” Myranda hailed him with a dismayed look. “Good ser, you’ve been remiss!”

“I have?”

“Surely!” The lady continued, walking forward and leaning in to sniff at him before making a face. “You have not even bathed you terrible man! Are you not meant to welcome the Lady Cerwyn to the castle today?”

Jon had no idea what she was talking about but he was given no chance to speak to it, for Myranda latched onto his wrist and began dragging him by the rows of tables.

“Fight back, Jon!” Arya yelled after, Rickon joining in her urging.

“Bite her! She doesn’t like that!”

“I heard different!” Willem shouted and the hall erupted in laughter which seemed to give Myranda a good enough distraction as she led him outside.

“Lady Jonella is coming to Winterfell?” Jon asked, doing his best now to keep up so that he didn’t look as foolish as he felt.

“Tomorrow, I believe.” Myranda smirked at him, waving that away with her free hand. “The story will be that she was delayed.”

“Oh I see.” He lied. “Could you see to unhanding me perhaps?”

“My my, you’re a prince for only a couple days now and already you’re so proper.” Myranda laughed as she released him, yet only for a moment before she moved to wrap her arms around his, squeezing at the muscle there and pulling his shoulder into her ample chest in a way that made Jon’s face heat up rather quickly. “I haven’t had the chance to say so yet, but it all makes perfect sense.”

“It does?”

“Why of course! Direwolves are brave and noble beasts to be sure! No argument on that from me. Yet look at the deeds you’ve undertaken, the victories you’ve snatched from seeming defeat… why, only a dragon could beat such odds!” She then hugged herself even closer to him, her breath hot on his neck, her lips practically touching his ear. “And it seems dragons have a history of stealing the hearts of young Stark girls…”

_Oh by the gods._

Myranda laughed when he almost tripped over himself, once again dragging him forward. They appeared to be heading towards the bathhouse but he was less interested in that than in what exactly the lady had meant by her words.

“Oh, please.” She hissed. “I knew Sansa had a secret love all the way back at Moat Cailin. Of course, I had thought it was our starry knight, Ser Symond or perhaps the rugged Ser Kyle. When I heard the truth of you though and realized that the two of you were cousins, well it was easy enough to piece together. All of your gallantry on her behalf…”

“Are there any Royces who don’t know?” He grumbled.

_How are we ever going to keep this a secret with so many knowing now?_

_It’s a good thing Stannis is already off marching or I’d be tempted to seal the bloody gates._

“Willem knows as well?” Myranda giggled. “I imagine Bronze Yohn is still ignorant of it… maybe. Oh come now! I jest! In truth, you too did well. It took Sansa most of the last night to admit the truth to me. It was only after I kept on her about marrying you to Mya.”

“Mya… Mya Stone? Of the Vale?”

“Oh yes, our dear princess does poor Mya a terrible disservice it seems!” The lady laughed again as they entered the bathhouse.

Jon was surprised that the door was unbarred, as he’d heard it had been closed while some laborers fixed a break in the stone pipes that pulled hot spring water from beneath Winterfell into taps that poured into the stone pools. When they came to one of the baths that Jon knew the serving girls used sometimes, they found one of his clean tunics and some other clothes awaiting them on a stool, which Lady Myranda promptly picked up and shoved into his arms.

“Now I’ll be keeping watch downstairs. When you’re done, take the servant’s way out. Understand?”

_No, not really._

“…yes?”

With that, Myranda gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before forcing him through the door. He felt her grab at his arse as well before the door shut behind him. It was as hot as it was dark in the room, for there were no windows here and only a handful of candles burning along the ledges. The baths were built like the pools in the godswood, dug into the ground and then filled with carved stone. All had wide steps that led down into the water, where the pool was most shallow before getting deeper as you went on.

Steam was rising off the middle bath, the only one already prepared and full of sweet-smelling salts and water while the other two lay empty and dry. From the looks of it, Jon thought the water would feel almost scolding compared to the cold outside.

He was still wondering why Myranda had found it so important that he bathed. He did not think he smelt so poorly. He sniffed at himself carefully as he placed his change of clothing down on the ground and pulling off the clasp to his cloak.

“Jon…”

“Oh shit!” He almost leapt at the sound of his name coming out of the darkness to his left.

The last time that had happened, it had been the spirit of Bran coming through the heart tree. Even Howland, with all of his knowledge of skinchangers and blood magic and the old ways of the Children of the Forest, had not been able to explain what happened and he had joined Arya and Jon every night since, spending the first few hours of darkness awaiting another sign of the lost Stark brother. Nothing had come of it though.

Nor was it Bran he heard now.

This voice was a different Stark altogether, this one barring the door he’d just entered through.

“Sansa!” He clutched at his heart, feeling it pound within his chest.

It was possible that his heart beat so because of the scare she’d given him but that soon wore off and now he thought it likely her wardrobe played a role. For his princess wore no proper gown, only a long white nightshirt that hung scandalously short, just past her thighs, exposing those long legs of hers. With so much of Sansa laid bare before him Jon felt absurdly lecherous for gazing at her for so long.

“Hush!” She rushed forward, putting a finger to his lips. “We have this time alone here but shouting would not be wise.”

“Why don’t I ever understand anything?” He asked when she pulled her finger away.

Sansa made a confused but adorable face at that and when he explained how he came to be here she laughed at him.

“Well, Myranda figured out the truth of us and we got to talking after, about how frustrating things have been and how little time we’ve had together. So she suggested this as an option for us to be together.”

Jon felt a surge of desire run through him at that. Her hands had been resting on his chest and his own moved then, as if by instinct, to her waist. He could feel the soft skin of her hips and the play of her waist there beneath the thin nightshirt and the idea of having this dark room to themselves, with no chance of others coming upon them, clouded his mind with possibilities.

Still, his good sense managed to win out.

“And it is a fine thing Sansa.” He resisted her attempt to kiss him by pulling back and rubbing his thumb along her cheek to keep her in place, earning a pout from his love. “But as much as you trust Myranda, what’s to stop her from bringing others to find us here? There’s a reason we told no one of us.”

“I trust Myranda implicitly.” Sansa kept a serious face, before letting a sly grin slip out. “And she’d never do such a thing, for it would endanger her betrothal to Harry the Heir.”

“What? How?”

“Gods Jon, please just kiss me…”

Her lips moved for his once again yet, to his shock, he found it in him to resist and pushed her face softly back again. Sansa made a frustrated sound and looked as if she meant to stamp her foot like she would do when they were children.

“You’re ruining it!” She snapped. “Fine! How do you think Randa came up with this idea? She did it herself! With a certain lord, whom I won’t name, yet I easily could if I needed to! I doubt the Lady Waynwood or Ser Harry would much care for the scandal that would follow, Andal tradition being so important to the Vale lords…”

_That’s clever. I wonder which lord she seduced?_

_Before Ronnel Stout left, he seemed to spend some time with Myranda… perhaps he knows who it was._

“There! Now that you know how I could blackmail my friend, will you-”

She didn’t get the chance to continue lecturing him, for Jon gave her what she wanted. His lips found hers and soon they were immersed in the hungry, passionate embrace they’d been denied for so long.

Their hands were as active as their lips, for his ran down the length of her more than once. Jon wanted to feel every part of her, running his hands down her back which was long and smooth, and over her sinful, flaring hips and then down to her rump, giving it a playful squeeze that made Sansa giggle. Jon did it again and instead of giggling this time, Sansa kissed him harder, rising on her toes to try and put her face above his, almost as if she was trying to push him downward with her response.

Her hands pulled at his hair at first before doing their best to disrobe him. It was difficult with their bodies still pressed so tightly together, her fingers scrambling awkwardly at his clothing. Jon helped her by breaking their embrace and quickly shedding his jerkin and tunic, soon finding himself bare-chested and groaning as her lips found his skin, kissing at the scars like she did their first time.

Sansa’s mouth stayed above while her hands went below, gently pulling the laces of his breeches. Jon was soon kicking at his boots, cursing as he saw one fly off into the bath, causing Sansa to laugh again. That gave him an idea though and he stopped Sansa’s efforts to undress him, turning her so that her back faced him.

She started to protest until his mouth found her neck and his fingers pulled the laces at her back. Her soft moans and the way she pressed her arse against his hardness let Jon know his actions weren’t unwanted.

_I want her, I want all of her, not just what lies beneath her skirts._

_She is more than that to me._

With the laces undone, Jon began to slowly ease the gown off her shoulders, his mouth following the garment’s retreat. She shivered as more of her body was laid bare before him, goose pimples rising up on her skin. It was warm in the room, so he did not think they were from the cold. When her arms were free and the gown pooled at her waist, Sansa’s hands went up to cover her breasts, his love beginning to tremble.

“You’re safe.” He whispered, abandoning his disrobing of her to reach around and cup her hands with his. “You will always be safe with me. Stay here with me.”

The feel of her firm breasts beneath their joined hands made him ache to turn her around and see them. He fought that urge though. Sansa had been treated so foully by men in the past, Jon would be a better man that. Sansa deserved everything good from the world yet all Jon could give was himself, so he would try to be everything she needed.

He nuzzled at her neck until her face turned to seek his lips and they kissed once more, all the while his thumbs ran along her hands and, together, slowly, they rubbed her breasts.

Sansa’s fearful trembling ended and was replaced with a different kind of trembling that Jon felt in himself. Her hands moved to be free of his grasp, one touching his face and the other running along his arm. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, relishing the feel of the soft skin there, enjoying the weight of it in his palm, using his thumb to tease her nipple this time. She gasped in his mouth at that, and again when his other hand moved from her waist lower still, continuing to pull her gown over her hips.

It finally fell away and stuck to the humid floor. Before Sansa could attempt to cover her nakedness Jon turned her to face him again, covering her body with his own in an embrace of possession and protection. Her eyes were clouded with a lust that set him on fire but he thought there was fear in there as well. He did his best to kiss that fear away as he helped guide her in removing his breeches.

His escape from them was somewhat more awkward, involving some shuffling and kicking which caused her to giggle for a third time.

“You know, it’s not a kind thing to giggle when a man takes his pants off…” He whispered to her, kissing along her neck.

“Then you should not dance so… oh!” She cried out when his mouth found her nipple.

He kissed and licked at the pink nub, even allowing his teeth to gently nip as well. When she thrust her breast against him, he knew to continue sucking and nibbling there. When he gave the same treatment to the other breast, her hands gripped his head and her moans grew more desperate.

He pulled his face back to look at her breasts then. They were full and high with light pink nipples that were only a slightly darker shade than the pale skin around them.

He spared a glance lower and, in the weak light, he saw the thick thatch of auburn hair between her legs. They were young, he knew that, yet Sansa was clearly a woman as well, a woman who wanted him for some unknowable reason. If she asked him to take her right then, there was no way he could deny her.

His manhood yearned to find its way there again, yet Sansa yanked him up for another bout of kissing. Her hands played through his hair and her tongue lashed into his rapidly. The kissing was desperate and he could feel her ribs rumbling under his hands.

“I love you.” She said in between kissing. “I love all that you are. Everything about you.”

“I love every part of you.” He answered, breaking away to kiss her neck. “I love your smell…”

He kissed down her chest towards her breasts.

“I love your lips… your breasts…”

His lips moved on from her chest even as she fought to keep his lips there near the nipples again. Something inside him urged Jon lower still. Kissing his way down her stomach, he slowly dropped to his knees.

“I love your body…” He kissed just above the thatch of hair before crouching his back to lower himself further. “I love the taste of you…”

“Jon, no! Not there! You mustn’t do tha-oh! Oh, oh, OH!” She cried out when his tongue dipped beneath the hair to find her opening lips, already damp within. She pressed his mouth harder there, his nose rubbing into the auburn thatch, despite her earlier protests.

His hands gripped her cheeks, lifting her up a little while he pulled her mound against his face harder and pressed his tongue deeper. He kissed and licked there hungrily as Sansa’s hands gripped his hair almost painfully. The taste of her was pleasant. The feel of the bud at the top of her opening almost welcoming against his tongue, every touch against it brought forth a moan or cry from Sansa.

He could feel her knees struggling and shaking to keep from buckling and suddenly one of her legs lifted to daintily rest around his neck, her heel pressing into his back as the other leg went up on its toes, opening her lips to him even more.

Jon’s jaw was aching by the time she cried out, her center tensing around his tongue for a moment. Sansa was slapping against his shoulders erratically and practically reeling backwards until Jon quickly moved his hands from her cheeks to her hips, holding her steady. He couldn’t hold her in such a position for long though, so Jon gently moved his arm up and splayed his hand against her back for balance while he snaked the other arm out from under her leg around his neck, rising up to face her.

Her face was flushed and her eyelids flickered at him. Her chest was blotched with red spots of blush and Sansa was gasping for breath. Her eyes were wild and her hair looked tussled in a way that was so unlike the put-together and proper Sansa that Jon always knew.

His desire could wait no longer, so he took his chance.

Jon lifted her up into his arms, her hands holding onto his shoulders and her thighs gripping around his hips, by reflex he knew as she still seemed in a daze and unable to comprehend what was happening. His hardness was sticking up against her stomach while he carried her bodily into the bath with him. He walked down the stone steps into the stone pool, moving slowly deeper.

The hot water would have been scolding if he and Sansa were not already burning hot and covered in sweat. She shuddered in his arms when her feet dipped into the water and then moved up to their calves and then their thighs, the steam rising around them like a blanket. He let the hot spring water soak into their legs a bit, the heat moving up their bodies to wash away all their pain and troubles.

Yet he did not bring them completely within the bath. He moved back and placed Sansa gently upon a stone step, so low to the water some of it lapped over the sides. While he continued to stand, her legs remained wrapped around him, possessing him. Once she was situated, he moved back and let his hardness fall from her stomach, toward her opening. He gripped her thighs with his hands and started forward, finding his way deeper between her legs and pressing the tip of his cock gently against her lips.

Before he could thrust within, Sansa’s legs tightened around him so that he couldn’t move. She gripped his head in her hands and made Jon look up from her mound and into her eyes. Jon was just staring for a moment into those eyes that held a look of desire that would have put Myranda Royce to shame. As Jon marveled at her, her legs suddenly pulled him in.

They both grunted at the moment of their joining, the heat and wetness of her making Jon clench his jaw to restrain himself from ramming into her again and again with animalistic abandon. Jon did finish what she started though by burying himself further into her until he was at the hilt, glancing down to see the auburn hair around her sex mingling with his own dark curls. His body was burning with the sweet relief that Sansa’s womanhood offered him. Jon looked back up into Sansa’s eyes and was put at ease that there was very little discomfort upon her face.

“I’m alright.” She kissed at him, reading his mind. “I’m with you.”

That was all Jon needed.

Their love-making now was very different from their first time. It was furious and hard. Jon heard some sort of strange, animal-like grunting was surprised to realize it was coming from Sansa and himself.

He kissed along Sansa’s neck, his hands running up from her hips to wrap around her back, pressing her breasts against his chest. He moved his hands then from her back and down to her legs before lifting one leg out of the water and bending it at the knee, her foot stepping onto the ledge with a wet slap against the stone. Her core was opened even more for him now before Jon moved his hands back down again to her hips. All the while he kept thrusting, trying to take in every bit of her body.

Sansa seemed to be struggling much the same about where to keep her hands, gripping onto his hair as he moved furiously within her before she let go and encircled her arms around his neck instead, leaning her forehead against his. She moved to lay back then and pressed his face into her breasts.

Jon did his best not to hurt her, but after all this time apart from her, it was nearly impossible to fight against what his body willed. The wet smacking sound of their bodies grew louder and louder as his need grew.

“Oh gods!” Jon cried out when he felt his peak, letting go of Sansa’s hips and clutching at the ledge of the bath, doing all he could to be even deeper within Sansa as he gave her his seed.

Sansa apparently having the same idea as she reached under his arms and clutched his lower back, pulling him inside of her as she shook her head back and forth against his neck in some sort of strange and silent frenzy before simply biting down on his shoulder and crying out into the skin there.

He stayed within Sansa some time longer, whispering sweet love into her hair. Jon wished they could just stay like that for hours but his legs ached from the angle they found themselves in. After a while, he slowly slid back within the water and sat down, submerged up to his neck now.

Jon took stock then and stared at Sansa’s nakedness, basking in the sight of her. The evidence of their love-making was all over her body.

Marks of what they had done.

Her hair was wet on the edges where it skimmed the water. The skin was flushed and a little raw where he had gripped her. Sweat beaded between flushing breasts, the nipples a little pinker from his attentions, and her face was exhausted but glowing.

_I may hold with the old gods, but I have lain with the Maiden herself._

Sansa lay against the ledge like that a bit longer, breathing heavily, before she finally lowered herself and slipped into the water gracefully. As tired as he felt then, he took her into his arms and turned to lean his back against the wall of the bath, sitting down. Her head came to lie against his chest, her legs across his side-saddle.

They stayed like that, in silence for some time, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Unlike last time, Jon wasn’t seized by guilt. For the truth of him was out, and while their betrothal was secret still, at least it was known between them.

_Is it a foul thing to make love to the woman you intend to marry?_

_To me it seems like the greatest feeling in the world._

It was then that he took notice of something that upset him. As he reached to pull Sansa’s chin to face him for a kiss, his thumb rubbed along her cheek and felt tears there. Jon looked down into her eyes to see that she was crying.

“Oh Sansa…” He felt a hollow pit open in his stomach. “Did I hurt you?”

“No!” She kissed his fingers. “No, it’s not that… I am just so happy. So happy here, with you, in the bath.”

Sansa rested her head against his chest again as she sighed.

“I just started to think of what happens when we leave here. Of how I offered my little brother to Stannis and how foul he reacted to everything. How Jeyne wept to watch Theon leave. Even of Theon… he looked so defeated and pathetic, Jon. Am I monster for letting Stannis have him?”

“No. Never.” Jon answered. “As foul as Stannis would make his death, Theon does deserve to die. You did what had to be done so that two innocent children could be returned to their family. Were it my burden and my decision to make, I would have done the same, and tortured myself every moment after, just as you do now.”

“And what of Stannis?” She asked, her fingers running along his chest softly. “The ironmen? The Wall? The Lannisters? All that awaits us when we leave this room…”

“That we will face together. So let us enjoy this time Sansa, when our world is but four walls, a warm bath, and the two of us. I can live in such a world for some time more, if you’d let me.”

She was silent after that and he hoped his words had some effect. Sansa had enough worries and if he could ease any of them for her for even an hour, he would count it a good day. Being able to run his hands through her hair and down her naked back counted as a great day in his books.

Even the makings of a great month.

“Jon.” Sansa finally spoke, her hand cupping water to spread about her chest. “That thing you did with your mouth. Do, um, do all men do such things?”

“I’ve no idea really. I mean I’ve heard men make jests but, well, I just wanted to kiss you there.” He kissed the top of her head as he felt his cock jerk beneath her legs. “I wanted to taste you.”

“Is it foul that I liked it?” She gazed up at him, her face still flushed. “That I’d ask you to do it again the next time… if you wanted?”

His cock jerked again.

“Do you mean right now?”

“What?” She gave him a surprised look. “Why would you? Should we not do such things only when we make love?”

As if to make his point all the clearer, he shifted Sansa forward so that she would feel the stiffness of his manhood against her thigh.

“Oh!” Sansa’s eyes lit up, her legs spreading some. “Well actually, as much as I liked it, I think that feeling of fullness that your- um… it- I mean, I’d just as soon make love again, if you’re able.”

He was able.

Able and willing.

Attempting such under the water turned out to be uncomfortable for both of them, so they went to the ledge once more. This time there was no rush, no hurry to their lovemaking. Their bodies, wet and slick from the water, moved against each other with ease. Jon did his best to repeat any action which caused Sansa to bite her lip or gasp out loud. Once, he pressed his thumb against that nub about her sex he’d grown so familiar with before while still thrusting and Sansa actually bucked her hips at him, almost like a horse did when you rode it too hard.

This time he was able to gaze into her eyes when she found her sweet release, her brow knitted and her face in a tight grimace before she suddenly came undone. Those beautiful blue eyes opened up with a look of amazement as her face twisted into a sort of anguished expression. Her mouth betrayed her though for while it was open wide, almost in shock, he saw the smile working at her lips.

His own release came not long after such a beautiful sight and he collapsed on top of her, Sansa giving a soft grunt at his weight, but holding onto his back so he couldn’t move.

His forehead pressed against hers, his eyes closing to bask in the feeling of their joining.

Sansa’s nails were still digging into his back, holding him inside of her as she whispered a desperate request into his ear.

“I don’t ever want to leave this room.” She spoke as softly as a summer wind. “Let’s stay here forever.”

A part of him wanted that very badly.

Almost as much as he wanted her again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks always to A Cold Wind


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark dreams, dark wings, and dark times ahead.

**ARYA**

“Bran!” Rickon yelled their brother’s name again as he stared up at the weirwood. “Bran, it’s me!”

“Rickon, keep it down.” Arya hissed at her little brother.

The morning had a fierce chill to it yet no snow fell today. It was early though and Arya believed it likely that they’d still see some snow later or perhaps when the sun went down.

It was also likely that if Rickon kept up his shouting, the others would hear him. They were still a ways back though, for Rickon had done what he always did when they came to the godswood, bolting ahead of everyone so that they were forced to chase him. The king’s protectors were used to this by now and had a good idea of where to find him and Arya. Brienne was far back alongside Marlen but the Osha woman was right next to Rickon.

Which meant that Rickon’s shouting could be a problem. Jon, Sansa, and Arya had all agreed to keep Bran’s speaking through the weirwood, between themselves and Howland Reed.

_And if Rickon keeps yelling like that the whole bloody castle will know soon enough._

“But he won’t answer.” Rickon pouted. “It’s not fair. He talked to you and Jon. Why won’t Bran talk to me?”

“He didn’t exactly explain things…” She whispered back. “And Bran won’t talk to us either. At least, he hasn’t since that night.”

That scared Arya terribly. While she’d heard Bran crying in her head, she could smell that he was in a cold and dark place. An old place, which held things long since dead.

Or at least should be.

The night, after hearing Bran’s voice, Howland had joined Jon and Arya in sitting vigil before the weirwood. Sansa had brought Rickon to join them during the day, just so he wouldn’t pitch a fit. Little more was revealed to them in the morning light though. For the weirwood stood silent, the only visible change being the dried red tears that ran down its face.

The tears were not as they once looked. For when Arya touched them, it was not blood beneath her fingers, only sticky, red, tree sap.

“His voice was real though.” She’d argued at the time and Howland had nodded.

“I believe you.” The crannog lord had reached out to touch the tree himself, cringing a little as he did so. “Are you sure of what the voice said?”

“He said our names. Jon’s and mine.”

“He also spoke of the Wall, Howland.” Jon had added, crossing his arms and looking deep in thought. “Of the Wall falling.”

“Nothing else?” Howland asked desperately. “No other names? Meera or Jojen?”

Arya felt horrible telling the poor man the truth; that Bran hadn’t said one word about his children and, while she and Jon could cling to the hope of hearing him speak, Howland had no proof that his own children still lived.

The lord had been silent after that, his hands running along the part of the weirwood that was stained with her blood. She’d told him about hitting the tree, hoping that he would reassure her that she hadn’t done the tree, or Bran, any harm.

Not like how Rickon was trying to do now. Before she could stop him, her little brother hauled off and kicked the tree.

“Bran!” Rickon yelled, kicking it again. “Stop being such a shit and talk to me!”

“Rickon!” She scolded him. “Stop it! And don’t curse!”

“Well he won’t answer and you curse all the time!”

“I’m older!” Arya snapped back. “I’m allowed.”

A weathered laugh came from behind them as the Osha woman came to stand next to Rickon, her spear in hand.

“Little lord can be a king, rule over all he sees, but he can’t curse?” She made a face at that. “You southron are an odd folk.”

“We’re not southron.” Arya shook her head. “We’re Starks, and northmen too.”

“You all are southron to us people north of the Wall.”

Arya thought to argue but admitted to herself that the Osha woman had a point.

“Well we have direwolves and can speak through the trees.” Rickon added to Arya’s shock. “I told you Osha, Bran spoke to us!”

“I heard you, boy.” The Osha woman said as she leaned against her spear, staring at the weirwood as well. “And I told you to hush on that.”

Arya couldn’t believe her ears. They’d sworn Rickon to silence on all that had happened. He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone outside their family and Howland about Bran and his voice coming from the tree. When she whispered that reminder to the little boy he looked confused.

“Osha’s family.” Rickon spoke as if that was obvious.

“No need to worry on that she-wolf.” Osha jerked her finger back towards Brienne and Marlen. “I know better than to speak on such things around these ignorant people. I won’t betray your story, princess.”

“Don’t call me that. Don’t call my friends ignorant either.”

Just then Nymeria and Ghost ran by them, the she-wolf lightly nipping at her brother’s sides. Shaggydog whined as he watched them pass before Rickon gave a happy cry.

“Go Shaggy go!”

Rickon’s mood swung suddenly and Arya was shocked that Shaggydog actually did as the boy said, chasing after its siblings. Her brother followed quickly behind, disappearing into the trees with the wolves.

_I guess he won’t be helping me now._

_I was lucky enough to get him away from Sansa this early anyways._

Myranda had been brushing Sansa’s hair when Arya had come seeking Rickon, finding their brother still sleeping in Sansa’s bed. He hadn’t been in his chambers, so it wasn’t hard for Arya to figure out where he’d gone. It bothered her that their little brother sought out Sansa to sleep with whenever he had foul dreams.

_He could always come to my room and sleep with me. I’d even let him bring that stupid doll._

Rodwell had found the doll down in the crypts, hidden behind a statue of their grandfather, and Rickon immediately claimed it as his. It was dirty and ugly but it worked to calm Rickon whenever he had his fits. Arya had seen Rickon with it, curled up under one arm as he slept in Sansa’s bed. She had expected a fight with her sister over her interference in Sansa’s attempts to give Rickon a haircut and Arya was ready for the yelling. In truth, she thought he looked stupid with his hair as long as a girl’s, but Arya couldn’t stand letting Sansa act like she was Rickon’s mother. Her sister was already trying to steal Jon away from her with their secret kissing. Arya wouldn’t let her have their little brother too.

“The godswood?” Sansa had asked, looking annoyed at the fact that Arya had just walked in without knocking. “So early?”

“Why not? We can feed the wolves and there will be less people there this early in the morning.”  
  
Sansa had looked ready to argue again before something flashed across her face, her cheeks suddenly becoming flushed and a stupid grin pulling at her lips.

“Yes… yes, that sounds like a fine idea. He can see Shaggydog and pray. Would you take him to break his fast as well?”

“Um… sure?” She’d been surprised at how easily Sansa had been convinced. “Yes I could do that. You just put a plate in front of him and see that it goes into his mouth. I can handle that.”

“Excellent.” Sansa had smiled, catching Myranda’s hands. “No need to finish that, my lady. I think I’ll take a bath today… Jon was using them the other day, could you go ask him if they were in proper order?”

Myranda had smiled widely as well, swatting at Sansa’s arm with the brush, giggling. Then she caught Arya’s eye and her expression became more serious.

“At once, your grace, I will make sure all the preparations are made.”

Arya had thought that they were being quite stupid. They could just as easily send a servant or a steward to ask about the baths. It would’ve spared Jon from having to deal with Myranda’s too-wide smiles and stupid, bouncing breasts.

Rickon had been happy to wake up to her pulling on his leg.

He looked even happier now as he joined the three direwolves in running about the trees, giggling and laughing when one of the beasts would nip or grab at his cloak. Marlen headed towards that bit of chaos but Brienne appeared torn as to which Stark she should watch over.

_I don’t need to be guarded, I can take care of myself._

_And I want to see what else this woman knows about my family._

To do that she needed privacy, so Arya met Brienne’s gaze and inclined her head towards Rickon, patting Needle at her side. Brienne offered her a smile at that and patted Oathkeeper’s pommel before joining Marlen in watching over the little king.

“Never seen the boy this happy.” Osha grinned. “Nor the beast. Being back with their kin has done wonders for them. You lot do good by him.” The woman’s pleasant expression fell away some, her eyes flicking back to the weirwood. “It’s better for him to focus on the ones that live, not the ghosts of those lost. I’d bring him here to pray, not to search for-”

“Bran is not a ghost.” Arya struggled to keep her voice down. “He’s my brother and he’s alive.”

“Then why doesn’t he answer?” Osha sighed, reaching down to pick up one of the blood red leaves. “If the gods don’t wish to be seen or heard, they won’t be. Not even you high and mighty Starks can change that.”

“I told you, it wasn’t the gods we heard.” Arya hissed back at her. “It was Bran.”

Osha shook her head and clutched the red leaf in her hand, shifting her stance to lean on her spear some.

“He’s not here and only the gods can speak through the trees…” She spat and closed her eyes. “Might be your brother. Might be little Bran is with the gods now.”

“Don’t say that!” Arya wheeled around, her hand on Needle at her side.

Arya had never met a wildling before and Osha acted as strong as Brienne did before the likes of men. The woman was a fighter, and showed no fear before the direwolves, which marked her as more courageous than most in Arya’s eyes. Yet what Osha was implying about Bran made her question whether she could continue liking the wildling woman.

“Only the gods can speak through the trees.” Osha repeated grimly. “I can’t speak any different than to what I know.”

Arya walked forward and put her hands upon the heart tree. She slid them across the bark but only felt a tree. Nothing else.

“And what did you know of Skagos?” Arya asked as she turned to face the wildling. “You took my brother to an island full of cannibals, did you know that?”

“I come from a land where you can find some who act so wild.” Osha flicked something off her spear. “And Skagos was as far as I could think of. South wasn’t safe for your lot, so I took him across the water. I didn’t think they could cross that.”

“Who is they?”

“The Others. As bad as the Boltons and the ironmen were, you lot got no understanding of what it is to be truly scared.” The woman shivered as the wind blew. “Or to feel truly cold. To feel their cold. I’m thinking you’ll be learning soon enough though.”

“I’m a Stark. We know what cold is.”

That wasn’t really true though, as Arya had been a babe during the last winter, and all of her memories were from the long summer. They were in winter now though, and while she’d never felt so cold before, she wasn’t about to start whining about it. Besides, Arya didn’t want to believe Osha’s warnings. They had only just beaten some of the monsters, new ones couldn’t be coming for them already.

“No you don’t. I see you trying to be brave, and that’s good, but you don’t know the cold. This is nothing but there’s hints in the air.” Osha looked up to the sky. “I can feel it. Been feeling it for some time now. The same chill comes with the night, just like it was before they began to march again. My bones know it.”

“If you think the Others are coming, then why did you bring Rickon here?”

“The little beast dreamed it.” Osha laughed, her eyes following Rickon at play. “Saw his mother and father were coming north again. Coming with the quiet brother, he said. When the onion knight showed up, it seemed meant to be.”

A gust of wind came about them and Arya shivered despite herself. She didn’t want this wildling to think of her being as weak as the southrons she mocked so often. Osha barely blinked in the face of the wind and the snow whipping at them from off the branches of the heart tree.

“Might be I didn’t think Skagos was safe anymore either.” She said, finally meeting Arya’s gaze. “Few enough friends of the Starks on that island, and the ones who sheltered us didn’t think they could forever. Good to us were the Crowls, and I didn’t want to push on their kindness too long. Them Skagosi have strange views on those not from their lands. Just not safe.”

The name Crowl sounded familiar to Arya. She thought it was one Maester Luwin had spoken of during their lessons on Skagos and figured it was one of their noble houses maybe.

“Of course it wasn’t safe. Cannibals, remember?” Arya scowled and the woman laughed again.

“Not listening, she-wolf? T’wasn’t the men we fled. I was wrong about Skagos, their evil was already there. It blew across the water, their cold winds. The wights came with it, the winds brought the dead back. They’d be burned but every night new ones would come. There’ll always be more. Just like it was north of the Wall.” She looked towards Rickon. He was squealing as the direwolves pushed him down to lick at his face. “Just like it will be here.”

Arya wasn’t sure if she believed the woman. Even still, her tone did not make her sound a liar.

“You know about our dreams?” Arya asked quietly enough to ensure Marlen and Brienne wouldn’t hear but they were talking amongst themselves anyways.

Osha nodded and answered as quietly as she’d been asked.

“You lot are skin changers, wargs. Don’t be telling none of your southron friends that. Kneelers hate them more than us free folk do.”

_She’s right about that at least._

_Bloody Freys had people calling Robb a monster._

“Wargs.” Arya spat. “They call us evil and they call it warging.”

“Ugly word for it but it’s just a word. You go into a goat, you’re a skinchanger. You go into a wolf, you’re a skinchanger and a warg.” Osha made a face. “Many of the free folk hate and fear them, but my clan always thought of it like a sword. Could be bad in the hands of a bad man, good in the hands of a good one.”

“Howland said there was darkness and light in all of us.”

“The bogdwellers’ father?” Osha asked and she nodded. “He’d know. Those two knew more than most of you southron.”

“If they’re so smart, then maybe Bran is safe with them?”

“Might be I don’t think any of us is safe, girl.”

“Arya!” Rickon called as he ran towards her, filthy and covered in snow. “Let me hold your sword.”

“No, Rickon. It’s dangerous.” Arya sighed as she turned back to continue speaking with Osha. Then she felt a tug at her waist. Rickon was trying to pull Needle from her scabbard. His face was alive with childish glee as the blade began to come loose.

“Rickon! No!” Arya put her hand on the hilt and spun away from his grip.

He lost his balance for a second and then glared at her. Rickon made to grab for it again and she smacked his hand away. Then she heard the growl and saw Shaggydog moving towards her.

“Give it! I want a sword!”

“Little lord, don’t you…” Osha said but another growl from behind cut off her words. “Oh gods.”

Nymeria growled again as she slowly advanced by Osha towards Rickon and Shaggydog. Her teeth were bared and her hair was standing straight up.

“Arya?” Brienne called in a worried tone and Marlen cursed a moment later.

Arya ignored them all, for she had locked eyes with Shaggydog. The direwolf’s bright green eyes gazed into hers, his teeth were showing in threat, but there was something in his eyes that seemed familiar. Before Arya knew what she was doing, she had started moving towards him slowly. The wolf growled again as she approached, Nymeria answering it with her own as Ghost moved in behind Shaggydog, completely silent.

The wolves were all just warning each other, letting everyone know their stance. Deep down Arya knew that. Just as she knew what it was that she saw in Shaggydog’s eyes. When she was close enough to feel the direwolf’s breath against her cheeks, when she could almost see herself in his eyes, she stopped.

“Rickon, does Shaggydog know me?” Arya asked softly. Shaggydog didn’t move but she heard small footsteps in the snow coming towards her.

“Yes.” Rickon answered.

“Does Shaggydog want to hurt me?”

“No…”

“Do you want to hurt me?” She heard a sound like a small foot kicking at some snow then.

“I just wanted to see your sword.” Rickon mumbled. “Daecon had his own sword and he was only a little older...”

“Who is Daecon?”

“He’s my friend!” Rickon answered happily but she didn’t look away from the green eyes of the black direwolf. “We lived in his fort and we would hunt with Shaggydog and wrestle! He had a sword and he let me try it.”

“Aye, he did.” Osha said. “He gave you a right hard smack when you tried to keep it, much harder than your sister would hit you now. Remember that, boy?”

Rickon didn’t answer and Shaggydog had stopped baring his teeth.

“You know I’d never hurt you.” Arya spoke as much to Rickon as to the black direwolf. “Direwolves don’t hurt each other. Starks don’t hurt each other. No matter how wild we are.”

Shaggydog took a step forward then, his fangs now but a hair’s distance from her face. She heard Marlen gasp and Brienne shouted her name but she kept her eyes on Shaggydog’s eyes, green eyes that somehow looked so much like Rickon’s light blue right then.

Her thoughts turned to her wolf dreams, where she saw her pack in strange places. Arya did her best to focus on them as Shaggydog and she gazed at each other.

 _You know me,_  she thought,  _and I know you._

_We’ve been away so long but I’d never hurt you and you’d never hurt me._

Something changed then. It felt as if she slipped away, changing places all of sudden without even moving.

_Now she saw herself and Shaggydog staring at each other. Others were gathered around, the quiet brother too. All the people were scared and she’d been ready to protect what was hers. But there was no danger now._

_The wild brother no longer threatened and she could sense him calming._

“Hey!” Arya cried out as a wet warm tongue broke her from her spell.

She reached up to cup the sides of Shaggydog’s head and, for a moment, was surprised she had hands. The direwolf kept up his licking attack and she began laughing and pushing away at the beast.

“We’d never hurt you.” Rickon said quietly as he came to stand beside them and gazed at her with a curious expression. “You’re the wild sister. I dreamed about…”

“Hush now.” She cut him off, glancing at the others who were still gathered about, gaping at what they just saw. “Not here.”

“Oh right. I promised.” Rickon smiled sheepishly.

“And what did you promise Sansa?” She asked after pushing away Shaggydog’s face and straightening her back so that she could look down at her little brother. “Before we came here today?”

“To be good but you won’t share. It’s not fair.”

“You’re a Stark, your grace. Starks keep their word no matter how unfair something might be.” Brienne spoke up and Arya nodded, gesturing down to Needle.

“This is my sword, Rickon. Jon gave it to me. If you are good, and keep your promises, I will give you a sword.”

“My own sword?” Rickon looked up at her hopefully. “Can it be bigger than Daecon’s was?”

“If you are good. Is trying to take my sword good?”

The boy looked down then, mumbling something and Osha laughed. This all emboldened her to continue on.

“And if you are truly good, and Sansa says that it’s okay, you can learn to fight in the practice yard.”

Rickon jumped up at that and Shaggydog leapt as well, causing Brienne and Marlen to start.

“Osha! I’m going to learn how to fight with swords!” Rickon yelled at the woman as if she wasn’t standing and listening to everything Arya had been saying.

As Rickon continued to yammer on to the wildling about swords and shields and knights, Brienne moved up close to Arya and whispered.

“The boy is much too young, Arya. Your sister would not approve.” Her voice was low but Rickon was laughing loudly as Osha mockingly poked at him with the butt of her spear.

“She’d say yes to a wooden sword.” Arya thought she would at least, but she made herself a promise that Rickon would learn to protect himself.

 _I’ll help him,_  she thought,  _it’s only fair because there’s something I need his help with._

She waited a bit longer to snatch Rickon away from Osha, leading him away from the weirwood, explaining to the others that they needed to let Nymeria and Shaggydog calm some. The wolves did follow of course, although they continued on deeper into the godswood without them. When Osha and Brienne were far enough away she leaned down to whisper to her brother.

“Show me how to go into the wolf. Like you do.”

Rickon looked surprised, scratching his head and scrunching up his nose.

“You don’t know how? But you’re older… Bran could do it better than me...”

“I can do it, I can.” She felt like an idiot for asking a five year old to help her with this. “I just can’t do it awake like you can. You were in Shaggydog back there, I saw you. How did you do it?”

Rickon annoyed her even more by giggling and pointing out among the trees, the way the wolves had gone. Apparently he didn’t realize how much it bothered her to ask for his help. She was his older sister, she was supposed to be teaching him.  
  
“You just reach for him… or her I guess. Not with your hands, just use your thoughts.” Rickon tapped on his head. “Reach for her and pretend you’re putting on a mask. A wolf mask!”

“A wolf mask?”

Rickon nodded, clearly not realizing how stupid he sounded. He reached out and took hold of her hand then, smiling and squeezing tight.

“I’ll show you.”

With that she caught the slightest flicker in Rickon’s eyes, as if they paled all of a sudden. Then he had this placid, calm look on his face, as if he was daydreaming. When Rickon kept staring off into nothing, she decided to give it a shot. Instead of keeping her eyes open though, she closed them. Trying to picture Nymeria, pretending she was flying through the godswood searching for her. Then she felt a pull from Rickon’s hands, though she knew he hadn’t moved.

In her mind she found Nymeria. She didn’t try to imagine where the wolf was, just the beast itself. The wolf alone in a sea of black, her yellow eyes gazing back at Arya. Then she reached for her, without her hands like Rickon said, grasping for the wolf and slipping the mask on.

Slipping the skin of the wolf over her own.

 _The smell of the ironwoods and sentinels was welcome to her, though those tree words felt strange in her mind somehow. The trees helped cover the scents of men that filled the entire rock den. Having so many men around bothered her even still._  

_The savage brother was no longer bothered though. He had kept his distance after challenging her, yet now returned to her side, lowering his snout in obedience. They moved through the trees together, sniffing, taking note of which parts had been defiled by man presence and which parts the rodents had made dens._

_That would be food for when snows kept them from hunting beyond the man rock._  

_The savage brother went on to follow the quiet one, who had found a den of interest at the base of an old elm. She had found something of greater interest, for some welcome scents came to her then. Just ahead were two men she did not hate. They were not threats and sometimes would even throw meat to her._

_The two of them were about an old pine. The smaller one sat against it, rubbing a rock against his metal man tooth. The larger one stood close by, his scent was the most welcome to her mind yet it was tinged with worry._

_Man growls came from both of them. More familiar to her than usual._

_“Something has to change.” The larger one growled. “It can’t go on like this.”_

_“I heard Rodwell say they always acted like this, even when they were little girls.” The smaller one growled back, his eyes focused downward on his metal man tooth._

_“I mean it, Pod. It’s like I said before, if she keeps up her battling with Princess Sansa she’s gonna get herself locked up in a tower.”_

_“They fight a lot but I don’t think the regent would lock her in a tower.” The smaller one growled back, yet her mind told her it was not growling, he was laughing. “It would rain gowns again.”_

_She dropped low, circling the pair in an ever tightening arc, listening to their sounds the whole time._

_“Fight a lot? Pod, we’ve been in fights but they’re at war. Ser Jon’s on Arya’s side and all but I don’t think it’s a war she can win. Maybe not even one she should win…”_

_That made her want to growl for some reason. Their speaking didn’t make her feel at ease like their scents did._

_“Is it weird for you?” The small one growled again. “With Ser Jon?”_

_“What? Why would it be? I’m just guarding his rooms for him. I’m honored to do it."_  

_“Well with his father being Prince Rhaegar and yours being King Robert…”_

_“Oh.”_

_The large man grew silent then._ _Not as silent as her though. She moved through some brush, getting even closer to the men. Neither one had noticed her and she wanted to keep it that way. Her paws pressed down upon the snow yet it did not crunch, for she was a hunter. Were these men her prey, they would already be dead._

 _They weren’t prey though._ _Far from prey._ _They were pack._

 _“I never knew my father.” The large one spoke. “Ser Jon never knew his. Both those men are dead and we’re fighting for the Starks now. If he wished me harm, why would he help me when I was hurt fighting Ramsay Snow?"_  

_Something about their growls almost caused one to break forth from her. The last growls, they angered her. They made her think of a man’s head she couldn’t remember ever seeing. She never went on the high walls on the stone den._

_“I didn’t mean he wanted to hurt you. I just meant, is it strange for you?”_

_“Who cares about that?” The large one shook his head and turned to look at the small one. “I wasn’t talking about my shitty father, I was talking about Arya.”_

_“You always are.” The small one mumbled._  

 _“Pod, I’m serious. Maybe we should talk to Brienne, get her to make Arya see reason. If we try and get Arya to act more, I don’t know, lady-like? If we try to talk to her ourselves, we’re likely to become chock full of needle holes.”_  

_The large one kicked at pinecone, sending it rolling towards her, so she froze. The one who kicked it, she wanted to think of him as Gendry. The small one was Pod, taller than he had been a few moons ago but still the small one in her mind. It just felt natural now to call them by such names. Gendry and Pod. Her pack. Her friends._

_“Things aren’t like they were on the road. When it was just us.” Gendry kicked another pinecone. “Arya’s got to see, she’s not like us. She’s a princess but she’s not the princess in charge so she can’t do whatever she wants. We train together, we eat together, we walk about the grounds together…”_

_Gendry paused then. He smiled but he smelled sad._

_“But we can only do those things because Princess Sansa lets us. Anywhere else, you and I would be lashed for being so friendly with a highborn like her, or at least beaten a little. Anywhere else, Arya would be locked away with all the other highborns-”_

_“Or married off.” Pod scraped at his sword again. “Most houses get rid of their second daughters as fast they can.”_  

 _Gendry’s scent changed then. It was a smell she recognized in the men she hunted. It was the smell they had when they knew death was on their heels, when she didn’t bother trying to hide her approach like she did now._  

 _When they were afraid._  

 _“I hadn’t even thought of that…” Gendry shook his head. “Arya sent off to marry some lord fancy-arse of high-fort something. Sent somewhere else.”_  

 _“Maybe she could marry a knight.” Pod offered. “One that earns his spurs in battle. Who gets the respect of others through deeds, not blood. Makes them all forget about him being a bastard. Like Ser Jon did. A son of a king maybe.”_  

 _“Hey what-what are you on about? Stop talking such shit!”_  

 _Gendry took a threatening step towards the small man, causing her to tense. If they hurt one another she’d stop them. These two were hers, no one could hurt them._  

 _Not even themselves._  

 _“I’m just trying to keep us together and you’re-you’re- what the hell?” Gendry raged. “Trying to make me think I can be more than a hedge knight or maybe a household guard? That Ser Jon being the trueborn son of a prince and a highborn lady is the same thing as being the by-blow of some shitty drunk of a king and a lowborn woman that he tossed aside like so much shit!”_  

 _Pod raised his hands up in defense. She smelt no fear from him but he still deferred to the larger man. Gendry’s anger was up though and he continued on._  

_“She’s a princess Pod! Do you get that? She’s not just highborn, she’s royalty! Maybe- maybe Edric Dayne could’ve had her, but all she’ll ever be to me is a princess! I can bow to her. I can fight for her. I can serve… I can… well I can’t love her. I can’t.”_

_“Sorry.” Pod said simply, lowering his head back to his work. “It’s not an easy thing to love a princess.”_

_“You have to know better than that. Saying such things, it- it’s folly is what that is…”_

_“It’s just nice to hope is all. Sometimes it’s all you have to get through the hard times.”_

_“Hope? There’s a difference between hoping and fooling yourself. Putting your heart out there, hoping the world will give you what you want, it will only make it harder when it gives you what it’s supposed to. Trust me, I know.”_

_“I know what hope is, Gendry.” Pod stopped cleaning his sword again. Staring up at the larger man, this time he challenged him. “You think I could spend that time with the Boltons and not know what hope is?"_  

_Now she smelt fear coming from Pod. A deep, panicked fear, like the kind that came from prey animals, not men. Like deer or hares._

_“That’s got nothing to do with this. That was different.”_

_“Hope had everything to do with it!” Pod snapped. “What they did to those people… women and children… the ones that begged me to help them. I begged too. I begged for those people. I begged for me… for them to leave me be... I prayed for us all. Prayed you’d all come for me…”_

_“Oh fuck Pod, we tried.” Gendry reached for him but was stopped as Pod swung his sword between them._

_“And I hoped!” The boy rose up, shoving a finger in Gendry’s face. “I hoped I’d see my lady again. That I’d see Arya and you again. How I’d get a chance to kill all of those monsters with my own hands…”_ _He threw his sword down and drew a dagger, causing her to whine in fear that he meant to hurt their friend. Neither noticed her as Pod held the weapon between them._ _“I got to kill the one who held me down. I found him in the battle! My hope came true! I got to kill him with this.” Pod jerked the dagger before Gendry’s face. “It doesn’t stop the dreams but I did it! Just like I hoped! I found all of you too! I hope to see my princess too someday and I want to always keep hoping. I am what I am, I know that! She won’t have me… no woman would… not after what they did to me…”_  

 _“Pod…”_  

_“But I can hope.” The young man almost whispered. “Don’t tell me I can’t. Please, Gendry. Not you.”_

_Pod lowered the dagger just as Gendry put his hand upon the boy’s shoulders. She felt a deep sadness inside her. Not as bad as when her brother and sister had been lost, yet it was a sadness all the same. She almost wanted to howl and share it with the world._  

_“Shit, I’m sorry… you hope all you want.” Gendry said quietly, moving his hand to grasp the back of Pod’s head, leaning forward to look into his eyes. “Forget what I was saying. You go on and hope. Hope for a princess if you want to.”_

_“She’s far away and someone else’s.” Pod wiped at his eyes. “I can dream though, I can pretend I’m not ruined.”_

_“Hey, what they did to you-”_

_“Don’t. Please don’t.” Pod shook his head, almost desperately. “I shouldn’t have told you about that…”_

_“That wasn’t your fault... no one blames Lady Jeyne for what she was forced to do and…”_

_She didn’t hear the rest._

_Loud noises were coming from somewhere else in the wood. From where the bone tree was, where she’d heard the powerful brother speaking in the cold, dark place. This was different though. These were men howling… shouting in fear and the breeze blowing through the trees brought a scent that caused her to growl._

_She was bounding back in that direction as quick as she could. The shouting continued but she heard the startled cries of Gendry and Pod behind her. The snaps of twigs and the crunching of snow caused her to jerk her heads to the side. Black and white blurs were moving in the same direction as her. Her brothers had heard what she heard._

_They had smelt the blood as well._ _The shouting became louder, far louder than it should be for she was still far off. It sounded as if it was right around the next copse of trees._

 _Suddenly she felt as if someone was touching her._ _Shaking her._

Then Arya was back in her own skin, the world blurry at first but the shouting coming to her ears clearly.

As was the feeling of Brienne’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her back and forth.

“Arya, what is wrong?” The lady sounded panicked, her eyes wide with concern. “Arya!”

“What? Nothing…” She croaked out for her mouth felt dry.

Rickon was still beside her but wrapped up in Osha’s arms, his face sheltered within her cloak. The wildling was gazing back towards the heart tree, towards the shouting. Brienne was blocking her view but she could hear Marlen yelling clear enough.

“My lord, stop this!”

“Where are they?” A familiar voice shouted. “Tell me! Gods, tell me!”

“Keep his eyes away.” Brienne commanded of Osha as she tried to enfold Arya into a similar kind of embrace. “Arya, this is not for you to see…”

“See what? What’s happening?”

She dropped low quickly and rolled away, just as Syrio Forel had taught her to do. Her friend cursed to lose her grip but Arya hoped she was proud too, of how fast she moved. When she gained her feet, that thought fell away.

For what Arya saw at the heart tree was horrifying.

Howland Reed was naked but for some thin breeches, looking as if he’d just woken up and come running out to the godswood without changing. His chest was smeared with blood, drawn in some sort of strange shape. A strange and jagged bronze knife was in one of his hands, coated in red. Marlen was doing his best to restrain his lord, holding the wrist of the hand wielding the knife. Howland’s face was streaked with tears and his eyes were wild as he struggled against Marlen, running his free arm all about the bark of the weirwood.

The reason Howland was so bloody became clear enough.

 _Marlen’s holding the wrong wrist_ , she thought,  _it’s the free one that will kill Howland._

A bloody gash was laid across Howland’s wrist, the man doing his best to smear his running blood across the heart tree’s face.

“My children! Tell me!” Howland screamed. “Jojen! Meera! I’m here!”

“The blade my lord, please!” Marlen yelled back.

By then Brienne had wrapped her arms about Arya, whipping her around and away from the sight. That gave her a perfect view of the direwolves slowly ambling up around the group, as if to protect them from what went on before the tree.

_We don’t need to be protected. We don’t need help._

_Howland needs help._

“Help him!” She looked up to Brienne. “I’m fine, just go help him!”

Brienne shook her head and gripped her all the tighter as Howland continued to scream the names of his children.

“I’ve no idea what is happening here so I will not leave your side. Others will come. This commotion will be heard.”

“I can take care of myself!” Arya yelled back.

Brienne ignored her, her head jerking up to gaze deeper into the godswood. A relieved expression came over her face before she threw her arm back, pointing towards Howland.

“Gendry! Pod! Help Marlen!” Brienne yelled as both Gendry and Podrick appeared, red-faced and quite confused.

The confusion quickly turned to horror when they saw the scene at the weirwood. It took Arya and Brienne both shouting at them to break the spell, the pair running on by. She managed to squirm and writhe about enough to watch what unfolded next from under Brienne’s arm.

While Gendry ran forth to wrap his own powerful arms around Howland’s free one, Pod pried the blade from the lord’s grasp. Tossing it away, the three men managed to pull Howland down to the ground. While Gendry and Pod pinned him there, Marlen ripped off his cloak and began tying it about Howland’s bleeding wrist. The whole time the lord was still reaching towards the weirwood.

“I saw it… I saw Jojen. He was in darkness… he was with the bones, he had become bones… his touch was so cold.” Howland wept. “Speak to me I beg you… tell me of my boy… tell me of my Meera…”

Nothing was speaking to the crannogman though. The leaves of the weirwood moved some, but this time it was only the wind. Other trees moved with it as well, the whole godswood was quiet save for Howland’s sobbing and begging.

“Do you smell it?”

Rickon’s small voice pulled her eyes back to her little brother, his face still pressed against Osha yet with one eye seeking her.

“It’s in the air… do you smell it?”

Arya didn’t have to ask what he meant, for she did smell it. As clearly as she could hear men rushing towards them from all around the godswood, she could smell what wafted through the air now.

The smell of blood.

And of fear. 

**SANSA**  

Howland was finally resting, though his face was slack and far too pale yet she was thankful he was even still breathing. He lay asleep now in his bed, thickly bundled in blankets. Sansa glanced down to his bandaged wrist, feeling sick to her stomach as she remembered the sight of Maester Medrick sewing it shut.

“Oh, Howland.”

Her words were barely above a whisper as Sansa dabbed at the crannogman’s brow with a damp cloth. The poor lord had lost so much blood that the maester had been unwilling to say for certain that he would survive the night. Had Medrick not been called away to tend to some ravens that had arrived during the night, she’d have him by Howland’s side even now.

“How could you do this?” She asked, wiping at Howland’s brow. “We’ve come so far together. Why try and leave us now?”

Sansa knew part of the reason at least. From what Arya and the others had told her as well as from what she’d heard from Howland’s ramblings as he was being tended to. Her trusted lord had dreamed one of his greendreams, one so horrible and terrifying that it had broken his spirits. Possibly even his sanity.

For the dream had brought him to cut into himself, spilling his blood upon the heart tree while screaming for the gods to speak to him.

“None of you shall breathe a word of this to anyone!” Sansa had commanded of those who had witnessed this, including Rickon and Arya. “Not a word!”

Brienne and Osha had nodded without hesitation, Marlen putting a hand to his chest as he swore to it. Ser Gendry and Podrick had seemed confused yet nodded quickly enough while her siblings had been more difficult. Rickon’s arms were tight around her waist and she’d been patting his head as lovingly as she could, hiding her panic. That he’d seen such a thing bothered Sansa to no end.

“It was like Maester Luwin.” Rickon had said. “He was bleeding by the tree too…”

“Hush now.” She’d bent down to lift the boy up, letting his arms wrap around her neck. “Lord Reed just had an accident. He mishandled his dagger is all.”

“What?” Arya had challenged her. “We can’t pretend that didn’t happen. Sansa he tried to-”

“It was an accident!” She hissed at her sister, clutching at Rickon’s head, willing Arya to understand. “Arya, hear me. If you wish to talk about it we can do so later. When we are alone.”

Arya’s mouth had opened to challenge her some more but Brienne had whispered something quickly to the girl. When she finished Arya quieted as well, finally nodding in assent to Sansa’s decree. Whatever the lady’s words had been, they’d quieted her sister and for that, Sansa deemed Brienne invaluable. Jeyne had been just as helpful when she came to escort Rickon back to his chambers, for it allowed Osha the chance to speak with her.

To offer her own explanation of what happened.

“Blood offering. That’s what he was doing.” The wildling woman had said when they were alone, Sansa peeking through the door crack to watch the maester tending to Howland. “The markings on his chest? Runes from the old tongue, though ones I never saw before. He wanted to get the gods’ attention.”

“By cutting himself? By risking his life?”

Osha had nodded, her face becoming grim.

“That was how the old ones would do it. Animal blood was enough for some but for the true believers, they would take a blade to their enemies. Maybe even their own people.” With that Osha mimicked a cut across her throat. “It was how the Children of the Forest did it. Something had to be given to get the gods to give back. I’m guessing the lord wasn’t willing to bleed another to get what he wanted so…”

The whole conversation had sickened her. The idea of Howland bleeding himself before the heart tree, screaming in desperation and grief while she had been in the baths with Jon, it made Sansa feel sick with guilt.

They’d been lost to their passions; all the while the man they owed for their happiness had been lost to his sorrows.

Jon and she had already made love once before the news came. His seed had still been warm against her thighs when Jon entered her again. She was still surprised at how often they were able to continue even after Jon had found his release. From what rare tales she’d had from Myranda and other women, men were supposed to tire or grow distant after they did their duty. Jon never seemed to tire of her body nor did he ever venture far from her, his lips and hands always touching her in some new and delightful way.

They had moved away from the bath for their second bout of passion. Jon had pressed her against wall, Sansa brushing away burnt-out candles so she could sit upon a ledge. She remembered as his manhood drove into her with slow, deep strokes. Jon always moved more slowly the second time, and while Sansa took great pleasure in his wild rutting, reveling in how she caused Jon to lose his constant composure, she always felt their slower pace brought them both to a sweeter, more loving place.

A place where they were both safe.

The pain from their first night together was a distant memory now, the warmth and wetness that always came about her sex was a welcome replacement. Her mouth had been sealed to his, her eyes closed to focus on her peak. Sansa’s moans had mingled with his grunts in a way that hid Myranda’s hurried approach towards the door until she was pounding upon it.

It shamed Sansa that rather than dressing and running as soon as she’d heard of Howland, she’d needed to seek the baths first. Jon had been confused to see her doing so, almost disappointed, until Sansa had pointed out that she did not in fact smell like a woman who had been bathing and instead smelled of sweat and other things. She only dropped within the water and scrubbed furiously for a few moments though, her mind not allowing her to delay any longer.

Sansa had needed to cover up the evidence of their love-making for the same reason she’d sworn the others to lie about what happened with Howland. People suspecting that Sansa had a lover could be just as harmful to her regency as people thinking Howland had gone mad. He was their most stalwart supporter and loyal advisor, the one who defended her claim before all others. She was willing to have others lie to protect him.

 _Besides it is not truly lying_ , she thought,  _for Jon is my betrothed, not a lover._

_And Howland is not mad, only the victim of hardships that most men will never endure._

Sansa would protect her lord from any further hardships, just as he had protected them for so long. He was to be Rickon’s Hand or the King after all, and she still had every intention of naming him to such a station.

“You are the only one we would have.” She sighed, letting the cloth in her hand fall away so she could press her lips against Howland’s cheek. “So you will live, my lord. You will live to do what you must.”  His skin felt cool and clammy against her lips, Sansa fighting back tears as she pulled away, wringing the cloth about in her hands. “There are children who need you still… children who love you.”

Howland didn’t answer her charge. He only breathed shallowly with his sad, pale face. She stared at that face for some time, fearful that Howland’s eyes would never open again but almost equally fearful that they would. If he awoke and was still gripped by madness, she didn’t know if she could face that.

A knocking came from the door and she was shaken from her thoughts. Sansa beckoned the visitor within and was not surprised to see that it was Jon. After he’d snuck out of the baths through the servant’s entrance, Jon had joined the rest in waiting for word of Howland’s health outside his chambers. It had become crowded, with many crannogmen wishing to know the condition of their lord.

“There’s hundreds more gathered outside the keep.” Myranda had told them. “All sorts of rumors flying about. Some are saying the direwolves attacked him.”

“Nonsense.” Sansa had said and Maege had cursed to hear such a claim before turning to Jon.

“You should go and speak to them.”

“Me?” Jon been taken aback. “Surely Marlen or one of the crannog lords-”

“None of them are kin to the Starks, and none of them have commanded the Neck forces in Howland’s stead.” Maege argued, pushing at Jon to urge him down the corridor. “Dragon or not, those men trust you. Go and put their minds at ease. Howland would ask it of you if he could.”

Jon had not balked after hearing Maege say such things. Her true knight had gone forth to face the worried crannogmen and, while she had not seen him since, she didn’t worry. Jon would handle all their troubles as he always did. The expression on his face worried her now though. Behind him she saw Maester Medrick and a few of Howland’s men, who were all doing their best to see within.

“Medrick, it is good you are here but Jon, Howland is in no state to have visitors.” Sansa kept her tone low, not wishing to offend the men.

“They are not here to visit, they’ve come to tend to Howland.” Jon walked forward and offered his hand to her. “There’s news Sansa. News you must hear at once.”

A glance to the maester caused him to nod in earnest, two parchments clutched in his hands.

“Your grace, I suggest we call a meeting of your council at once.” Medrick looked to the men behind him. “The king’s lords should hear this.”

As hard as it was to leave Howland’s side, Medrick’s grave manner told her it was necessary. So she placed another kiss on Howland’s brow and let his men take over her vigil, journeying onward with Jon and the maester to the meeting room. Soon enough, stewards were running all about the castle, collecting the leaders of Rickon’s forces to them.

Sansa had sent for Myranda as well, for her friend’s insights and judgments as much as to prevent some other lord from taking Howland’s seat beside her. Jon took the seat to her right with the Greatjon sitting beside him. Lord Wyman moved his girth into the seat beside Myranda and the rest of the seats were filled by Willem, Robett Glover, Maege, and Ser Symond.

The maester stood at the opposite end of the table, awaiting her signal to begin reading. When she gave her assent, Medrick cleared his throat, focusing the room’s attention on him.

“A raven arrived from the south during the night. I apologize for the delay in discovering it, I had only just awoken when I was called to Lord Reed’s side-”

“We do not blame you for helping our dear lord.” She eased his mind. “Please, speak to what news has come.”

“Of course your grace. This message came from Riverrun.” The maester nodded, unfolding the bit of parchment and squinting to read it. “Lord Jason Mallister writes that it has been retaken from the Freys and Lannisters.”

“Har!” The Greatjon yelled, smacking the table happily as Ser Symond and Robett reacted just joyfully.

“Quiet!” Maege snapped, her expression full of the same worry that clutched at Sansa’s heart. The lady then giving voice to the questions she feared to ask. “You say Lord Jason sent this letter? Not the Blackfish?”

“It is Lord Mallister who has penned these words, as he has taken command of the Riverlords, and he has dire news concerning Ser Brynden... and Lord Edmure Tully.”

 _Oh no._ _Oh please no…_

“He writes to Queen Sansa.” The maester now read. “We rejoice to hear of the survival of your brothers. It was a bright light in darks times. Forgive the lateness of my writing, and for souring the joy of Riverrun’s capture with what I must share with you. Ser Brynden suffered great injuries in taking the castle and soon after went missing. We fear him taken by turncloaks or outlaws.”

_No that can’t be right. Uncle Brynden was so strong. So cunning._

_No one could capture him, he wouldn’t let them. He’s alive and well. He must be._

As Sansa’s hopes wrestled with what the maester said, the man pressed on, his shoulders slumping as he did so.

“I also bear the foul duty of telling you that we have had word from the capital.The Mad Queen Cersei has ordered your uncle Edmure’s head off at Casterly Rock. We have heard nothing of it from the west, but I fear your uncle lost. Riverrun is once again for the Tullys but there are no Tullys left to rule here. We fight the Lannisters still but we await word of what…”

“Stop.” Sansa managed to choke out. “For just a moment, I beg you.”

She was doing her best not to weep at the news. Sansa folded her hands in her lap and stared at the wall over Measter Medrick’s shoulder, trying to keep her face still. This had not been a tale she was prepared for.

 _You never knew Edmure,_ she scolded herself _, to cry for a man you have never met would look weak._

_And they are all watching. They are all looking to you to be strong._

Myranda touched her arm as Ser Symond muttered something that the Greatjon nodded at. She felt Jon’s gaze on her but she couldn’t meet it then. Finding his beautiful grey eyes full of comfort and love would break her now.

And Sansa had to be strong.

“May the mother guide their way.” Lord Wyman said to no one in particular, closing his eyes and bowing his head.

“We do not know they are dead.” Jon countered, some anger in his voice. “The Blackfish survived much and more in his time. There’s a chance he lives. A chance Lord Edmure lives as well.”

“Lord Mallister writes more.” Medrick offered. “I think perhaps the regent should read it herself.”

She nodded numbly at the suggestion and the parchment was passed down to her. Reading the parts about her uncles again helped little. Neither did reading further.

_‘We fight the Lannisters still but we await word of what many of the Riverlords have decided in regards to King Stannis. Lords Blackwood and Frey are ready to join me in declaring for Stannis, as you asked us to, but with the loss of the Tully men and Lady Roslin’s babe still unborn, the question of succession complicates matters. King Rickon is now the heir to Riverrun and the liege lord of the Riverlands. Unless he abdicates those titles, I cannot see how we could name Stannis as our king. With the Vale army we may be able to hold the Lannisters at the Golden Tooth. I fear they are regrouping further south, preparing a march along the Gold Road to strike at Stoney Sept.  Darry is ours, Stone Hedge is ours. The ironmen still ravage the Reach._

_Please send word to Riverrun,_

_Lord Jason Mallister.’_

The second part of the letter was easier for Sansa to deal with. Those matters were all part of the game of thrones, not of dead or lost kin. The cool and calculated reasoning she could apply to those matters helped numb her mind to the thoughts of Brynden murdered, hanging from some tree. Of Roslin’s baby growing up without a father.

_Or of her babe being born at all._

_Nothing’s certain in this world, the birth of that babe least of all._

She shared the news with the others with a kind of strange numbness. The last half of the letter had the opposite effect on the council than it did on her. They all seemed troubled at its contents.

“The matter of Riverrun… it was unexpected.” Robett drank of his wine. “Mallister is right, it complicates things.”

“It doesn’t.” She said firmly. “Not until there is proof of my uncles’ deaths. Not while Lady Roslin carries Edmure’s heir.”

“What if it all goes foul?” Ser Symond asked. “Then the King in the North is also liege lord of the Riverlands. Late King Robb’s Kingdom of the Trident is returned to the Starks. Stannis will obviously not accept that.”

“The Queen is right!” Lord Wyman declared, swishing his goblet. “This is a matter that can be dealt with at another time. The dark words this letter carried were grave indeed, yet there is good news there too.”

“My lord.” Jon protested before Maege could, yet Lord Wyman held up his hand.

“Hear me now. This letter tells us much that can be celebrated. For now the Lannisters are pressed from all sides and their dominion continues to shrink.  They hold sway over the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands and even that is tentative. With the ironmen reaving up the Mander and the Vale threatening the Crownlands, we have little to fear of an attack coming here in the North.”

The Greatjon grunted agreement at that and she saw that Maege and Robett appeared won over as well. Sansa knew then that Lord Wyman was correct in trying to pull what good could be found in the letter. The man had a shrewd mind and had backed her without hesitation.

She would remember that.

Just as she remembered the second raven which had come during Howland’s episode. The one Medrick was staring at, almost trembling as he held it within his grasp. She knew little of this one, only that it had not come from the south.

_Surely it cannot be worse than what we’ve heard._

_It cannot be._

“Maester, the other letter.” She urged him on. “You said it was of importance.”

“It is… yes, of grave importance. Perhaps I should have read it first. It comes from Last Hearth…”

“My castle?” The Greatjon shouted rather than questioned. “By the gods man, get on with it then!”

“Of course! Yes, my lord!” Medrick almost jumped, beginning to read hurriedly. “It comes from your maester. He writes that the party sent to Castle Black has returned. It says there was a mutiny at the Wall. The Lord-Commander was- was k-killed by his own men. There are a small number of sworn brothers still loyal, so the Night’s Watch still hold gate. A great many wildlings are approaching the Wall. An army is needed at once. The Others have been seen…”

“Shut up!” The Greatjon roared, the maester shrinking back in fear, just as many others did at what he’d just spewed forth.

Sansa was speechless at the news herself, yet it was nothing compared to how Maege reacted. The lady, a veteran of scores of battles and stronger than many men Sansa knew, had slumped back in her chair, gripping at her face. The color draining from her face.

“My brother is dead.” Maege asked, lowering her head. “Jeor dead… His men killed him? His own men.”

“He was a good man.” Jon surprised Sansa by reaching out to lightly touch his hand to Maege’s shoulder. “I met him two years ago on a journey to the Wall and thought him a fine man when I met him. Strong and wise, a true Northman.”

“Aye Maege.” The Greatjon drained his cup. “A strong sort, Jeor Mormont. Bested me in fists once when I was a boy. I acted bigger than I was, gave him less respect than was owed. Beat me bloody and I deserved it. He deserved better.”

Sansa was usually good with words, able to give speeches and rally her men when they needed it. Yet the task of comforting Maege on losing her older brother made her tongue dry in her mouth. No one had been able to comfort her when news of Robb and mother’s deaths had come. Instead of thinking of kind words to say, she thought of Robb and of what the Roose Bolton and Freys had done to him.

Then she thought of her uncle Brynden again. The strong old knight she’d hugged so tightly after the Battle for the Twins. He’d survived hell to embrace her, and now he was lost as well.

“The Wall.” Jon spoke up then, his eyes wide and fearful. “We need to reinforce the token force holding Castle Black. That castle is key to holding the Wall. If it’s attacked in such a state by wildlings or even the Others, the Wall will fall.”

“Forget the bloody Lannisters.” Willem added. “If what we were hearing about the Others was true, that’s not a threat I’d be letting loose into these lands.”

“By the gods.” Robett put a hand to his head and looked to the Greatjon and Maege in desperation. “All our strength is here. Mormont, Umber, Glover, even the bloody mountain clans… there’s nothing to hold back a threat up there from coming south. Nothing but the Night’s Watch and the Wall.”

“Stannis could help but he heads to the Nightfort, not Castle Black, and he has no idea of what’s happened.”

Lord Wyman’s words were lost to Sansa as her father’s words from many years ago echoed in her mind. She thought of the countless speeches and praises he had for the Night’s Watch.

_‘The Starks have always been friends of the Watch.’_

_‘We helped build the Wall. We help hold the Wall. For the good of the North. For the good of the realm.’_

“We must hold the Wall.” She found her voice then, her words cutting through the chatter of the lords. “The Night’s Watch is weakened and vulnerable. Our army is rested and fed. I swore I would put the North to rights, and if the Wall falls, my brother’s kingdom will be threatened.”

_And Bran is at the Wall. Or beyond it._

_Whichever it is, my brother is north, my brother who should be king. His army should go north to find their king._

“We must prepare for a march to the Wall.” Sansa declared. “Immediately.”

Many of the lords nodded quickly at that, yet Jon looked troubled. Before she could spare a thought to his worries though, discussion quickly rose up again.

“We already prepare a small force for Castle Black, are we to wait and send our entire army at once?”

“Our whole army to one castle? What if the Lannisters do risk an attack? Or the reavers return?”

“Castle Black needs help as soon as possible We should send a hundred or so men on the fastest, sturdiest horses.”

“What of the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea?”

“Bugger them! They were as clueless as we were!”

Sansa was becoming overwhelmed by the shouting. Usually she could pick out the few strategies put before her by calm men, yet this was almost a panic. No one man suggested the same thing. Myranda was quite lost at all of it, Maege was still mired in grief and Jon appeared to be doing as she did, trying to listen to all of it as once.

“We will hold back the night!” A voice cried from the doorway behind them.

Sansa knew whose voice it was before she turned, her heart beating in both fear and hope. The guards at either side of the door stood back in awe at the man who just burst in, his face pale and his steps shaky. He was dressed in his finest tunic, the black lizard lion of his house bright across the chest, the one she had gifted to him. It brought out his green eyes all the more as they flashed in the light, giving off their eerie glow, yet her eyes still fell to his bandaged wrist.

“Howland…”

“Your grace.” Howland bowed, putting his wrist behind him. “I am sorry that I am late.”

“My lord.” Jon rose, quickly moving to steady Howland as he walked over to the table shakily. “You should be resting.”

“I should be held to account.” Howland answered, patting Jon’s face as he gave a weak smile. “For all I have done… for being late to such a meeting… I have much to answer and atone for.”

With that he began to walk to the table and Myranda rose to offer Howland’s proper seat back to him but Jon had other ideas. He guided Howland in taking his own empty seat, helping the lord lower himself in it almost gently. When Jon approached Myranda he surprised Sansa again, for he did not take the lady’s offered seat and his proper place at her side, he merely held out the chair until Myranda sat once again. Then Jon took his place just to Sansa’s side, standing with his hands clasped him behind him like a guard.

“My lords, forgive me for this. I’d not take a seat from a lady nor force a such a fine man to stand.” Jon nodded to Howland, even as some of the others eyed the crannogman with unease. “For he is owed that at least…”

“I thank you, ser.” Howland cut him off, pointing towards Medrick. “You are discussing the Wall… your voices carry in the corridor I fear… it would help to see a map of it, I think.”

As Medrick scrambled among his bag of parchments, Sansa grabbed at Howland’s hand, her grasp more desperate than she meant. The lord turned back to her and leaned forward, to keep his words low.

“I am well and I will not leave, so do not ask it of me. I beg it of you.”

“I beg you to never make me worry so much again.” She whispered back. “I’ve lost enough good people today.”

“No you haven’t.” Howland patted her hand. “You can keep the faith. Hope still.”

“Howland, you haven’t heard-”

“It is always darkest before the dawn.” He said simply.

Howland’s words to her were as comforting as her father’s had been whenever she had nightmares, or a storm troubled her sleep. As weak as he appeared, strength came forth from him and that made her think that things would be alright. For the lord to have risen from such a foul state, with the maester being so doubtful that he would live, was defiance to her sense of dismay. That must have meant something, that such hopes were justified.

_Surely they must._

By then the maester had produced a map, and with it sprawled before them, the discussion started again. Now it was calmer, more measured, and less panicked. Ledgers were brought forward on the state of their supplies and how many men were sworn to each lord present.

After a time, the strategy began to take shape. They knew much of the Wall’s castles were unmanned, some were under repair according to Stannis but they had no idea which was ready for a garrison. So they focused on the three they knew of and what strength they could reasonably spare.

It was decided that Robett Glover and Alysanne Mormont would take their houses’ strength and that of the clansmen to the Shadow Tower. Ser Symond would take his Vale forces to Eastwatch, stopping at the Dreadfort with orders for Bronze Yohn Royce to add most of his army’s forces to Ser Symond’s. Word was to be sent to Larence Hornwood to gather what men he could and to bring them to Winterfell as soon as possible, to bolster its defenses after the Greatjon led two thousand men north to Castle Black.

All those preparations would take time and so much had obviously been wasted already, so it had been decided an advanced force would head to Castle Black ahead of the rest. Smaller and quicker, it could bring stability and word of relief to the remaining Night’s Watch, perhaps even hold the Wall until the arrival of the Greatjon and his men.

Maege surprised no one by volunteering to lead such a force. Howland shocked them all by saying he would go as well. An issue which led to a discussion that Sansa did not welcome at all.

“My lord, my lady.” Lord Wyman pulled at his moustache nervously. “None here could question how true and loyal you’ve been to the Starks-”

“Oh, I hear a ‘but’ coming.” Willem shook his head at the fat lord. “Quite a large ‘butt’ at that.”

The Greatjon chuckled some even as Sansa sighed and Lord Wyman gave the knight a hard look for his words.

“I mean no disrespect but…” Lord Wyman turned a shade of red as Willem raised a goblet up as if to cheers himself. “But if we mean to restore order to Castle Black I fear neither Lady Maege nor Lord Howland is up to the task.”

“And who is? You?” Maege snapped but Sansa raised her hands up, for she wanted Lord Wyman to continue.

In truth, she had concerns along the same lines.

“Maege, your brother was just killed by these men, they might fear vengeance on your part. The sworn brothers also see little of women, except for spearwives and the whores at Mole Town, so they may not be so inclined to obey one…”

“My mace will make it easier for them!”

Lord Wyman pressed on, despite Maege’s assertion, staring at Howland and looking almost abashed to voice his thoughts. Sansa was glad he was speaking to his doubts though, for it spared her from having to do so.

“My lord, with your recent… accident, I am sorry, but I have to speak the truth here, I am not certain you can be trusted to represent the Starks as they need to be. Your children are lost Beyond-the-Wall, so I’ve been told. Can any father be expected to see to the tending of a strange and possibly insecure castle while the temptation to rescue their children stares them straight in the face?”

Maege was clearly enraged by all of Lord Wyman’s views yet Howland remained calm, his expression oddly sad. It saddened her that she’d wondered many of the same things. In truth, she didn’t like the idea of Howland leaving Winterfell. He’d become so invaluable to her.

_And he needs us._

Howland folded his hands in front of him before nodding at the Lord of White Harbor.

“I only said I would go, not that I would command.” Howland looked to Maege as well. “And Wyman speaks truly my lady, I cannot see the sworn brothers rallying to you either, to their loss.”

“Maybe I should go then?” The Greatjon put forward, yet Sansa instantly realized she trusted no other man than the Greatjon to see their army to Castle Black in a timely manner. Nor did she think the man had the diplomatic mind needed to make peace among the factions currently at the Wall.

_Gods help us if Stannis and the Greatjon have to work together…_

_One would not walk away from that meeting._

“I prefer you lead the main force, my lord.” Sansa eased the lord back from his offer, trying to think of a different man currently present or at the castle.

Roger Ryswell could not be fully trusted and was a hostage to his father’s good will besides. Willem she could trust, but she wanted it to be a Northman who brought stability in Rickon’s name. Ser Kyle was still needed at Castle Cerywn, the garrison there having been poorly tended to by Lady Jonella. The last option that came to mind was the last she even thought to consider, because it was the one she liked least.

And of course, he was the one that spoke up now.

“My lords, your grace.” Jon stood tall, his hands to his side. “I know I am only Lord of the Dreadfort in name and young besides, but I beg the right to lead the advance force. To go to the aid of the Night’s Watch and help prevent the Wall from falling.”

_No! You selfish, ignorant fool!_

_A thousand times no!_

“A fine idea.” Lord Wyman smiled and raised a cup to Jon, the Greatjon doing the same soon after.

“That works for me. Give the bastards Beyond-the-Wall the same you gave the Bastard of Bolton.”

Ser Symond and Robett began to whisper to each other, both beginning to nod to her great dismay. Even Maege seemed to approve of the idea while only Willem and Howland appeared unhappy with it. The knight looked furious in truth.

“Are you fucked in the head?” Willem asked Jon. “You heard Stannis! He wants you far away from him! You said yourself, he likes to burn people with king’s blood!”

“Castle Black is not all that close to the Nightfort, I will not seek him out.” Jon argued back. “He’s not exactly a person I mean to share a meal with.”

“Oh you make jests now?” Willem slammed his cup down. “Should I act the somber fool who can’t put his boots on without getting harmed then?”

Jon was as shocked at the harshness in Willem’s tone as she was. The others did not react much better and she feared her two favored knights would come to blows when Howland thumped the table weakly.

“Your grace, if I could beg a private audience with the good sers and yourself.”

“Oh no!” Willem hissed. “No, you say what you mean to say you little-”

“Ser!” She cautioned him. The knight was acting entirely too bold, no matter the circumstances or how much favor he had with her. “I will grant Lord Reed his audience, he is owed that.”

It was a strange thing to rule against Willem, as he spoke for both of them in this matter. She had no wish at all for her love to go north to the Wall. Everything they’d heard about it was tainted by death, darkness, and cold. Soon enough the four were alone in the room, which was good because that was when her resolve broke. Before Sansa could stop herself, she’d risen to challenge Jon shouting.

“How could you?” She cried. “You would leave me? Now?”

What she wanted to yell was even more inappropriate. For even now she could still feel his seed within her.

On her.

The tea Myranda bid her drink was supposed to ward off a child resulting from Jon and her moments. While she wanted his babes one day, after they were married, when things were safer, becoming with child now would not be ideal. The tea allowed Jon to find his release in her and she could feel his seed against her thighs more obviously now that she stood, while it was not altogether comfortable it reminded her of love.

Yet with Jon thinking of leaving her it was suddenly a cold and sticky mess upon her, one that that made her feel used, almost filthy.

_I feel like his whore, unable even to wash myself before he leaves me._

“I’m not leaving you! Not truly!” Jon attempted to hold her but she’d backed away from him, seeking shelter beside Howland. “I don’t want to go…”

“Then learn to shut your bloody trap!” Willem shouted, coming forward to shove her knight backwards. “Again! Again? You would throw yourself into danger when it’s not your bloody turn, again?”

“You would do the same!” Jon shouted right back, bringing his face to but a hair’s breadth from Willem’s. “You have done the same! It’s what must be done! Once more? Ten times more? It doesn’t matter!”

“Why by you?” She asked, the tears she’d held back finally coming forth. “Jon, uncle Brynden is gone. He was the oldest of us. Without Edmure, I’m the oldest now. They’ll all be looking to me and if you’re not here, if Howland’s not here, I will be-”

“You will be alone, but you will persevere.” Howland whispered in her ear from behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders. “For there are children who need you still, children who love you.”

Those words made her weep all the harder. The idea of dealing with Arya without Jon here to help her, of facing a sister that hated her, well it terrified her. The same could be said for sweet little Rickon, for all she cared for him his rages and wild ways scared Sansa still. All the uncertainty that came with ruling as regent had seemed far away lately. It was all because she had had a place to escape to, a bathhouse where he waited for her. Where their love made sense and none judged or expected anything of them.

Jon’s eyes moved from challenging Willem to find her own, betraying his own feelings of hurt Sana recognized all too well. Normally she’d have done her best to usher them away with her lips and touch, if he wasn’t trying so hard to leave her.

“Jon. Wolf. Dragon- dammit! Please listen to me for once.” Willem said, clutching at Jon’s tunic. “We all know the truth here. Every one of us. You’ll be marrying Sansa one day, won’t you?”

Jon hadn’t broken his gaze from her when he nodded, and as much as Sansa liked seeing him admit to it, this only tortured her more.

“If she’d have me.”

“Then stay here. Don’t go riding off to some faraway place.” Willem pulled Jon all the closer. “Be with her. Have some children. Have a son and hold him tightly to you. Don’t rush off to play a knight…”

Jon broke their gaze then to jerk free of Willem’s hold.

“I am not playing a knight. I am knight.” Jon argued. “I will act a knight. I will protect my kingdom.” He pointed to himself then, as if they all weren’t gazing at him. “I’m the last one of everyone present in this council to have been to the Wall. I remember much of it and the people I met there. I can take Mance Rayder with me and use what he knows of the wildlings to help us! Maybe I can even find Bran!”

“We are meant to hold the Wall… not search for our loved ones.” Howland replied and the sadness in his voice infected all present, Jon and Willem’s angering dampening some.

“Sansa.” Jon pleaded with her. “I told you what Bran said. He warned me about the Wall. Maybe for a reason…maybe because I can stop that from happening. I have to try and do something.”

“What nonsense are you speaking?” Willem asked but Sansa had escaped Howland’s grasp by then.

She went forward and touched her hands to Jon’s cheeks, relishing the feeling of his warmth whilst restraining herself from slapping him for his thoughtlessness.

“You’re trying to be the hero again aren’t you?” Sansa gazed into his warm grey eyes. “To prove yourself?”

Jon could’ve tried to lie to her. He wouldn’t have succeeded but she gave him credit for not even trying. She almost wished he had lied, for the truth he spoke made a terrible sense.

“I didn’t think of it when I spoke of going, but if I do this, if I do what I must and not what I want, they’ll see me for who I want to be. Not as my father’s son.” Jon reached up to touch her own face, running his thumb across her cheek. “They could respect me. They would accept us more easily Sansa…”

“So now you’re going to tell me that you’ve finally learned how to play the game, Jon? You know how these lords think and what they will do?” Sansa felt a part of her agreeing with what Jon said even as she questioned him.

“No I- I would go no matter what but with our betrothal a secret and-”

“When are we to marry then?” She cut him off.

It was a selfish question considering all they faced but it burned within her. In her mind they would be married soon, maybe a moon from now, at most two. Yet with Jon going where he meant to, there was no way that could come to pass.

Jon appeared to struggle with the answer before Howland spoke in his stead.

“You two will marry when we both return from the Wall.” The lord spoke, his eyes suddenly far away. “For Jon is right, he is the best to lead this task… far better than I. For it cannot be me Sansa. Trust me on this.”

She didn’t like how that sounded at all, yet Howland had just said he’d be there to see them married. So she clung to that unspoken promise at least. Deep down she also saw the wisdom in what Jon proposed as well. To take commanded at the Wall in Rickon’s name, it would earn him a level of respect he had not yet garnered.

_And he has worked great feats before, perhaps he will not be gone as long as you fear._

_Maybe he can even throw back the Others and earn even greater acclaim._

Her mind was lost in the possibilities and options before her when Willem broke in, his face twisted in worry.

“Jon, truly, after everything?” Willem asked. “The hurts, the lashes, the battles you’ve seen, you want to go to that frozen hell? To face monsters?”

Jon eyes did not leave her face, his lingering touch and bravery driving away many of her harsh feelings, despite her best efforts to resist.

“For my family, I would do so.” He whispered. “For those I love, I’d do anything.”

As she became lost in his eyes and the gallantry he showed in her name, Willem swore and picked up a cup of wine from the table, pouring it into a pitcher before drinking from the pitcher itself.

“Well sign me up then.” Willem said between messy, spilling gulps. “I’m going with him.”

“You don’t have to.”

Willem held out a hand to cut Jon’s protest off.

“Oh, shut your fucking trap. I’m going for the exact same reasons you are.”

At that moment Jon actually smiled. Willem held out a bit longer before he did so as well. Then he continued his efforts to finish the pitcher and she caught Howland nodding, appearing pleased as well.

There was peace among them all. Yet soon enough, these three men, who meant so much to her, would all be gone.

All gone. 

**JON**  

His breath almost caught at the sight of the bride.

She was beautiful and glowing. Even with the light of day dying out, all could see that. The white wool of her gown brought out the color in her cheeks, making her look like a blushing snow maiden from the songs. A golden band was around her hips, a chain chasing up to the neck and sleeves.  The chain was in truth nothing more than gold-colored yarn, but the young woman’s graceful form made it appear as if it was spun gold itself.

The air was cold and a light snow was falling around them, collecting in the bride’s hair as Howland led her towards the wedding party. The weirwood tree and its thick canopy of red leaves held the snow at bay, and the long white branches sheltered the bride as well when she entered.

The others collected about gazed at her as thoughtfully as Jon did. Maege Mormont had a tear in her eye as her daughters clustered about her. Willem shared a hushed whisper with Lady Brienne who replied with a quick nod. Roger Ryswell joined Ser Symond in shivering while Lord Wyman and Mors Umber smiled widely. Rickon appeared bored while Arya had her arms crossed, barely hiding her unhappiness.

_There’s nothing more you can do about that._

_She has to come to terms with things on her own now. I’ve done all I can…_

At that moment, the man kneeling in prayer before the heart tree rose and turned to face the approaching pair.

“Who comes?” The Greatjon asked in a tone so gentle when compared to how he usually shouted. “Who comes before the gods?”

Howland did as custom dictated answering for the bride. She had spared a fleeting glance to her weeping mother and sisters as Howland spoke.

“I bring forward Lyra, of the House Mormont, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes here to be wed and begs the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do.” The Greatjon replied. “Jon, of House Umber, Lord of Last Hearth. The Breaker of Chains. I claim her… I claim this beauty…”

Sansa sniffed at that and Jon looked to her. He watched the other beauty in the godswood dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief bearing the snarling direwolf of House Stark. As comely as Lyra Mormont looked in her wedding gown, Sansa still held his heart, his love wearing a light blue gown she knew he liked, with a white fur cloak about her shoulders.

A green cloak with the black bear of House Mormont was draped about Lyra’s shoulders as Howland brought her forward before her intended. The Greatjon had never been dressed as finely as Jon saw him now. Almost all of the crimson cloth in Winterfell had gone into the making of his tunic. His large boots glimmered from a good polishing. The man’s beard and hair were recently washed and trimmed, his eyes wide in an awe-filled wonderment that looked strange on the lord’s normally fearsome face.

“Who gives her?” The Greatjon asked his eyes fixed totally upon his bride.

“Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch and the Neck.” Howland answered before turning to Lyra. “Lady Lyra, will you take this man?”

Lyra’s lively brown eyes were taking in the entirety of the Greatjon’s massive form at the question. The small scar above her eye was almost hidden behind a lock of dark hair that fell artfully across her face. He’d never seen the Mormont daughter dressed so lady-like and Jon thought it suited her.

Clearly she thought the Greatjon suited her as well, for she smiled before lowering her gaze almost demurely.

“I take this man. I will take him.”

With that, Howland stepped back as the Greatjon came forward, Lyra and the lord joining hands. The pair then knelt before the heart tree in silent prayer.

The wedding was as much a surprise to Jon as it had been to many in the castle. Apparently Mors Umber and Lady Maege had been discussing marrying the Greatjon to one of the Mormont girls for some time now. That Lady Lyra and the Greatjon had apparently gotten to know one another during their ride seeking Rickon, and had taken a liking to each other during such time, made the match all the easier.

Lyra was far younger than the lord yet Jon had thought her a hard, serious woman. Her lithe form was usually hidden below armor or leathers yet the gown showed her to have an attractive figure, with wider hips than Jon would have expected. Willem said Mors Umber had approved of his nephew’s choice for those hips alone.

With their prayers ended, both the man and woman stood again, the Greatjon undoing the Mormont cloak from Lyra’s shoulders. In its place he draped a cloak bearing the Umber giant, breaking its chains upon the fiery red fabric.

Before the lord could pull his hands away, Lyra reached up to touch one of those rough hands, gingerly. The Greatjon allowed his gaze and her touch to linger a moment longer, before smiling widely and bending down to scoop his bride up and into his arms. Lyra laughed loudly then, yet not quite as loud as the lord did. Their laughter continued as he carried her bodily towards the exit of the godswood, many of the others following soon after.

“Is that it?” Willem asked quietly.

“In the North we like our weddings quick.” Jon admitted, before offering his friend a grin. “Your southron weddings take away time from the feast and the bedding.”

“Should’ve had a northern wedding.” Willem said to himself as he made to catch up with the others. Brienne had already ushered Arya and Rickon along while Jon grew concerned at who lingered behind.

Howland stood staring at the weirwood with dark circles beneath his sad eyes. His one hand was on his injured wrist, rubbing it absently. Jon fought the urge to grab the man and pull him from the godswood, not wanting to expect the worst. Sansa saw to things in a much gentler fashion, coming up to Howland and whispering something in his ear. The lord nodded and offered his arm to Sansa, leading Jon’s princess towards the celebration being held in the Great Hall.

A wedding feast and a farewell celebration, all rolled into one.

Sansa turned her head to look back at him and he offered her a weak smile. He would not leave just yet, for he had business at the heart tree as well.

As did Jeyne Poole, the young lady already kneeling with her head lowered in submission to the gods. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving silently, so Jon thought to let the lady be. He didn’t care for when others interrupted his prayers so he would give the same courtesy to Jeyne. Instead he joined her, having his own prayers to offer the gods.

He asked for the success of journeys ahead, for the safety and care of the men he was to lead, and for the strength to survive all that would come.

Most of all, he asked for the protection and happiness of those he loved.

For his fears of what lay ahead were terrible. Of the evil which threatened to break through the Wall and how he could hope to stop it. When they were children, Jon and Robb had often played at being like The Last Hero. When they grew older, they became sure he only ever existed in the horrible stories Old Nan would tell them of the Long Night, but when they were children, he had been as real as Aegon the Conqueror. In their childish minds, had they been alive during that dread time, they surely would have been great heroes. There would be songs about the two brothers who became the saviors of the realm and ended the Long Night. It was a nice picture in their minds.

Now all Jon could picture were frozen monsters riding great white spiders, climbing the Wall and finding his family on the other side.

Then climbing over the walls of Winterfell itself.

The last thing Jon wished to do was leave Sansa. Everything in him wanted to do as the Greatjon had just done, to bring Sansa before the weirwood, claim her as his own, and carry her from the godswood as his wife. To dance with her and have her off to their bed where they could make the sweetest love. A love they wouldn’t have to taint by Sansa drinking moon tea.

For they could have a child then, a beautiful child that would look like Sansa and that he would keep safe from all of the evils of the world.

Yet the evils were coming now, and Sansa needed him at the Wall, not in her bed.

Besides, there were children already living who needed protection. He didn’t want to leave them either, for little Rickon appeared to yearn for his approval and Jon was just starting to see the earnest child hidden beneath his wild rages.

Though Jon worried that Arya might need him more than Rickon did, in truth. His little sister had been heartbroken to hear the news of his departure. He’d meant to tell Arya himself the next morning but by then she’d overheard Roger Ryswell discussing the plans with some guardsmen.

Brienne had told him as much, saying that Arya had immediately rushed off to her chambers upon hearing the news and none could get her to leave them. When he’d gone to her rooms himself, he’d found Gendry and Podrick waiting without, both gazing worriedly at Arya’s door.

“She is still within?” Brienne asked and both nodded.

“We tried to talk to her but she won’t answer.” Podrick offered. “When we went in… it went poorly.”

“How so?” Jon had asked and Gendry pointed to red mark upon his forehead.

“She threw a boot. I’d be wary ser. The princess has a fierce aim and a strong arm, of that I can attest to.”

“I’ll guard against any boots.” Jon said as he bowed and pushed the door open.

No boots met his coming for Arya did not turn to face him. She did not even react to the sound of the door shutting behind him. She just continued to stare out her small chamber window, watching the snows fall. Some of the flurries had come to the castle and, while not as bad as they could be, Jon braced himself for the chance of an unpleasant journey north.

“Go away.” Arya had murmured without turning. “I won’t throw anything more if you just go away…”

“I will be soon enough.”

With that Arya whipped around to face him, her eyes narrowed in anger. A small part of him was glad they weren’t red or full of tears. Causing his little sister to weep as Sansa had would be a great burden but one he had been ready for. Enduring Arya’s tears was the least Jon could do but it seemed she had chosen anger over tears, for the girl walked to her end table, grabbed Needle from its stand, and flung the sword at his feet.

_At least it’s not a boot._

“Take it.” Arya said, glaring at him as she crossed her arms. “Take it back!”

“I already have a sword and this one was my gift to you.” Jon bent to pick the slim blade up. “Has someone else offered you a better one?”

“You’re leaving. You’re leaving when you don’t have to, which means I don’t have to keep your sword.” Arya spoke calmly then, doing her best to use her anger to hide what she was truly feeling, as she often did.

While others might believe Arya’s venomous words to be true, Jon knew her too well to believe it. As he raised Needle up to look at in the light, admiring how carefully it was honed, polished, and taken care of, he caught Arya biting her lip out of the corner of his eye.

 _She’s scared_ , he realized,  _which makes sense._

_I’m scared too._

“Someone has told you false things Arya.” Jon lowered the blade to look at her. “I do have to go. I wouldn’t be leaving if I didn’t have to. I’m not looking forward to the cold ride ahead.”

“Let someone else go then!” Arya snapped.

“Many are. Many good men, men who know the Wall less than I, yet venture forth because it is what the North needs of them. How can I stay at Winterfell when the danger to it is north? I cannot balk at this duty… I would protect my family.”

“I don’t need protecting!” She turned to face her window again.

“I’d argue differently as it seems you have no sword now.”

Some time passed before she deigned to look at him again. He held Needle out to her while raising his eyebrow. She scowled and marched forward to grab it back from him. As she grabbed the blade, he took her wrist in hand.

“Let go.” Arya pulled to escape him, yet his grip was loose and her pulls were half-hearted in truth.

“The last time I said goodbye to you here, you hugged me.” He’d spoken softly. “I thought often of that, and of you, during all my troubles in the south. I like to think that that hug brought me- brought us, some luck in our trials. We both found our family again. We found each other again. I’d like such luck again, Arya.”

“That was different! We were both leaving! Now you’re leaving alone, you’re leaving me!”

“Please.” Jon imagined he sounded desperate at the time, probably because he was. To leave with Arya angry at him would surely haunt him on the long ride.

“Take me with you, I can fight too. You’ve seen me! Brienne says I’m better with Needle than I was, and Marlen says he’s never had a better student with the longbow. I could come with you.” Her grey eyes were glistening as he shook his head. “We could keep each other safe… don’t let her send you away…”

It had not taken him long to realize which ‘her’ Arya was referring to. He fought the urge to scold her for having such a thought. Jon found that when dealing with Sansa and Arya’s squabbles, the best course was the middle road.

“Sansa did not task me with this. In truth, she wants me to stay here just as much as you do.” Jon sighed. “Yet still, I must go. You must not blame her.”

“But if you go, without you here, it’ll all get worse Jon.” Arya shook her head. “Not better, worse. Sansa and I will fight. She’ll force me into dresses and keep me from my friends and make Rickon-”

“I swear none of that will come to pass.” Jon caught her face in his hands, willing her to see that he meant his words. “You will stay here and help Rickon with his new practice sword. Do not fear Sansa, nor be so harsh to her. She needs you. Sansa needs her sister.”

Arya looked doubtful yet he had pressed on, ruffling her hair gently as she closed her eyes and began to hold onto him.

“You’ll argue, there’s no doubt of that, but you’ll be there for each other as well, just as you’ve both been there for me. I trust you to do that Arya. I trust my sister.”

He was being truthful. While it was almost certain that Sansa and Arya would fight in his absence, if their squabbles remained petty and small in comparison to their love for one another, he knew they would be fine.  If the two sisters could put aside their differences, they would do well in protecting each other and Jon would be able to rest a little easier.

Arya had tightened her embrace then, rubbing her face softly against his chest as he brushed her hair lightly with his hand. As they held each other, he had placed a soft kiss into her hair and whispered.

“You and Sansa are so different, Arya. Yet believe me when I say that in some ways, you are the same. You refuse to see it but it’s true. You must protect one another, care for one another, because that is what a pack does.”

“It’s not the time for summer squabbles, for winter is coming.” Arya said then and the words had sent a shiver down Jon’s back. “That’s what father said, in the capital. He told me that Sansa and I were two sides of the same coin. I still don’t understand what he meant.”

For a moment he was surprised that Eddard Stark had seen what Jon had between the two sisters. With some thought though, he knew he shouldn’t have been.

_A good father understands his children better than they understand themselves._

_And Ned Stark was a great father._

“He meant what I’m saying now, that you two love each other and should get along.”

Arya didn’t speak to it, nor swear any oath to do so. She simply stayed silent but Jon didn’t need her to speak further on it.

“I believe in you, Arya Stark.” He whispered. “I trust you.”

“I trust you too. I trust you’ll come back.” Arya mumbled into his cloak. “You’ll come back or I’ll come find you again.”

Jon did not doubt she would.

When he rose from his prayers, Jeyne was already standing, waiting for him. She was nervously pulling at her hair but she kept her eyes locked on his. Jon had forgotten what a lively brown they were.

_Without her staring at the floor in fear, you can see how pretty those eyes are._

“I would wish you safe journeys Jon- I mean, ser.”

“You can call me Jon. Feel free to do so.” He said, brushing the snow from his knees. “And I thank you for your good will.”

_The situation at the Wall needs all the good will it can get._

“You are to leave the day after next?” Jeyne asked.

“Tomorrow morning.” He shook his head. “We do not have the time to waste. The wedding was hurried so that Maege could at least see it before we departed.”

“So soon?” Jeyne was clearly surprised. She began digging within her cloak then and fished out a folded up bit of parchment. “I beg a favor of you, Jon. Since you are going to the Wall, would you carry my letter with you? If you’re able, could you give it to Theon for me?”

Jon could not keep the frown from coming to his face. Delivering messages to Theon Greyjoy was not something he should even consider. The man was a traitor and the most hated man in the North now that the Boltons were dead. Besides that, he was a hostage of Stannis who was on his way to the Nightfort. Jon was not fool enough to risk visiting that castle without the king’s invitation.

Yet Jeyne’s desperate eyes and shivering form made Jon feel a deep pit of regret within his chest. He was a knight, he was supposed to care for the weak and defend women and children, yet it had not been him that rescued the lady from the Boltons. Instead, Jeyne’s true savior was with a king who had every intention of burning him, Jon having been the one to hand him over.

_There is little harm in taking the letter, perhaps someone else can deliver it._

_It is likely Theon is already dead anyway._

As the lady held the letter out to him shakily, Jon sighed and took it from her grasp, folding it further so that he could place it within his own cloak.

“I cannot promise it will ever reach him, but I will do my best Jeyne.”

The look of relief that came to her face at his words made Jon feel guilty for what he had to say next.

“I warn you, I will have to read it before I do…”

There were still matters at the castle that it was best Theon, and by extension Stannis, was ignorant of. He did not want to read Jeyne’s words to the turncloak but it would be foolish of him not to. As upset as Jeyne appeared by the idea, she nodded quickly enough. After that, Jon offered her his arm, intent on leading her to the wedding feast. Before they left though, a sound from behind them made Jon glance back at the weirwood.

Almost hopefully.

Yet no lost boy’s voice carried on the wind. The red canopy moved slightly, but it was just the wind, and the carved face bore the same expression it always did, its eyes not weeping. All that had changed was the addition of several new pairs of eyes along the branches. For he now noticed that there was about a score of ravens sitting on the tree’s branches.

None made a sound, which was odd enough.

Even stranger, their eyes all appeared to be following Jeyne and him as they left the godswood. Something about how the ravens watched their departure bothered Jon.  He got the sense that they were eager to see him leave.

When they arrived in the Great Hall, he saw others who likely felt the same.

Roger Ryswell stopped in mid-laughter when he caught sight of Jon and Jeyne entering, and he doubted it was because of the lady. Morgan Liddle and Mors Umber both had anger flash across their faces, the Sworn Guard quickly hiding the expression while Mors didn’t bother hiding his scorn. A score of others reacted about the same yet Jon pressed on, leading Jeyne to her seat below the high table.

The dais was reserved for the newlyweds and their families, along with the royal hosts. Sansa was busy keeping Rickon from throwing potatoes, but she had a chance to quickly shoot Jon a smile before grabbing hold of Rickon’s spoon mid-toss. Arya was poking at her food and when he smiled at her, all she could offer was a shrug.

Sansa had wanted him to share a place with them but Jon was not a Stark, and sharing a table with the likes of Willem and Robett Glover was good enough by him.

The dinner itself was a modest fair, though it was more than the usual rations as a boar had been brought in the day before. All accounted that as a good omen for the marriage and Mors declared that it would mean a new heir for the Last Hearth soon enough. The smell of the smoked meat and its savory taste went down well with the wine donated from Castle Cerwyn’s stores.

The mood was better than it could be, for news of events at the Wall and the loss of the Tully’s had made its way quickly through the castle. That, combined with the rumors regarding Howland’s ‘accident’ and his own heritage, led to many pockets of solemn, whispering men among the revelers.

“Hey, did you spot your bannermen?” Willem asked, pointing with a rib bone down at a table towards the corner of the hall. “Take a look at the brave warriors who are to ride alongside us. Ha!”

He had indeed spotted them, but thinking of them as his bannermen and not the Bolton’s was still a trial. One was so young that it was hard to think of him as a man at all. Coll Lothien and Aldred Hilgard were both sons of petty lords sworn to the Dreadfort. Their fathers had marched south with Ronnel Stout while the sons had been kept here as hostages. Aldred was of an age with Jon, a burly youth whose adept use of an axe during the Reaping had earned him few friends among the Stark men-at-arms. Coll on the other hand was but a boy of ten, an average-looking lad, save for one feature that gave most pause.

The Lothiens were of relation to the Boltons, as far removed from that family as the Karstarks were from the Starks, yet Coll’s pale eyes, like a pair of moons through a misty sky, gave ample evidence of their relation. Sansa had explained to Jon that if there were any claims to be made to the Dreadfort, besides that of Fat Walda Frey’s unborn child, it would come from the Lothiens.

Soon though, Aldred and Coll’s captivity in Winterfell would end, for Jon had decided to take them with him on the journey north.

“You cannot trust them!” Sansa had protested in her solar. “Lothien most of all! It’ll be Roose Bolton all over again! He’ll get close to you like that awful man did with Robb and-”

“I ask again, do we intend to strip the Lothiens of their lands?” Jon kept his eyes carefully on Sansa’s eyes and not her body, a feat that had become more difficult lately. “The Hilgards as well?”

Sansa had paused at that, obviously flustered that he meant to argue with her on this.

“For I thought when their fathers bent the knee to you and marched on Torrhen’s Square, you had guaranteed them that their lands and titles were safe.”

“You know I did.”

“Sansa, you have named me Lord of the Dreadfort, a title I did not want yet I was given anyways.” Jon had to hold up his hand to keep Sansa from arguing about her mind on that decision. “I understand why you did it and I accept it, but if I am to one day act as lord over those lands, then the Hilgards and Lothiens will have to serve me. Aldred and Coll will be tasked with obeying me so I’d have them know their future lord, and I my future bannermen. Your father always said to let your men know the lord they serve, for one day you might ask them to fight and die for you, and men do not wish to die for a man that they feel is a stranger. Let alone a usurper.”

Despite the mention of Eddard Stark, Sansa and he had argued for some time longer on the matter but he had held firm. They’d be riding with almost a hundred Stark men, fifty Mormont and Reed men each, and Jon wanted a few of his own among them. They were not truly his men until Jon got to know them and began acting the part of their lord.

“Aldred’s axe could be of use to us.” Jon reminded Willem. “Coll will be too busy scouring my armor and grooming my horse to plan any sort of treachery. Were you not of an age, when you left home to squire?”

“Yes, but not even I would have taken me along at that age.” Willem laughed, sucking on the boar rib. “Your command, your decision. Just letting you know, our fair Princess Sansa spoke to me of her worries. They so much as glance at you sideways I’ll cut them down.”

“My hero.” Jon grumbled.

Not long after that, the musicians had started up and the dancing had begun. The music did much to drive away the fears that hung over the festivities as smoke collected about the rafters, giving the room a pleasant, warm feeling. Myranda and Sansa urged the Greatjon and Lyra forth to lead the dancing before seeking out partners of their own.

Sansa quickly went to bring Rickon out onto the floor, the young boy laughing and jumping more than actually following any steps. Myranda did Jon no favors by grabbing at his hands, pulling him forth to dance as well. Jon had wanted to ask Arya to dance with him, if only to try and improve his little sister’s foul mood. Myranda’s method of dancing often involved pressing herself against him and grabbing at Jon in ways which set some men to hooting. None of those actions made Arya laugh though. In fact, she tossed a spoon at Willem for his boisterous cheering.

Sansa was not much happier, even as she led Rickon through childish steps; he saw her expression darken now and then at where Myranda’s hands went.

“You cannot spare a moment to even look upon the woman you’re dancing with?” Myranda teased as he had been caught staring at Sansa.

“I apologize, my lady.” Jon said sheepishly, focusing on Myranda’s face despite the way she moved her body invitingly in front of his gaze.

“You truly do love her it seems.” Myranda whispered when her lips came close to his ear, her eyes gazing upon him like Ghost did a piece of venison.

He was surprised she’d take the chance to discuss such here. It was the lady who had crafted his and Sansa’s private moments in the bathhouse so she should have known full well the necessity of secrecy in these matters.

“I can tell, for I feel no sign of your liking me at all.” Myranda’s hip pressed against his groin as he twirled her. “And I believe I would. There would be no hiding of such a weapon. The sounds that come from those baths would require more than a true knight. More like a rather sizeable sword…”

Jon was thankful when the dance ended for his face was aflame by then. The Greatjon stole Sansa for the next dance and Rickon sought out Arya, the girl unable to refuse the giddy child. Jon quickly sought a moment or two to watch the festivities from a dark corner.

Watching the others dance was good enough for him. He tried to commit as much of the celebration to memory as he could. The smiling, the laughter, the way the world seemed to right itself within this hall, for a short time at least. What was meant to be a couple moments turned into several songs, Jon leaning against the wall the entire time with a quiet peace of mind. It felt good not to be the center of attention and free to watch for a while.

Until the hulking form of Mors Umber blocked his view, the large man staring down at him, swaying some from drink.

“Enjoying my nephew’s wedding?”

“I am.” Jon answered. “I hope it brings him great happiness.”

Mors spat at his feet.

“I hope it brings him many sons.” Mors’s fists cracked as they clenched at his side, his one eye narrowing on Jon. “That they make him as happy as mine made me.” “Before your family killed them.”

Jon straightened up then, meeting Mors’s eye and doing his best to think of a way that this didn’t end with blood being spilt during the Greatjon’s wedding.

“Or is it all a lie and you are just a pretender?” Mors asked. “You want to be free of being a bastard that badly? You would take the name of the murderer of my sons?”

“I am the son of Rhaegar, that is the truth, yet he was no father to me and were it in my power to bring your sons-”

Mors spat again, this time on Jon’s boot.

“You will never have power, you hear me? In the south or the north. Never.” The white giant took a step forward, the man blowing his sour breath in Jon’s face, yet Jon would not look away. “That’s why they all want you at the Wall. To keep you far away from the king… far away from the princesses…”

“Back away from me.” Jon warned, even as a part of him wondered how true Mors’s statement was.

“An order? Fuck you.” Mors growled, grabbing at Jon’s tunic. Jon clamped his fingers on the Umber’s wrists for the effort. “Do yourself a favor, take the black. Take the black or we’ll do to you what Torrhen Stark should’ve done to Aegon Targaryen all those years ago.”

“Oh will you? Well fuck you too.” Jon cursed back at him beginning to apply pressure to the wrist he was holding. “I did nothing to your kin and you know it.”

Mors jerked him upwards at that and Jon increased his hold on the man’s wrist, to the point where he knew it could be broken with just a little more pressure. Yet Mors merely kept glaring unafraid, his fingers clutching even tighter at the tunic.

“Uncle.” The Greatjon’s voice called out from where the other’s danced.

The lord eyed them both with concern, a goblet in one hand, his other pulling Lyra against him. Some others had taken notice too. Willem had moved away from his conversation with Jorelle, Arya appeared to reach for the missing sword at her side, while Brienne and Ser Gendry shared an uneasy glance.

“Uncle!” The Greatjon bellowed this time. “What happens there?”

“Nothing, my lord!” Jon answered for them, loosening his hold on Mors and pushing back at the man. For a moment Mors resisted it, yet he let go after a breath. The withering glare of his nephew may have aided Jon in his effort. “Surely Mors was just confused as to who his next dancing partner was!”

Some scattered laughter met that yet many stayed silent, seemingly convinced that there would be violence. Mors had not been amused at Jon’s jest yet the Greatjon quickly understood what he was trying to do.

“Forgive him ser! He’s only got the one eye! ” The Greatjon laughed convincingly enough. “Uncle, if you want a dance so badly ask my bride! Or her mother!”

“Aye!” Maege yelled as well, coming to the pair and roughly yanking on Mors. “Dance with me you giant fool. We don’t want to befoul the wedding now, do we?”

“No… no, we don’t.” Mors nodded, backing away and offering Jon another glare. “There’s enough foulness here already.”

The Greatjon yelled and laughed enough to draw most attention away from Jon, but not all. Soon enough, Arya had found him, and Sansa followed soon after, leading a yawning Rickon.

“What was that?” Arya asked worriedly. “Was he trying to fight you?”

“He was succeeding in acting like a drunken old man.” Jon shook his head.

“Lord Umber ordered all his men to treat you well!” Sansa said angrily. “If he threatened you, we should tell the Greatjon and-”

“Ruin his wedding? No, I’d rather not. I’ll let the Greatjon have his happiness.” He rubbed at his neck. “Wine can make us all act like fools.”

Sansa looked to challenge him then but Rickon was now leaning against her, his eyes barely open, yawning once more.

“It’s time Rickon was off to bed. Let me have someone take him and we’ll continue…”

“Nonsense, I’ll take him.” He cut her off, for Jon was truly done with this feast now. The idea of having time for a proper farewell with Rickon appealed to him more than enduring the staring of others. Sansa almost pouted in her disappointment.

“Jon, we have not even had a dance.”

“I want Jon to take me.” Rickon said sleepily, holding his arms up and grinning. “Will you carry me?”

“I can offer you better, my king.” He dropped down to a knee and gestured to his back. “Would you ride a dragon to your chambers?”

Rickon perked up at that, quickly hopping upon his back, almost unsteadying him enough to topple over. Yet Jon held firm and rose up with Rickon’s arms wrapped firmly about his neck. Arya actually smiled at the sight of them while Sansa continued to look unhappy.

“Fly, Jon!” Rickon laughed. “Let’s fly!”

With that they were away. Jon didn’t run through the tables as he needed to give some well-wishers time to call up good nights to their king. Yet when they were outside, he bolted quickly towards the keep, Rickon calling out in joy as the snow whipped at their faces.

He climbed the stairs two at a time in some places so that Rickon could feel like he was flying and when they finally arrived in the king’s darkened chambers, Jon was sweating slightly, relieved when Rickon slipped off his back to bounce upon his bed. Jon helped him off with his boots and pulled the blankets back so that Rickon could climb in before pulling them back over, up to the boy’s chin.

“Don’t go yet.” Rickon asked, his face barely visible in the darkness. “Please.”

“As you command.” Jon said, sitting upon the bed and leaning back against the wall, Rickon squirming up beside him.

“Do you really have to go? I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want to go either, but the world is not about what we want. It is about what we must do.” Jon squeezed the boy’s shoulder as memories came back to him. “Father… your father said that.”

Rickon yawned then.

“I’m happy that you’re a dragon.” He said quietly. “That you’re not my brother.”

That surprised Jon almost as much as it hurt him. Rejection was not an altogether strange feeling to him, seeing as he had lived most of life as a bastard, but he hadn’t expected such scorn from Rickon.

“Well, I would’ve been happy to stay your brother Rickon. I do love you.”

“I love you too.” Rickon said softly. “I don’t want you to be my brother… Bran’s my brother and so was Robb. I want you to be my father…”

“Your father?”

The boy nodded looking up at him and Jon felt Rickon’s eyes on his face even with what little light there was.

“The other father, he left and never came back. You left too but then you came back. You play with me and you have a wolf. Will you be my father? Please, Jon?”

“Oh Rickon…” He struggled with how to deal with this. Rejection and hatred was something he was used to but having a boy beg him to be his father was a different burden altogether, almost harder.

“I’ll be good, I swear. You can stay here and teach me swords and you won’t have to do what other father said because you’ll be my father. We can forget him…”

“Never. We can never forget him.” Jon said more harshly than he meant it seemed, for the boy cringed some. “Rickon, you would make a fine son. You are a good son. Your parents would be so proud of you.”

“They’re gone. I can’t really remember them… so Sansa and you can be…”

“If you can’t remember them by yourself then we will have to help you.” He wished the boy could see how important this was. “I can never replace your father Rickon. He was the most honorable and good man I have ever known.”

The memory of his father embracing him in the capitol came back to Jon then. Thoughts of all the times the somber lord would offer a rare smile to his bastard son training in the yards, emboldening Jon to do all the better. Of the times he’d ride upon the man’s shoulders in the godswood, those rare moments alone together where they could both smile and laugh and no others would share in it.

Memories a son had of his father.

“He made me his son when he didn’t have to, he protected me… protected us all, no matter what danger it meant for him.” Jon squeezed Rickon’s shoulder as he felt the wetness about his own eyes. “I can’t let you forget such a man.”

Jon fought against the tears but the memories wouldn’t let him.

“Did you know he named you after your grandfather?” He pressed on, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking. “I remember him telling Robb and me when you were only just born, holding you in his arms, he said ‘Sons…” His voice caught at that but he pressed on. “He said, ‘Sons, my father was a strong man, a good man, and braver than most. A true direwolf. I can think of no finer name for this babe than his.’” Jon smiled through his grief. “I think that sounds like you, that’s why I know he’d be proud of you, Rickon.”

Rickon was silent for a while and Jon reached forward to ruffle the boy’s hair like he did for Arya. When he placed his hand on Rickon’s head, his thumb felt tears there, wet upon his cheek.

“I don’t really want to forget him, Jon.” Rickon whispered even quieter, so much so that Jon had to lean forward to hear. “But sometimes… when I do remember… it makes my chest hurt. I start to think about how much I miss him…”

“I understand.” Jon felt that hurt even now.

“When you leave, will Sansa and Arya tell me about him?” Rickon asked. “I want father to be proud of me. I don’t want to forget anymore about him.”

“I’m sure they will. They’ll tell you so many stories about him and you can tell me all of them when I come back. I don’t want to forget him either.”

Rickon’s small hand reached out then, his little fingers gently wrapping around Jon’s. His own tears landing upon the boy’s hand.

“Don’t cry, Jon.” Rickon whispered. “Father would be proud of you too.”

_I hope so._

With him about to journey to the Wall again, Jon was surprised at how much he needed to hear that. His long trials had started during a trip to the Wall, one his father sent him on. Somehow he’d survived all of it, and now he rode out to the Wall again, only now as the son of another man, Eddard Stark merely an uncle. It gave him a foul feeling deep within his heart.

_I need my true father to be proud of me._

_I cannot face this without him, even if it’s but his memory._

“I promise I’ll remember him.” Rickon said sleepily, squeezing his hand. “I promise…”

“I’ll remember him, too.”

_I have to._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Cold Wind, master beta' er


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A farewell to Winterfell, revelations Beyond-the-Wall, and some justice found along the Kingsroad.

**SANSA**  

“So first I’m to fetch Jon and then Morgan… no wait…”

Willem scratched his head in thought and she could smell the wine on the knight’s breath. Neither had taken part in the bedding, Sansa having grabbed Willem as soon as he stepped outside the Great Hall, preventing him from following the raucous crowd.

She was sure no one had noticed her for there were better happenings to watch. The sheer number of women that were needed to carry the Greatjon from the hall had been a spectacle in itself. The Mormont women forcing Brienne into helping had only added to the whole affair’s ridiculousness.

The poor lady had blushed, almost as fiercely as Ser Gendry had when Sansa commanded him to dance with Arya at the feast. She had been trying to do something to lift her sister’s spirits, if only so she would stop glaring at all of the other wedding guests. That had been after Jon left, which felt like an eternity ago, almost as long as Willem was taking in understanding what she wanted.

“You are to bring Morgan Liddle to guard Rickon’s chambers, then you are to bring Jon to mine.” Sansa repeated in a hushed whisper. “Discreetly, ser. I beg of you.”

“Of course.” Willem slurred before pointing at the wedding party that was growing more distant ahead of them. “I had promised to see Lady Jory safely back to her chambers though. Who knows what ill-intentioned rogues might be lurking about, ready to attack such a fine bosom- I mean, lady…”

“I doubt she has much to fear in the castle.” Sansa commented with a roll of her eyes. “But if you move quickly, you may still have a chance to escort her.”

She gave the knight a light push forward and Willem did as she bid, almost running towards the keep in search of his fellow Sworn Guard and her own knight.

_We could not have a dance but I won’t be denied a proper farewell._

_I just won’t._

As Sansa made her way towards her own chambers, she tried to think of happier things than farewells. Like how joyful Lady Lyra had looked when she’d left the heart tree as the new Lady of Last Hearth. The secret smiles the Greatjon had shared with his wife throughout the evening. Whether the couple loved each other yet Sansa couldn’t say, but they appeared eager enough to try.

Unbidden her mind went to darker happenings earlier that day. Of another tale of romance that had not ended nearly as well.

With Stannis and his army gone from their grounds, Sansa had been able to release Tristifer Botley from his rooms. He’d caused them no trouble during his captivity, only begging word of Asha Greyjoy, and he rarely hesitated to answer what questions they had of him. The deal he’d helped make between the Starks and the Iron Bank was already leading to some raised hopes among her bannermen.

With gold from the Iron Bank about to flood their coffers, Lord Wyman had sent word to White Harbor to take out credit with all of the local moneylenders. The coin was to be used to hire ships and send forth traders seeking food across the Narrow Sea. Jon had proposed that they send ships to Myr as well, to seek the materials for glass gardens. He had showed even more forward thinking when asking about apprentice glass blowers.

“If we can hire enough, we could do more than just repair Winterfell’s glass gardens.” He’d argued. “We could see that every castle in the North had one. Perhaps even enough for two. In time, we might grow enough food to feed all of our people, even in the dead of winter…”

 _He thinks himself unfit to be a lord,_ she had thought to herself at the idea,  _meanwhile I wish I had a dozen more lords just like him._

Sansa and Jon were too experienced now to think things would go so perfectly, but Jon’s plan was too good not to at least try. So many glass gardens would be an answer to their prayers and she hoped the old gods could be more giving than Tristifer Botley’s drowned god, for his own prayers had amounted to nothing but heartache.

Asha Greyjoy was a lean and long-legged woman, slightly shorter than Sansa but over ten years older, with a manner that made her wary of the lady. Under the angry eyes and hard frown though, Sansa saw that she had an attractive enough face and a womanly form. They’d brought the Greyjoy woman to her father’s solar as a gesture to Tristifer. He’d been asking for an audience since learning of her presence in the castle.

Tristifer’s expression when Asha walked within had been endearing in a way. His face held such a mixture of longing and relief that it made Sansa forget he was an ironman and therefore her enemy, for a few moments at least. Asha had not reacted in the same manner. In fact, her face darkened in a way that made Jon and Willem share wary glances.

“Tris?” Asha had asked, looking suspiciously between the man and the others in the room.  “What are you doing here? Stannis told me the banker had you.”

“Are you well?” Tristifer ignored her questions. “Did he harm you? Are they treating you kindly?”

Sansa had not taken kindly to what Tristifer was implying about her hospitality.

“She has been accorded all the respect she deserves as a lady of her station.” She’d answered. “She’s been given freedom of the castle, though under guard of course.”

“Two guards.” Rodwell put in, eyeing Asha with distrust. “At all times.”

“They should bathe more.” Asha sniped before turning her baleful look back to Tristifer, who had taken a few hesitant steps towards her. “What are you doing here Tris? What is all of this?”

“I had to come back. I couldn’t leave you with that madman… I had to save you.”

“Save me?” Asha laughed without humor. “The only thing that saved me was Stannis preferring his human sacrifices be born with cocks between their legs. My poor brother was not so lucky in that regard. If anyone saved me, it was him.” With that Asha turned towards Sansa and spat at her feet, earning a shout of anger from Jon and the others. “And that was for Theon, you wolf bitch!”

“Asha, no!” Tristifer had protested, rushing forward to hold out his arm to shield the lady from an attack that never came. Sansa’s men were not the type to beat women, just as Asha was not the type of woman to be shielded by a man it seemed.

“Get off of me!” Asha had shoved the him away. “They won’t hurt me! They need me, to save the Glover children, isn’t that so?”

“We don’t hit ladies in this castle. No matter their worth. Not while I have anything to say about it.” Sansa answered coolly. “We are not Lannisters... or Greyjoys.”

Asha had laughed again at that. “Oh good, you’re kind to ladies. That thought will comfort me as I think of my little brother burning alive.”

Sansa could not help but cringe at that, her guilt at seeing Theon broken and defeated, walking to Stannis and his fate.

_What we did was just but I cannot blame this woman if she decides to hate me forever._

“I was never the perfect sister but I didn’t want this for Theon.” Asha’s anger cracked for a moment then, showing the grief and pain underneath, before she shook it off and was strong once again. “He was a fool who got in over his head. If you wouldn’t allow me to take him home and use him to depose our Uncle Euron, he at least deserved a clean death!”

Asha stared daggers at Sansa for a moment longer before turning to the lordling. Tristifer had recovered from the lady’s shoving and thus became the focus of her questioning once again.

“Were you ransomed as well? Are we to journey back to the Ten Towers together? The victorious duo that we are?”

“I wasn’t ransomed.” Tristifer replied weakly. “I have to stay. I swore to stay…”

Asha looked confused at that, her eyes flicking between the lordling and Sansa several times. Then her eyes clouded over with a sort of understanding, one that caused her to reach out and pull Tristifer’s face to hers. Yet it was not a lover’s embrace. Rather, it was a threatening act as Asha snarled at him in rage.

“You did this.” She hissed at Tristifer. “Didn’t you? You told them about Theon… about the Reader…”

“I had to! I love you, Asha. I couldn’t let you burn.” Tristifer tried to touch Asha’s face then but the woman brushed his hand away, cursing before she drove him forward and against the wall.

“You fucking turncloak! You killed my brother!”

This time the Stark men did intercede, Jon grabbing at Asha’s shoulders while Willem did his best to pry her hands from around the lordling’s throat. Besides the panicked gasps Tristifer was making, she remembered how devastated he looked as the woman he loved tried to strangle him.

“I’ll kill you!” Asha screamed, kicking and fighting against Rodwell and Jon as they pulled her away. “Traitor! Fucking traitor!”

“No, Asha... Please…” Tristifer wheezed, reaching out for her as Willem held him back. “I’d never betray you… I lov-”

“I hate you! You’re a coward!” The lady screamed. “I’ll see you dead! Dead!”

By then Sansa had decided it was time to end the disastrous reunion, bidding Asha’s guards to enter and return the lady to her chambers. Even as they did so, Asha continued to vent her rage and hatred towards the man that had been her savior. The man who stood heartbroken, rubbing at his throat, watching the woman he’d given away his freedom for be dragged away from him for his own safety.

_In the songs the lady would’ve embraced such a man._

_Agreed to marry him at once, letting him carry her forth to some sweet paradise._

Once again Sansa had to remind herself that the world was not the same as the songs, even as she tried to make it so for just one night.

As soon as she was back in her chambers, Sansa did her best to free herself of her gown alone. Without Myranda’s assistance it was a cumbersome task, yet her lady had left the feast even earlier than her, apparently having some task she needed to attend to. The lack of help would not dissuade Sansa, for while she knew Jon loved this gown, it was not how she’d have herself looking when he arrived.

What she intended to wear was hidden safely away within a chest by her wardrobe. Myranda had made a wicked sound upon finding the shift weeks ago.

“Even with a room as warm as this, I must imagine this shift as being quite chilly.” Myranda had giggled, holding the thin garment between her fingers and against Sansa’s body.

It had been her mother’s once, and one of the few pieces of her clothing to survive the sacking of the castle. The shift had no burns on it and remained as white as Sansa remembered. Soft and smooth to the touch, it was quite a revealing piece of clothing, yet it also had a sort of modest and pure charm. She remembered finding it as a child while looking through her mother’s wardrobe.

“I wore that on the night I became married to your father.” Mother had explained in a knowing manner. “It is a garment meant for lady wives, not young maidens.”

“So when I have a husband, can I wear such a thing?” Sansa had asked and mother had laughed, kissing her upon her head.

“Only when you have a gallant man who loves you, sweetling.”

Myranda had thought the story sweet, yet she had quickly turned things to a jest when she pressed the shift against her own body. Sansa was of a size with her mother, only slightly taller, but were her more buxom friend to don the same garment her bust would be spilling over the front. It would cover little and less.

“I don’t think a gallant man would complain.” Myranda had laughed.

As Sansa let the shift fall over her own body, she inspected it in the looking glass and decided that Jon would have no reason to complain. The garment was revealing to be sure yet it hid more of her bust than some of Myranda’s gowns, even some of the dresses she remembered Margaery Tyrell wearing. Her shoulders and the tops of her breasts were bare and it hugged at her body well, her hips straining at the fabric attractively. The hem hung high, ending at just above her knees, and the lace about the edge almost begged to be touched.

Or pulled upwards.

She quickly ran a brush through her hair before moving about, blowing out most of the candles in the room, making the room as dim as she needed. She could still see her reflection in the looking glass, even in the low light. The few remaining candles created shadows on Sansa’s shift that showed the contours of her body in a way that emphasized her womanly growth. With her hair down and around her shoulders, it framed her figure in a way she thought Jon would like.

The howling of the wind outside caused her to shiver despite the warmth of her chambers. She glanced towards the window as she reached to don her night robe, seeing now that the snow was falling heavier than it had been earlier.

_Perhaps their departure will be delayed._

_Is it wrong to pray for such?_

“Your grace!” Willem’s voice called from outside her door, followed by some quick knocking.

Apparently someone other than Sansa disdained his loud manner, for another voice began hushing the knight and Willem, in turn, hushed his critic right back. She moved to the door and opened it but a crack, just in time to see Jon cuffing his friend.

“Thank you, ser.” She whispered, waving Jon within before leaning out to glance up and down the corridor. Thankfully it was quite empty and none but Willem saw Jon’s entry.

“Am I free to go bear hunting?” Willem asked hopefully and she shook her head at the jest but gave her assent.

With that the door was closed and she barred it quickly after, turning around to find Jon staring out the window. She’d expected him to at least be looking at her but when she came behind him to rest her head against his back she could feel the worry in his muscles.

“If the snows keep up we might not be able to leave tomorrow.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“With the Wall faring as poorly as we fear, every day’s delay could mean the worst. I’d have left earlier if not for the wedding.”

“I’d have you stay longer… for our own…”

As she spoke the words began to die on her lips, for she heard how selfish they sounded. Jon turned to face her then, his expression pained, and she saw that his eyes were somewhat red, as if he’d been weeping.

“Believe me, I would rather make an honest woman of you than leave here. Your father raised me better than to treat you as but an object of my lust.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “He’d be ashamed of me for how I’ve taken such liberties with you. Now I abandon you to…”

His apologies ceased with her finger upon his lips.

“Be silent.” She reached up to stroke his short beard with her free hand. “I hate that you are going and I would have you stay. I would marry you on the morrow rather than wait, but the world doesn’t offer us that.”

These weren’t the words she wanted to say but she did so anyways. Sansa would have their last moments together remembered with her behaving like a princess who knew her duty, rather than a girl wailing for him to stay.

_I will offer him strength, not the tears of a child._

For the Wall had to be set to rights and Jon could help to do so. She would never have asked this of him but trying to stop Jon now, with his heart was set on the journey, would only serve to upset them both.

The only comfort she had was that Jon’s travels could help raise his status in the North and that, combined with his new lordship, might make their love more acceptable to the other lords. The hope that a wedding would one day come to pass inspired her actions tonight.

“Let’s pretend, just for tonight, that you aren’t leaving.” Sansa looked deep into his grey eyes. “That the wedding today, it was ours. Today we went before the heart tree and we were joined and tonight is our wedding night and we’re meant to spend it together…”

“Spend it here?” Jon gazed at her in disbelief. “The whole night?”

His eyes sought the door then but Sansa pulled his face down, kissing him in such a way that she hoped he could feel how much she needed this. Whatever struggle was in him did not last long after she’d parted her lips to slip her tongue into his mouth and found his doing much the same. Their kissing was how it should be. Not so hard that they acted wanton yet with enough hunger that their passion was laid bare. Their fought to stay together, neither wanting their lips to be left alone long. Jon’s hands found her hips to help steady his pursuit of her. His tongue was moving with hers as his hands moved up and through her hair. Sansa pressed herself against him and repeated the same words within her head over and over.

_This is our wedding night. No one else’s, it is ours._

She broke the kiss then, Jon’s mouth struggling to find hers but then he sought her neck instead. The feeling of his lips against her skin sent a tremble through Sansa, almost choking off her words.

“Lay beside me, Jon. No bathhouses, no sneaking about, it would be so lovely…”

He tensed some at that, backing away and once again looking to the door as if at any moment the bar would life and it would open all on its own with the entire northern court gaping at them. They wouldn’t be of course, as half were probably still drinking in the Great Hall while the rest were finding their beds or enjoying the beds of others.

To break Jon of his foul notions, she quickly undid her night robe and let it fall away from her shoulders. Sansa had wanted the reveal to seem elegant, perhaps even graceful, yet she feared her hurried movements were clumsy if anything.

If Jon had any complaints he did not air them. Instead his eyes widened as they roamed freely down her body, the door apparently having been forgotten.

“Sansa, gods. You’re beautiful.”

“I thank you, ser.” She backed away towards the bed. “I’m sorry, I mean my lord husband.”  
  
To her chagrin Jon let a laugh break free from his lips at that. Hardly the reaction she’d wanted, yet his eyes still followed her descent upon the bed with a look of hunger she knew all too well. Then his face changed as he took a step towards her.

“Say that again.” He spoke softly, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall to the floor. “Call me that again.”

“So you can laugh at me?” She feigned anger as she climbed further back in the bed. “My lord husband thinks me something to laugh at.”

Jon smiled widely then, his cheeks flushed as if the room was unbearably hot. Then he was pulling upon his own clothing. Usually Sansa helped him in doing such but she was struck by a whim. Since she’d undressed all by herself, she decided he could do the same. As he bared his chest to her she shivered in excitement at the sight and crawled beneath the blankets. When he accidentally kicked one of his boots underneath her bed she laughed.

“I’m bad at that.” He sighed.

“And slow at joining your wife in our bed.”

That had the effect of quickening his pace, until only his small clothes remained. As Sansa pulled the blankets up to her chest she took in the sight of him, committing as much of his body to memory as she could. In the same way the dim candlelight had cast shadows across her shift, it did complimentary things for Jon’s bare skin. The lines of his muscled chest and stomach stood out all the more, his scars blending in with the rest of his skin. Her usual lust for him paled to what she felt when looking upon Jon’s body now.

_Now I look at my lord husband._

_The other part of my heart._

Why she lowered herself until the blankets were over her head, she couldn’t say at first. The blanket was across her face like a veil she decided, one only Jon could lift. Her breathing was loud enough to silence most of his movements but then the bed dipped some and the covers lifted at her side.

Then his bare chest was against her arm and a warm tingling moved down her body. She turned to face him and his arm went around her as she did so. Her leg brushed against his hardness beneath his small clothes and she shivered again before his mouth found hers.

The kissing and roaming of their hands lasted some time before their lips broke away and Jon traced a warm line along her neck and up to the hair on her temple. She stifled a gasp as he kissed gently at her ear, the feel of his breath causing her to writhe some. Sansa found his own neck and tried to lose herself in the feel of his skin, the smell of him. Jon’s kisses seemed to go on forever until he had touched every part of her face and neck. Before long, she felt her lips becoming raw from all the activity.

When he reached to push the straps of her shift down her shoulders, she did all she could to help. She felt it fall away from her bosom and whether it was Jon or she that urged the shift downward, it didn’t matter. Suddenly she was bare beneath the blankets and wherever Jon’s hands cupped and caressed, his mouth soon followed.

She gasped when his lips moved across her breasts, squirming when they kissed and sucked upon her nipples. She only felt a moment of doubt when his kisses continued further down her body, hot breath steaming softly against her thighs.

“Jon.” She whispered, grasping at his hair to try and pull him away but his tongue had already found where she was wet. “You don’t have to-”

She covered her mouth to stop the cry that came forth. Her fingers no longer pulled at his hair and instead pressed against his head, urging him to continue on. This had become a little game for them she noticed; Sansa would tell him that he didn’t need to use his mouth to pleasure her yet he would do so anyways. She would insist on not wanting the lord’s kiss at first until he started licking and her protests would soon transform into begging and pleading for him to continue. She always felt embarrassed afterwards, telling Jon that he didn’t have to do it again, all the while secretly hoping he would.

Now Jon kissed there more forcefully, pulling her away from her thoughts. That amazing feeling built within her chest until the dam broke, with the feeling radiating out in all directions. Her hands grasped at the sheets, running them back and forth as her pleasure came upon her, her jaw screwed shut to make her cry quieter.

Sansa lost sense of herself but knew he had returned her side when she felt his breath upon her face. When she looked up into his eyes, barely visible in the faltering light, she trembled at the look he gave her.

“I love you, Sansa.” He said before he kissed her.

It was not wanton or modest. It was a kiss that told her without words what he’d just said. When it broke, she pushed push back on him until he was lying flat. Jon resisted some as he was obviously eager to take her right then but she persisted. He was hard and stiff against her thigh and she reached to take his manhood in her hand, just as Myranda had instructed her. Jon tried to push her hand away but she pressed on until she felt him in her grasp.

“Sansa… it's more proper for me to...” He rasped and she thought he was convincing himself as much as her.

“If I am yours then you are mine.” She kissed him, her tongue moving against his before she pulled up again. “I’m happy to do it, Jon. Let me have you…”

Then more of Myranda’s words had come back to her.

“Men are like horses, Sansa.” Myranda had smiled to say so. “The best ones need to be ridden once in a while or they become too wild.”

Sansa couldn’t picture Jon as a horse when she began to lower herself upon him. Her eyes instead gazed longingly upon his face, her heart swimming when it twisted into an expression of sweet agony. She focused on the pleasure of pressing him within her until, after what felt like an eternity, she was done. Her thighs came to rest upon the hot skin of his hips and she had to bite her own hand to keep from crying out at the feeling of how deep he was inside of her. Her free hand traced a line over his nipple as she took a deep breath and began to move. Up then down, forward and back, Myranda had suggested trying different things while atop him, to see what struck her fancy.

“Don’t you mean  _his_  fancy?” Sansa had asked in confusion. “Aren’t I doing this to pleasure him?”

“Well yes, you want your stallion to feel good as you thoroughly break him in, ensuring his loyalty to you forever and ever and all that nonsense.” Myranda waved her hand in dismissal at that, like it was only an afterthought to a much larger goal. “But the best part of being on top is that  _you_  are the one in charge. It’s no longer him  _giving_  you pleasure but rather using him for yours…”

“That sounds rather selfish.”

“Oh, a charge men are always innocent of, aren’t they?” Myranda and Sansa had giggled a bit at that.

“Some men are just not meant to be lovers Sansa, whether because of attitude or idiocy. Sometimes women must be selfish to get what they need.” Myranda had continued with a scoff but then her look softened some. “With your knight though… well, I don’t wish to speak for Ser Jon, but let me just say, I doubt he’ll have any protests. The sight of a beauty such as you, doing such a thing… it will set his blood aflame, I promise.”

“Jon says he likes the way I-I look… during…” Sansa’s face burned then when she realized what she had been saying.

Myranda was always very clever at getting details from her about Jon’s prowess and Sansa found herself sometimes excited to share such things. Yet she’d balked when Myranda would ask about the size of Jon’s manhood, or whether Sansa had ever been one to share her mounts with others.

That perverse questioning fell far away now, for her love was groaning loading below her.

Sansa moved faster and harder with each passing moment, clutching her mouth tightly when Jon did as Myranda said, his hands groping at her breasts in a pleasing way. She exhaled in excitement and a gasp escaped from Jon as she did so.

As hard as he was, and as full as she felt right then, Myranda had been right. The greater ecstasy came from the knowledge that Jon was in her power now. The control she now had over her and Jon’s bodies was something she’d never felt before. It was her movements that made her want to scream and it was her that made Jon cry out softly. The whole thing made her feel powerful and, unlike the authority of a crown, this was a power she felt no guilt in wielding selfishly. She freely touched Jon’s skin, taking in the contours of his chest, feeling the strain in his muscles there as he moved his hands down to grab her hips.

She was wild and wanton and lustful but she faced no judgment from Jon. Sansa allowed herself to feel beautiful and vulnerable, knowing that no one would take advantage of her because of it. She was alone with the man that she loved and she could be a harlot all she wanted. In fact, Jon seemed to love it.

He had started to buck beneath her, meeting her movements with thrusts of his own. She became tired from all her efforts though and felt herself collapse upon his chest in fatigue but Jon’s arms wrapped around her back and he thankfully took over their movements. Jon held her body still as he drove himself upwards inside of her harder and harder, their grunts becoming drowned out in each other’s mouths as they kissed.

Somehow she became close again, even though she had just found her peak a short while ago, seemingly riding the soft pleasure that usually came afterwards into another sweet release. She exploded when his hips almost lifted her off the bed, Jon having finally found his own release too. His hands moved down from her back to grip her hips tightly, holding his hardness as deep as he could within her.

_One day a child from this… not tonight… but some day please…_

They lay panting against one another after he had finished. She made no movement to get off of him and he showed no desire for her to do so. Laying her head in the crook of his sweaty neck was comfortable enough for her.

“Was I good?” She asked, running her fingers over his lips. “I mean, my riding…”

“Your riding?” Jon laughed. “Am I a horse?”

“Stop it.” She slapped lightly at his chest, trembling some as she felt him jerk within her.

“My apologies.” He kissed at her forehead. “Your  _riding_ was amazing, everything I could’ve wanted. Just like you… my wife.”

She smiled and let his mouth find hers again. Once again, their kissing led to something more, only this time Jon rolled so that he was atop her. Though she had enjoyed the sense of power immensely, she realized then that having Jon atop her made her feel loved and adored in a way that riding just didn’t.

_Both have their merits, I suppose._

The night was theirs. The bed was theirs. Their endurance was tested in a way that it had never been before. She’d found her sweet release once again while Jon would do so twice more. The soreness she had tried to ignore bid the end of their passion after that, both of them quite exhausted.

They kissed for some time after but they had thoroughly robbed each other of any strength to do more than that. Sansa curled beside him, her body bare and covered in sweat against his, her face resting upon his rising chest, their legs intertwined pleasantly. As tired as they were, sleep did not seem to find them for a while.

For they talked long after, speaking of things that made them smile and laugh rather than worry, Sansa enjoying the way Jon’s chest would vibrate beneath her when he chuckled. She talked of how Maege had sent for her daughter Lyanna to foster at Winterfell, which Sansa had thought a wonderful idea since the youngest Mormont girl was of an age with Arya.

“It will be good for her to have friends who aren’t knights and squires.” She smiled to think of it. “And Lord Wyman means for his granddaughter Wylla to become my second lady-in-waiting. He speaks so highly of her Jon, I’m so excited. She’s supposed to arrive with the next caravan of supplies from White Harbor.”

The arrival of those young daughters of the North was welcome enough, yet it was truly Mya Stone she wished would come soon. Ideally her friend was already underway from the Gates of the Moon.

“It’s good that you’ll have so many ladies about the castle but I wonder if you’d have time to tend to some of the young men as well.” Jon ran a thumb across her cheek and against all reason she swooned at the simple touch. “I speak of Ser Gendry. He’s brave, Sansa. Brave and strong, but more importantly he’s very loyal to Arya…”

“I believe she carries a torch for the ser. I catch her often gazing at him…”

“Well… I don’t know about that, but I do know he can be of use to the Starks. Lend him some coin to armor himself… he’ll probably be able to smith it himself in truth. Perhaps have him teach his craft to others in the Winter Town and gift him a horse for all his hard work. Just give him the chance to be the knight he wants to be…”

To hear Jon so concerned for a hedge knight he barely knew was touching. If not for the ache she felt below, Sansa may have been tempted to take him inside her again.

_More than his chivalry and his bravery, more than his looks and his muscles, more than the way he holds me and the way he makes love to me… that’s what I love most about Jon._

_That he is so selfless…_

“Try and do some honor to Podrick as well." Jon continued. "He’s a good lad, more capable than you would think to look at him. If Lady Brienne was not so attached to him, I’d be tempted to take him as a squire myself.”

“Oh you couldn’t do that to her.” She scolded him gently. “But I’ll treat them well, there’s no need to worry on that-”

“You must keep the peace with Arya too.”

That had made Sansa rise off of Jon’s chest and frown. It annoyed her to hear Jon say such a thing for he knew better than anyone how disrespectful and hurtful Arya acted towards her. She began listing all the examples of her sister’s foul acts when Jon silenced her by cupping her face and running his thumb on her cheek.

“Let that all be in the past. Please, Sansa, you two were doing well enough before the truth of me ruined things. Remember, you are the older sister so you do not have the luxury of impatience like Arya does. Just promise me you’ll allow her to train and that you’ll be fair and patient with her. She’s sworn she’ll do much the same to me already.”

“Arya swore to be patient with me?” She asked incredulously.

“Well… that she’d try her best at least.”

That had earned him another smack to his chest, which he answered by touching his fingers to a place he knew made her jerk and cry out in laughter. In the end she swore to what he asked, if only to put his mind at ease. After that their talk turned to simpler things.

She spoke of how she intended to have Arya and Rickon take up their lessons with a maester again. He asked whether or not he looked better with a longer or shorter beard and Sansa made sure Jon knew her position on that. Jon told her of how his personal hero growing up had been Daeron I, the Young Dragon, and she shared how she had once loved Florian and Jonquil, but after her experiences with Ser Dontos, she found herself thinking more of Lady Shella and her Rainbow Knight.

When she did sleep, it was with her back pressed tightly against him, his chest and legs creating a warm shell around her body. His arm pulled her to him and their hands intertwined in front of her chest. Somehow his other arm was at an angle where he stroked her hair.

That’s how she came to fall into a deep slumber. One so deep she dreamed of floating away from her own body, finding another shrouded all in black. Hiding in a place of peace and quiet.

_The snow would not allow her to hunt tonight._

_Hunting was best done at night, deep within her she knew that. Just as she felt a familiar presence giving way to allow her this skin. Something about it was young and she felt how much it loved her. As it drifted away she took in the wood around her._

_It was dark of course, the snow falling thickly upon her black coat so that she shook to be free of it every few moments. Her white brother and grey sister were enjoying themselves in the newly fallen snow, wrestling and kicking up great piles of it into the night air._

_When she ran forth to join them the white brother jumped at her, circling about as she tried her best to drive him to the ground._

_The grey sister did not wish to join them and acted as if she smelt something wrong then. Her sister moved about uneasily, as if they were being hunted. Yet she smelt nothing, heard nothing, and saw nothing. It was just trees and snow. It was then that her sister came to sniff at her, as if she did not know her._

_They were pack._

_They had always known each other._

_The white brother knocked into both of them then before taking off between the trees. She gave chase, her grey sister doing the same. They chased one another throughout the woods, enjoying the lack of men within it._

_Yet when they neared the bone tree they did find a man._

_A man who had bled here not long ago._

_The scent of his blood still tainted the grounds here and seeing the frail man before the tree again set her hair standing on end._

_He’d noticed them too. His hands were raised but he was holding no long man teeth. Nor did he bleed like he had before. He was growling though._

_In the man tongue._

_“I’m coming… I’m going to where you bid me to go… if I’m to do what you ask, speak to me again… let my daughter speak to me…”_

_There were no men for him to growl at. Only the great many ravens among the branches of the bone tree. They did not act as ravens should though. They made no sounds. Often they hurt her head with their cries but now they did not even call to one another._

_His sister growled then, lowering herself and baring her teeth towards the ravens. The brother bared his teeth as well but did not growl, not like she did when the scent came to her as well._

_Something old and dying had come to the woods. Something from a cold, dark place she’d never been but had grown to hate the scent of. Something which came from the bone tree, where the blood leaves shook without wind._

_‘She lives.’_

_A growl came from within the tree, one that made the man fall to his knees._

_“Will she continue living?” He growled. “Please… can I save her?”_

_‘Save… yes… not you…’_

_“Who then? Who will save her?”_

_The ravens began to call out then and she growled again. For the sound reminded her another time crows had come for her… which didn’t feel right, as no crows had ever come for her in this skin._

_Some of the birds began flying towards them, flying around the three wolves. They leapt up to bite at the things, creatures which pecked and meant them harm. More came, trying to drive them away._

_‘You are watched…’_

_“By you! The red eye in the dark!” The man growled. “Who will save her? Tell me!”_

_The entire flock of ravens were around them now, screeching and pecking at them. Her sister caught one in her jaws and tore it to shreds while three more dove at her face. They needed to flee, the dying thing was angry, she could smell it. The ravens were too many._

_The man could not be helped._

_‘There are three…’_

_The white brother was trying to reach the man still but a great many of the birds dived down to attack him. She needed to protect him and leapt to do so when a raven crashed into her snout, filling her with such pain that the world became a blur..._

Sansa sat straight up in bed then, clutching the blankets to cover her breasts. She was breathing heavily, her body sweating despite how comfortable it felt in the room. It was still dark without the window and the candles had long since burnt out.

Something drove her to reach out in the darkness, to seek what she needed to. Jon was still there of course, his warm body still lay beside her. He was well as far as she could feel yet she could not figure out why she would think otherwise.

 _A dream perhaps_ , she thought,  _I was dreaming of birds?_

Why birds would scare her she couldn’t say, all Sansa knew was that she desperately wanted to be next to Jon again. So that’s what she did. This time she pressed her front up against his bare chest, finding it hot against her skin, Jon’s chest hair tickling her breasts some. Jon did not wake but he reached across her back in his sleeping state and Sansa wrapped her own arms around him.

Sansa pressed herself against her love as much as she could, unable to shake the feeling that someone had been watching them. That whoever saw them did not approve of their presence.

_There’s no one here but us, and tonight’s our wedding night._

She comforted herself with that thought as she kissed Jon’s neck and closed her eyes once again.

Willing the dawn to stay far away for some time more.

And for the wind to stop howling so.

**BRAN**

  _He howled._

 _A signal meant to tell the others that meat was close._ _And to be wary, for all was not well._

_Soon enough the other three in his pack answered. Their hunt had lasted long through the night and continued into the light of a new day. The forest around them was thick and dark even now, the large pines towering over their heads, blocking out much of the weak sunlight. This darkness was safe though, for the dead things stopped moving when the sun came out each morning. They did not have to be as wary of which snows they tread on or which carrion scents they followed._

_They’d had to travel farther in search of prey with each passing day, for elk and deer feared the dead things as well, and there were many of them sleeping in the snows around the cave of the wolf’s other self. There were too many dead things now to risk hunting there at night._

_This hunt was different though, for they had not had to travel far. The trail they followed now led back towards the cave, somehow prey could be found there._

_They had been travelling away when the cousin with one eye had found the scent of men. Two different scents, both alive, both weak and fearful._

_Who he truly was could not eat of man, refused to eat of man. The wolf inside would need to do so, for he was becoming gaunt and weak from the lack of game in these lands. They should have moved on long ago but he would not leave the cave._

_He could not leave his pack._

_Yet as he looked back at the three small cousins, all as thin and weak as he, he also knew this pack must eat._

_Even if the meat was dead already. Which it was, he could smell that in the air, the blood was growing cold. The scent was still a welcome one though. This prey was free of the strange smell that always followed the dead who rose again. The smell of cold and rot. This was the scent of a fresh kill._

_He was wary all the same, for there was something else in the air that worried him. Another familiar scent, another sign of death._

_So he moved cautiously through the trees, the other three following behind. The one eyed one had been the largest and fiercest before he arrived. That was before he forced One-eye to submit and he became alpha, making the pack his. The smaller male, the tail of their pack, moved quietly just behind the only bitch. She was quick and sly and when she was in heat he would mount her and have pups from her._

_Who he truly was, the other self, did not want the she-wolf._

_There was another female for him, though it wasn’t pup he wanted of her. It was a different feeling, a confused feeling, one the wolf couldn’t fully understand. Still, it was strong, almost as strong as their longing for their missing brothers and sisters._

_Who he truly was could have the woman, the wolf inside take the sly bitch. His strength and her cunning would make powerful pups._

_Any pups she might have would die inside her if they could not find enough food though. They scorned the drifts which had once smelt of dead things entirely. Just like their rotting bodies, their scents were sometimes hidden beneath the snow. He would not know they were there, moving again, until it was too late._

_He slowed even more when they came to a part of the forest where two great fallen pines had torn up the earth and crushed the smaller trees around them. That destruction had happened long ago, for young saplings had begun to grow around the rotted logs. There was sunlight that shone through gaps in the canopy left by the fallen trees, now feeding the young ones._

_Death giving way to life._

_Within the space he saw more death, for they had found their prey. The two men were of these lands, clad in furs and leather but different from each other in ways. One wore rings of bronze across his chest, his head bare and bald. The other, the larger of the two, had feet bare and black from many travels._

_Who he truly was took notice of the men’s garb. The wolf cared only that they were dead and that their meat smelt good._

_As the pack moved closer, there were other things his true self took notice of. Neither man was ravaged horribly like he’d come to expect from the dead in these lands. Most men they found were torn apart, features crushed or insides ripped open, dragging upon the snow. Save for some dark marks about their faces, and the dark gashes across their throats, he saw no other signs of harm done to the meat._

_There were other things that bothered him still. The men’s hands were bound together. One of them had his fingers entwined in front of his face, frozen there now. He saw little blood around their cut throats and less upon the ground where it should be. There was more blood staining the snow that led away from the bodies, darks drops upon the white blanket like those that would fall from his mouth as he fed._

_The trail led away from the clearing and back into the trees. Back towards the cave where the dead things waited. Where his pack made their den._

_They did not dwell there alone, for others made their home there as well. The cave reeked of the small, ancient ones, or perhaps they reeked of the cave, it was hard to tell. The red eye in the dark had a different smell, a scent of dust and ravens. Another scent lingered without the cave, this one smelled akin to the other things that smelt of moving death, waiting beneath the snow, but was not tainted by the same dark cold._

_It was that thing’s scent that he smelt among the dead men._

_For these were the cold man’s kills._

_His pack didn’t care how the men were killed, only that the meat was theirs for the taking. All they waited for was his move, for him to go forth first and begin the feeding. For they feared his wrath should they ever try to eat before him._

_While he feared eating at all._

_The wolf did not fear though, he had eaten of men before._

_Who he truly was, he had feasted of men as well, but he did not wish to now._

_As the boy began to slip away from the skin, the wolf went forward to begin the feeding. The powerful jaws bit into the cold flesh about the man’s leg and began to tear. The taste of it filled him with a greater hunger still…_

…and Bran opened his eyes.

Above him was the ceiling of the cave, his body nestled warmly beneath the many furs he used for blankets. As he pushed himself up, Bran licked his lips half-expecting the taste of the dead men to still be there.

Instead there was nothing, save the aftertaste of the weirwood paste he’d eaten a day past. He liked to think the paste is what caused his mouth to water then, not the memory of Summer’s meal.

“Hodor.” The stable boy’s voice came from a pile of furs across from him.

The large man was covered by so many furs that Bran was reminded of the giants he’d seen from his weirwood visions. Had Hodor’s pale face not been sticking out the top of the pile he might have even believed the stableboy to be one of them.

“Hodor.” Hodor repeated, his eyes sleepily gazing at Meera as she moved about the cave quickly, grabbing at things and shoving them within a sack in her hand.

“Meera?” Bran asked, grabbing at a root to pull himself up higher. “Meera, where have you been?”

Bran was in the trees so often that his nights and days were often much different than Meera and Hodor’s. It was a rare thing for all three of them to find rest at the same time, which bothered Bran since sometimes he liked watching Meera sleep.

When her eyes were closed, Bran would whisper to himself and pretend that they were speaking softly to one another like they did before they went north of the Wall, talking of nothing and everything until Bran would drift off. He couldn’t pretend like that when she was awake, even when she would stare off silently. Her bright-green eyes, which had always made him smile and feel warm before, were lately filled with fury or grief. Most nights Meera fell asleep weeping or glaring, Bran never knowing which he should expect when he dared to look upon her face. When he did, she was always staring at Jojen’s empty nook.

Watching Meera rest was the most he ever saw of her now, for she didn’t join Hodor in helping Bran from his weirwood throne, scorning those parts of the cave entirely.

Ever since Jojen had died. Since he had used his power against her.

_Now she knows what I am._

“Meera, what’s happening?” Bran asked as Meera began to lace her boots tightly, shoving a dagger she’d found among the bones within one of them.

“I heard Summer howling.” Meera said, seemingly intent on not looking at him yet he couldn’t help looking at her. For he had known for a long time that he loved her, with all his heart, and if she’d just turn her beautiful green eyes in his direction again, he thought the cave would finally become filled with light.

“He was hunting with his pack.” Bran tried to sound unworried at what Summer had found outside but failed, for the more he watched Meera, the more it looked like she was dressing not for a short hunt, but for a journey. “Where are you going?”

Instead of answering, Meera rose up to start tying furs tightly about her slim body. She slung the bag she had been packing over her shoulder before she started to walk away from their makeshift beds. Away from him.

“Meera!” He shouted now. “You’re not leaving are you!?”

“I’m not!” She hissed back, her eyes darting around the darkened passages near them. “Not for good.”

“You can’t leave the cave! You know better! The wights are still out there. Summer smells them…”

“It’s daylight.” Meera hefted up her frogging spear, stabbing about quickly with practice thrusts. “They are just corpses when the sun is out. As long as I’m back before it sets I will be safe.”

“No one is safe out there!” He snapped back. “It’s not safe, even in the day!”

The visions Bloodraven had shown him of the lands outside the cave had felt like nightmares. Where the weirwoods had stood silently, whispering in the face of slaughtered men and giants, so too had Bran watched. He could still picture it in his mind, watching in horror as men, women, and even children, fell to the wights and Others.

Yet it wasn’t those monsters he feared right now, for Meera was right, they only came with the darkness. Men however were free to move about during the daylight, the kind of men who acted as monsters in their own right. Through the trees he’d seen savage wildlings wandering the woods, killing sworn brothers and even their own people. They were all desperate and terrified and his father had once told Bran that men like that were the most dangerous. Men who knew their lives were forfeit, close to the end, willing to do anything.

“I’ve been going outside for days, Bran.” Meera argued in a cold manner. “Just as Summer goes hunting, but I don’t hear him howling like that every time. I was up at the entrance when I saw Leaf come in. She was carrying something I couldn’t see and I wanted to know what it was but she wouldn’t tell me. Coldhands was heading back down the hill and I want to know what he’s been doing.”

“Maybe he was bringing food?” He offered, pushing aside the thought of Summer eating the man flesh. “Weapons to fight the wights with?”

“I don’t remember eating any better lately.” She shook her head, looking to Hodor. “Do you?”

“Hodor.” The large stableboy said quietly from where he lay curled up in furs.

“Why does it matter? They’re keeping us safe here, protecting us from the Others and the wights. Even the wildlings! What can Coldhands tell you that matters more than that?”

“Who he is. What he is. Gods Bran, we followed that- that thing for all that way without knowing how he even lives. How does that rotting Targaryen still live while others die?” Meera stabbed the spear down again. “So while you sit down there with them, learning to fly, I’m going to learn what their secrets are. One of those secrets is outside, in the sun, and Jojen didn’t want me to stay in the dark. Alone.”  
  
Bran still felt guilty about leaving Meera with her grief. After seeing Jojen dead, he’d gone into the trees again, to try and find some way of protecting Meera and his family. When he’d come out again, two days had passed and he’d found Meera asleep at his feet.

She’d wept to see him awake again, full of sorrow at the thought of sharing the news of Jojen’s fate with him, not knowing that he had already learned.

“I know, Meera” He’d croaked through his parched mouth. “Jojen’s gone but don’t worry. I’m getting stronger. I’ll keep you safe.”

He’d hated to see Meera so grief stricken that it was almost a comfort when her face had twisted into rage.

“You knew? You knew he died and you left me here?” Meera had jumped to her feet and jabbed a finger at Leaf and the other children watching in the shadows. “I needed you! I needed your help! They took him into the dark, into their bone chambers! I couldn’t even bury him!”

“We are all buried here.” Leaf had sung. “All of us here… your brother rests in a place of honor. He lies with the bones of great men, the other singers, even giants of lore-”

“He’s in some dark pit, rotting!” Meera had yelled back. “He should be on a hill in a field where the sun can find him… he should be in the bogs with the grave flowers planted above him… not in this dead place…”

Her anger had mixed with her sadness again and she’d given him a final spiteful glare before storming from the chamber. Bran had tried to call out to her, to tell her how sorry he was. That he hadn’t truly left her. That he could never leave her, not in a thousand years.

His voice had been hoarse, his throat a desert, and his desperation too powerful to accept her leaving him. He had thought to lift his arm, to reach out for her, but it had been so long… he’d forgotten how. His body had become the ravens, the trees, even Summer.

So instead he reached out another way.

Before Bran had realized what he was doing, he sought Meera out with his mind, grabbing hold of her and willing her to stay. He needed her to know how much he loved her.

When he slipped within her skin, Meera had immediately become still, her feet planted to the cavern floor. Everything about her was still. Her mind felt warm and loving and it almost made Bran weep to feel so close to her, to be a part of her. He became drunk on that feeling, that warmth. He imagined that this was what it would feel like, to embrace like a man and woman who were in love. Like his father had embraced mother. Bran felt like a man… a strong man who could protect her, and not a broken little boy in the dark.

The moment ended quickly when Meera realized what was happening to her. The peace shattered when she began to fight him. Her hands shook with terror and reached up to her head, her fingers tearing at her hair. Her back tensed so hard that Bran feared it might break. Her mouth tasted first of vomit and then of blood when she bit her tongue. The scream which burst forth from her would tear at Bran’s soul forever.

“No!” She’d screamed, every part of the girl he felt within the skin screaming the same thing. “No! I don’t want it!”

The pain and betrayal she felt clawed its way into his heart and shredded it. Bran had come to his senses by then, slipping away from her body and back into his own. When he looked to her with his own eyes Meera had already been staring back at him with those green eyes that he dreamed fondly of so often. They hadn’t held any of the cheer that made them shine bright though. Instead they held only terror and tears. Her hand had clamped over her mouth, while her body shook horribly like she was going to be sick.

“Meera, it was an accident! Please listen!”

She hadn’t of course. She’d run away and hadn’t returned to that part of the cavern ever since. It had been weeks now and Meera could still hardly stand to be around Bran. Sometimes she still spoke to him but it was as if they were strangers. Sometimes it even seemed like she was doing all she could to keep from killing him. Their only connection was Hodor, who sometimes cringed away when Bran looked at him.

Now the stable boy’s eyes were full of concern as Meera continued her preparations.

“Don’t go out there alone. Please.”

“I won’t be alone. Coldhands is out there.” She answered. “And I won’t be going far.”

_The bodies weren’t far._

The smell of Coldhands on the dead wildlings came back like a slap to the face. The gashes across their throats, their hands tied together, and how the one man’s hands made him look as if he had been begging. Meera going out to seek the man that had done such a thing made Bran’s heart pound in fear.

 _I can stop her_ , he thought, _I can force her to stay in the cave, to stay safe._

_All I have to do is stay strong this time, and not let her anger stop me._

_I might even be able to make her love me this time._

The last thought came unbidden and unwanted but it had come all the same and it made Bran wish that he was dead. He didn’t know when it had happened. He had been Eddard Stark’s son, the Prince of Winterfell, brother of Robb and Sansa and Arya and Rickon, and even Jon, no matter who his real father was. He was going to be a knight and serve the king. He was going to be a hero.

When had everything gone so wrong? When had he become so lost?

When Bran looked at Meera again, their eyes met for the shortest of moments. He didn’t see anger in her eyes then though, nor really fear. She looked hurt.

_I’m the one who hurt her._

_I left her and then I hurt her._

Jojen was dead now. As dead as any dreams he might have had of ever becoming a knight. Bran had said once that he wished the fall had killed him but Robb had told him to continue on and he had. Somehow he had found purpose again through his dreams, through his hopes of meeting the three-eyed crow. Now he found himself wishing again that the fall had just ended his life, ended this pain.

The only reason Bran had left to live now was the possibility of seeing his family again… of saving his friends, of saving Hodor and Meera. They were his only friends in the world now, his only warmth in the darkness… and they were afraid of him. Because of what he’d done.

“I’m not supposed to hurt you. I’m supposed to save you.”

“What?” She paused from her marching away from the cave without turning back.

Bran dug his hands into the roots then and pulled himself forward, dragging himself across the floor. Towards her.

“I couldn’t save, Jojen.” Bran felt his fingers digging into the damp earth. “I should’ve. I was supposed to… but I couldn’t and I can’t let that happen again…”

Meera finally faced him, her hands clutching her spear tightly as she watched his coming. Hodor was stirring behind him but Bran kept going, needing to do this.

“What I tried to do when I came out of the trees… Meera, I didn’t mean it. I stopped when I felt-”

“You tried to make me your _slave_.” She hissed at him, her knuckles white around the spear. “After everything, Bran? After all we’ve been through, all we’ve survived together… you tried to chain me inside of myself! Have you done it before? Is that why Hodor is so scared of you now?”

“Hodor.” Their large friend stood tall, his head bowed, numbly coming forward to collect Bran into his arms.

“No!” He cried out, waving his arm to wave him off. “Leave me be!”

Hodor shuffled back immediately, his eyes still on the ground and his hands clutching at himself.

“ _You_  leave him be!” Meera shouted. “It’s true! You’ve been doing that to him! He’s not some horse or pack mule for you to ride whenever you want, he’s a man! Hodor’s your friend, not your slave!”

He thought of Brandon the Builder bringing all the giants to their knees, of the mournful sound they’d made as they submitted to his ancestor’s will.

“We ran from the monsters, Bran! We hid here from the monsters! You were supposed to become a great greenseer! What’s the point if you become just as bad as the things we’re supposed to fight?! What did my brother die for if you’re just to become another monster!?”

Meera had come closer with every accusation until she stood over top of him, her spear in her hand. A part of him almost thought she would just stab the spear right into his back and end it. She was close enough to touch but he wouldn’t dare now… for he knew she was right. That he was a monster, that she should be afraid of him. Hodor was Hodoring off in the corner, as afraid of what Meera might do to him as Bran was. He gazed up into her eyes but it was too dark to see himself in them.

_Or maybe that’s just how dark you are now._

“I might be.” He found his words. “I might be a monster Meera… I might belong in the dark. I wanted to be a knight, I wanted to fight with a sword and ride and save kings and fight evil… but don’t you understand? I’m broken now. I can’t do any of that. I can’t… I can’t do anything. Except the skinchanging. Going into the trees… that’s all I can do… it’s the only way I can help…”

Meera’s eyes were still narrowed upon him yet he couldn’t stop and the words continued to pour forth.

“What I did, it was an accident, and I’ll never do it again… I can do that for you. But if I have to stay in the dark, if I have to be a monster and do terrible things… then I will… to save you… I-I will… I have to be…”

“You didn’t come here to be a monster.” Meera’s spear was trembling above his head. “Sweet. Sweet and kind. I thought Jojen was wrong about the power you have. ‘How could someone like Bran have such a terrible power,’ I thought.” It lightened Bran’s heart to think of a time when Meera thought well of him. “So gentle and pure.  A smile that warms the heart of all who look upon you. A pure kindness I’d never known before. That’s who you are, Bran. Not this skinchanger. They’re doing something to you, don’t you see that?  _He’s_  doing something to you…”

_He’s showing me how to become strong._

_How to be as powerful as Brandon the Builder._

_How to save us all._

Before he could speak to it a different voice sang out the darkened passages.

“You must come.” Leaf emerged from the shadows as Meera rounded, her spear at the ready. Her cat-like eyes moved amongst all three of them before settling on Meera. “He would see you all.”

Meera tensed then and even went as far as pointing her frog spear at Leaf.

“Let him speak with his trees then! Bran and I are talking now and even if he wants to go, I’ll be leaving the cave soon-”

“You seek to learn answers, answers to questions you should not ask.” Leaf did not seem fazed by Meera’s anger, acting like she had expected the outburst. “These answers you will find if you follow me. You need not risk the terrors without.”

Meera seemed taken aback and she wasn’t the only one as Bran wondered at what had changed. Bloodraven had only ever summoned him before while continually ignoring Meera’s questions in the past. The slim young woman Bran loved clearly hadn’t forgotten that either, for Meera shook her head and kept her spear aimed at Leaf.

“I’d rather risk the terrors and things outside the cave then-”

“He has seen your family through the trees. Both your families.” Leaf pointed back down the passageway. “Answers and blood; that’s what he bid me to offer you."

“My family?” Bran’s thoughts immediately flashed to the warning he’d given Jon and Arya. Who Meera pictured he couldn’t say but her spear lowered some then. “Meera, he might have word of your father and mother. Coldhands won’t be able to tell you about them. Let’s go with her.”

“If I say no, will you force me?” Meera asked Leaf, who narrowed her eyes.

“I do not have to.”

“Because Bran will?” She asked sadly, her head lowering and the spear falling to her side. “Is that it? You’re going to make Bran control me again…”

“No, Meera.” Bran risked reaching up for her hand, taking hold of her fingers as gently as he could. “Never. Never again. I promise.”

He expected Meera to pull her hand away in disgust yet the only reaction she gave was a slight twitch. She didn’t return his hold but she didn’t shake it away either and he took that as a hopeful sign.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want. You can leave the cave too, I’ll slip into Summer’s skin and guard you if I must, but don’t lose out on hearing news of your family because of me. I have to go to him… I have to. It’s the only way.”

At those words Meera’s fingers twitched again and this time they almost squeezed his own.

“That’s what he said.” She whispered, looking down at him. “Jojen had to go to you. It was the only way, he said.”

“The young one was brave and wise beyond his years.” Leaf added then. “He was worthy of the task set forth for him.”

Meera didn’t thank Leaf for the compliment, answering the gesture only with silence. When she pulled her hand free from Bran’s grasp he feared the worst until Meera gave a slight nod. He had to fight not to smile. Hodor came and lifted Bran into his arms soon after and the three of them followed Leaf deeper within the caverns, to seek Bloodraven on his weirwood throne.

He watched their coming with his last human eye, the terrible red one, his ancient face neither welcoming nor threatening. It just was. It was as if that face had forgotten how to show emotion long ago.

“How did you know I was going to seek Coldhands?” Meera asked before any other words were shared between them.

“A thousand eyes and one girl… there was a song about such…” Bloodraven answered and Bran thought for a moment that the last greenseer had almost chuckled, his red eye glowing in the dark. “I’ve known you’d do so before you would.”

With that Bloodraven raised a finger, pointing towards Bran’s small throne to his side. Bran knew what the man wanted and had Hodor set him gently upon his seat, the stableboy gently laying the furs upon his lap. In the corner of the cavern, Snowylochs stood waiting, a bowl in her hand, and Bran did not have to guess what was within it.

“Wait!” Meera protested. “Wait, Bran, don’t! Leaf said he knew of our families!”

“I have seen them.” Bloodraven closed his eye. “I have seen men and women, of both your lines, ones who long ago became dust, even before Leaf was born.”

“Did Jon and Arya hear me?” Bran asked. “Did they hear my warning? Is Jon safe?”

“They heard you. They have been warned and your brother is with friends.” The three-eyed crow opened his eye to gaze upon Meera. “With your father.”

“He’s alive?” Meera’s eyes shined with tears. “What did you see of him?”

“That he loves his children greatly. That he prays you remain safe… his dreams worry him…”

“Jojen. Does he know? I mean, did he dream of Jojen’s… of…”

“He did.” Bloodraven rasped. “He has learned of your brothers.”

“Brothers? I have… I had only one brother.”

“Oh... yes, you are right… only the one.”

Meera was as confused as Bran at that but Bloodraven cared not as he waved Snowylochs onward. The creature handed Bran the bowl of weirwood paste and he looked at it guiltily, feeling a part of himself yearning to eat it. Meera gazed at it as well, a foul expression on her face.

“What do you call the ranger?” Bloodraven asked Meera. “The one you would learn of?”

“Coldhands.” Bran answered for her. “We call him Coldhands.”

“Ah… I see. You once called me the three-eyed crow… before that I was called Bloodraven and before that I was born Brynden Rivers. Coldhands has gone by many different names as well but he was born a man, just as young and innocent as any. As the Builder once was. As you were, child.”

“He was a sworn brother, wasn’t he?” Bran knew that much at least. “Like you?”

“Like me in so many ways… eat of the paste young one… and I will show you.” Bloodraven turned his gaze back to Meera. “And as he sees what was, I will tell the tale to you… to keep you safe. As your father asked of me.”

Bran and Meera shared an uneasy gaze, one she finally ended by nodding and he began to eat. After he had finished his meal Bran leaned back in the throne and closed his eyes.

“Tell me girl…” Bloodraven’s voice echoed in the darkness. “What do you know of the Night’s King?”

They continued speaking…

_…but Bran was moving away from the cave. He was flying through lands, through seasons, through time itself. The tree he came to was in the center of a large village, one that was burning and filled with death._

_Wildlings ran to and fro, trying to flee their attackers who blocked every path of escape with sword and spear. The men met their ends against blades, many of the women as well. No mercy was given, especially to those who tried to protect the smallest children from the grasping hands of the killers._

_Killers wearing the black cloaks and garb of the Night’s Watch._

_These men wielded more bronze weapons than steel and they wore ring mail rather than the chain mail that Bran had grown up seeing men wearing. They also shouted and cursed in a tongue Bran shouldn’t have known. The same language that Brandon the Builder had made his decrees to the giants in. A language he’d never learned or spoken, yet he understood. It felt as if something was whispering the words’ meaning right into his head._

_“Monsters! Crows and monsters!” A woman wept as her child was ripped from her arms. “My babes!”_

_“The King has decreed it!” A large brother backhanded the woman, sending her to her knees. “You were warned! We told you! Bring all those born since the end of summer to the Nightfort or suffer his wrath!”_

_“He’s no king of ours!” An old wildling clutching at his opened up belly spat at the man. “Thrall of the Others… servant of the darkness… all of you…”_

_A group of riders rode up to the village then. The man in the lead was tall and gaunt, his eyes dark and somehow familiar to Bran. His gaze was hard and unyielding, filled with anger as he took in the scene around him._

_“Servant of darkness…” The old wildling man pointed up at the rider, his hand shaking as he fell further to his knees dying._

_“End it.” The rider growled harshly to one of his companions. A brother with a spear nodded, riding forward to drive the pointed end of his weapon into the wildling’s chest. His last gurgling words were meant for the gods, but only Bran heard them._

_“We’ve got them all.” The child stealer spoke over the cries of the screaming babe in his arms. A great many others were being loaded into a wagon or were being held by other sworn brothers. All of the children were collected before the gaunt rider as the sworn brothers began to make a count._

_“This isn’t right! We’re free folk!” The woman screamed again, making towards her captured child. “We make our own king! You crows aren’t s’posed to be kings!”_

_Before she could reach her wailing babe, a sworn brother caught her in his arms and drew a blade across her throat. As the blood began to spurt out he shoved her limp body down before the weirwood and Bran could once more taste the blood as it seeped into the earth, staining the roots of his tree._

_The whole time the tall rider watched with his dark eyes._

_When Bran journeyed again it was not far, yet it was colder, the thick woods around this weirwood had a light snow covering the ground, mixing with black earth and dead brush.  The group of men gathered about the fire was a fierce looking lot, warriors all. There was a score of them, clad in furs, leathers, and ring mail, some wounded and others healthy. Others bore the bones of animals and even men on their person._

_“Torr… how do you live?” One of the men asked, a fat man with a snow bear pelt laid across his shoulders. “The crows went through your village before mine…”_

_“Aye, and why did you call us here?” Another man spoke up, this one missing an arm yet hefted an axe to rest on his shoulder. “We all got people to tend to and the next attack could come any day.”_

_The most fearsome of them grunted at their questions, his battered face having recently lost an eye, a bloody bandage hiding it. Bloodraven’s voice came into his mind then, explaining what he was seeing_

_‘This is a king, from a time when the lands Beyond-the-Wall held many men who called themselves such. All were crushed beneath the might of the Night’s King at the Wall, and the Others rising once again from the Lands of Always Winter. With terrible enemies attacking them from both sides, there seemed to be no chance of victory. Of survival.’_

_“I didn’t call us here. The one who spared me did.” Torr whistled twice then, facing out into the darkness._

_Out from the black woods, sliding forth from behind some trees, he came into the light. The gaunt, thin man Bran recognized from his last vision had come forth, his hand on a blade. Curses and yells of fury erupted at the sight of him, the wildlings angry and terrified at the sight of the ranger._

_“Torr, you traitor!” Was a common cry as some backed away while others drew weapons._

_“I’ve betrayed nothing. I said we’d all talk. Now we will.”_

_“Talking will do for now.” The gaunt man joined the others around the fire before gesturing back out into the woods. A great many men had appeared in a wide circle around the group bearing spears, swords, and bows. Bran saw a mix of wildlings and sworn brothers among the gaunt man’s allies._

_“Thrall of demons! Traitor to your kind!”_

_“Fucking kneeler! Kneeling to the White Walkers!”_

_“You could killed my brothers!”_

_The gaunt man’s eyes narrowed upon the last insult_

_“I’ve lost more brothers than you. More than all of you combined! Hundreds of my sworn brothers are dead and thousands more are lost to the evil at the Nightfort. I grew up in the Night’s Watch, born of the same lands as you lot… it was the sworn brothers who were my family. It’s them I betray now.”_

_With that, the gaunt man pulled off his black cloak and threw it upon the fire. When the flames began to consume the cloak, a great rush of smoke and heat came forward, as did the murmurs of the wildlings._

_“Yet it was them who betrayed me first when they broke the oath we swore. We hold the Wall to keep back the night, not to bring the night down upon us once more.” The gaunt man stared deeply into the fires, his voice sounded tired but his face was unrelenting. “We voted a fine man as Lord Commander but then he changed. We voted for him to lead us, not to call himself king. I was meant to be his First Ranger, not his warlord. I was meant to be the fire that burns against the cold, not the fire that burns against people… all to see children given over to-”_

_“So what is this?” The wildling with the axe asked. “You apologizing? Coming out here to join our fight?”_

_“Little fight left to you all.” The gaunt man answered. “Few years ago you each held power, wielded strength. That’s why he sent me at you, one by one… now you’re just a collection of defeated tribes, broken crowns against a king that holds a great army… a king with the Others as his allies.”_

_“So we bend the knee? I’d rather be dead and risen again than let the Night’s King rule over me and mine...”_

_“Aye, I’ll never name that thing my king.”_

_“Then live and name me yours.” The gaunt man’s dark eyes moved across the men. “I’ve beaten all of you, Torr as well, and I know the Watch better than most. Torr has named me his king, so do as he has done. Do it and we have a chance.”_

_He waved an arm out at the men encircling the camp, all now pulling their weapons out and notching arrows to bows. Another wave of the hand and a man came forth, carrying a bundled up object._

_“Name me your king and you will live to see another dawn and the Night’s King defeated.”_

_“Torr you bastard, you led us into this trap.” One spat at wildling king called Torr. “I thought you a man, not a sheep.”_

_“Show them. Show them or it’ll be blood.” Torr growled at the gaunt man, who nodded and began to unwrap the bundle._

_“I come with more than threats and promises… I left the Wall with more than just my men and my head on my shoulders.” With that the gaunt man raised up a horn to show the others, a horn Bran recognized, one he’d seen last in the hands of the Builder. “I took from our enemy the greatest weapon he could wield… I am now the master of the Horn of Winter… name me your king and its power shall be yours as well.”_

_Some of the wildlings gaped at each other, others up at the horn itself, glimmering in the light of the flame. Clearly it held some sort of meaning to them, one that inspired fear as well as awe. The man missing his arm acted first, throwing his weapon down at the gaunt man’s feet. Then the fat wildling followed suit, his sword clanging upon the axe. One by one each man added to the pile, each swearing fealty to the sworn brother._

_“Pick them up.” He commanded. “For when you do they belong to me, they fight for me, as their masters will as well.”_

_“Aye that they will.” Torr nodded, thrusting a dagger in the air and roaring the next part. “We fight as one! We fight against the Night! With the Horn of Winter! For the King-beyond-the-Wall!”_

_With that he began to chant a name, a name the others in the woods chanted in return, the defeated kings and warlords soon joining them. A name Bran knew from lessons taught by Maester Luwin and bedside tales from Old Nan. A legend he never truly thought was real._

_“Joramun!” Torr roared. “Joramun!”_

_“Joramun!” The others echoed. “Joramun!”_

_Through it all the gaunt man, still clad in the black garb of the Night’s Watch, stood holding the Horn of Winter above his head. As Bran gazed upon him, Bloodraven’s voice spoke within his head once more._

_‘To know what must be done you had to know this truth… the truth of Joramun… for this is not how it will end… nor how he will end… look closely Bran… look closely and see the answer to the girl’s questions…’_

_Bran did as his teacher asked. He stared at the man, trying to find what truth Bloodraven spoke of. His eyes moved from the horn, to his black garb, to his gaunt frame, to the simple sword at his side. Then Bran looked to the black cloak burning upon the fire._

_When Bran saw what he was supposed to, he almost felt a fool. For it had been staring him in the face the whole time. Just as Joramun was staring up at the face of the weirwood._

_Looking at Bran with his dark eyes._

_Eyes that still shone with some measure of warmth and life so unlike how Bran remembered them._

_For this was a vision of things long since passed and in Bran’s time he knew Joramun’s eyes to be far colder._

_As cold as his hands._  

 **JON**  

“I’m sick of the cold.”

Willem’s complaint was muffled by the wind whipping through their ranks as well as the long hood he had pulled down over his face. A few of the men groaned and even some of the horses voiced their dismay at the chill. To Jon, it felt no worse than the countless other gales they’d endured during their weeks of travelling to the Wall.

The Kingsroad was a barely-trodden dirt trail this far north, covered in snow and ice which cracked under the weight of their horses. The trees to either side of the road were covered in thick blankets of snow, some having buckled beneath the weight of the flurries. The road had been leading them on a meandering trek through the Wolfswood, too slow a pace for Jon’s tastes, but it was the safest route he and the other commanders had decided. Taking the Kingsroad also meant that there would be more chances of running into people coming south, whether they were friends, wildlings… or oathbreakers.

_Lady Maege and I have not forgotten._

_The Lord-Commander was murdered by his own men._

Jon was sure that they were somewhere north of Long Lake, which meant they were nearing the lands of the New Gift, one step closer to the Wall. Jon had told the men that they would be at Castle Black within days.

_If the weather holds at least._

“I should be warm in bed with a she-bear right now. Or that angry serving wench.” Willem grumbled again. “Instead I get to freeze and watch your direwolf prance about like a pig in shit.”

“Ghost does not prance.” He defended his friend’s honor, shooting a look to the direwolf loping through the snow far ahead. “And you can barely see him.”

The direwolf was in his element, that much was certain. His white coat blended in perfectly with the snow and the pale sky. It wasn’t just his look though; Ghost’s quiet nature had made the beast a deadly menace to any game he caught wind of. Willem would complain now but later when Ghost brought forth a hare or took down an elk for all of them to share, his bellyaching would give way to the grumble within his gut like it always did.

“Oh? And what do you see?” Willem asked, brushing snow off from his hood. “I was watching you lad, you’ve got that look upon your face again.”

“What look?”

“The look of a man remembering a warmer place, wishing that he was there again.” The knight sounded jealous as he blew into his cupped hands.

Jon shook his head despite being impressed at how right Willem was. For he had been lost in his thoughts, remembering warmer times and fairer sights than these lands could offer.

For he’d been thinking of his last hours at Winterfell, of his last night with Sansa. As exhausted as he’d been after their love making, Sansa had fallen asleep long before him. The feel of her naked body against his skin had been a torture, yet a sweet torture all the same.

It was worth the frustration he had felt to simply hold her as she slept against him, feeling the warmth of her being, her chest moving lightly under his arm. In the baths they had always taken their time but there was a level of caution, of knowing that they couldn’t be away for too long without raising suspicions. In that moment though, in their imagined marriage bed, Jon took the opportunity to bask in the glow of his beloved.

He had admired her naked, lithe form against his, noting all the little things he thought beautiful about her. He liked the contradictions in her body, the soft feminine curves of her stomach and breasts that gave at the lightest touch. He had run his fingers over the milky-white soft skin, willing his fingers to remember every inch of her. He had noticed for the first time then that Sansa had little red patches of skin all over her and Jon made an effort to become familiar with every single one.

Sansa’s beauty was overwhelming enough during the day, yet somehow it had been enhanced as her bare form glowed in the weak moonlight. Thinking of what he could see made him yearn to glimpse what hid below the blankets. The thought of her mound caused Jon to reflect on how good it felt when she’d ground her sex against his mouth, her actions frantic and needful. He could still remember the desperate sounds she’d made as he kissed at her wetness there.

To his shame, he even caught himself thinking of her taste some nights.

Those memories were far better than the dream that had been awaiting him when he finally did slumber. It was a nightmare in truth, for he had dreamt of a flock of ravens coming forth from the heart tree to attack his family. Their black beating wings and pecking beaks did all they could to hide the red eye gazing at them in the dark. The eye had been telling him that they were not wanted there.

He’d awoken with a start, relieved to find Sansa still sleeping next to him, the window showing not birds attacking him but instead the faintest signs of dawn’s approach. Jon knew he had to be up and away from these chambers long before any servants or guards began moving throughout the castle.

Yet he had not been able to leave without placing a kiss against Sansa’s parted lips. She had awoken at his soft gesture, her swimming blue eyes staring with so much love into his. Good sense had dictated that he leave right away, before any could discover them. Her eyes and the feel of her hand grasping his hardness had bid him to stay, for one last chance at passion before leaving Winterfell itself.

Jon had acted far more careful during their morning love, for she gasped in pain when he first sank within her, her sex still sore from their earlier efforts. If she hadn’t looked so eager he would have stopped for fear of hurting her. She’d asked simply that he be careful with her, which he quickly agreed to. Slow and gentle was fine by him.

That morning the sun rose on their love as they touched and moaned and took their pleasure from one another. The first light of the day caught her eyes as he stared down at them, and for the sweetest of moments he believed he was looking into a summer sky.

He’d not lasted long after her final shudder, and to his shame, Jon had not lingered in the bed much longer after that. Dressing quickly and having to endure Sansa’s sadness as she watched him had been difficult.

“I hoped the dawn would not come.” She’d pouted as she held the blankets about her nakedness. “I wanted the snows to bury the gates so you would have to stay…”

“I must go.” He’d finished dressing before coming back to her. “A kiss first. One final kiss for we can’t have another-”

“We will have hundreds more.” Sansa had kissed him hungrily, desperately perhaps, even fearfully. “Thousands more. More than can be counted…”

He’d merely been speaking of not being able to do so before his party left but Jon did not argue. He gave his betrothed a farewell kiss, one filled with promise and love, before somehow finding the strength to break free of Sansa’s embrace and her lips.

Jon acted the coward and didn’t look back at her as he left. He had worried that it would have been too hard to continue on. The next time Jon saw Sansa was in the courtyard, alongside Arya and Rickon and most of the Stark household, making final farewells to Jon’s party.

Arya had rained kisses on his cheek and face and blinked back tears the whole time, making sure he took notice of Needle prominently displayed on her hip. Rickon hugged him tightly with his small arms, before trying to offer up his bone necklace as good fortune.

“You keep it, my king. Let the good fortune be for your sisters and your people.” Jon had eased the necklace back into Rickon’s hands and the boy had seemed thankful, unlike Sansa who looked disappointed, for she hated that bone necklace.

Sansa had none of the freedom her siblings had but she bore the pain of her duty well. Their true farewell had been in her chambers, and this final farewell was but a farce for the eyes of others.

Jon had been proud of how she kept her composure in front of everyone, her voice unfaltering and her eyes free of tears. Her bearing was strong but her face did not look like it was carved of ice when she sometimes acted a queen. Instead it looked warm and charming and most importantly, thankful, for the men who would be riding out did so under her orders. Jon liked to think that only those who truly knew Sansa’s soul would have been able to detect how torn apart she truly was.

“Your grace, I will serve the Starks with the honor they deserve.” Jon had knelt to kiss her outstretched hand, fighting the urge to place it against his face and let her caress his cheek once more.

“I have no doubt ser.” Sansa had answered, trembling some as she slowly pulled her hand away. “We will all await your return and watch for your coming. A true knight… coming through the snows…”

“Wait!”

Myranda’s voice had rung out as she rushed across the courtyard with a bundle of black cloth in her hands. He’d noticed her absence among the well-wishers and had tried not to be hurt by it. Just as the lady had been trying her hardest not to slip on the snow as she ran forth to join them, trailed by Jeyne and a few of the other Winterfell women.

“Pray forgive me. Forgive us.” Myranda had wheezed, putting a hand to Jon’s chest, a bit too low, to steady herself. “Your departure was so hurried… we worked as quickly as we could and only just finished…”

“I forgive and thank you for seeing us off, my lady- um, ladies.” Jon had smiled awkwardly at the group of the women. “You were finishing something?”

“Why of course! You ride to the Wall to keep us fair women and the realm itself safe from monsters! While you may not have chosen a name for yourself yet, we all name you brave and true.” Myranda had waved at Jeyne who came and took hold of a corner of the black cloth. “We’d have others do the same! So they’d know you come from even the farthest distance. They must see a banner and say to themselves, here comes Ser Jon, Lord of the Dreadfort!”

With that Myranda and Jeyne stepped apart, stretching the cloth between them until the fullness of the banner unfurled before them. The banner itself was as black as night which made the sigil upon it stand out all the more. For in the center was sewn a lone white dragon in profile, though this one was only bearing one head and it was not breathing fire. The only color besides the black and white was the deep red of its exposed eye.

_A red eye in the darkness._

“A white dragon.” Sansa had said in a quiet voice, her eyes seeking out Howland.

The lord was already sitting upon his horse, staring at the banner with a faraway expression upon his face. The lack of reaction from Jon and the others had caused Jeyne to become self-conscious, the lady beginning to fold the banner back up.

“No, no Jeyne, stop. Myranda, it is wonderful.” He stayed Jeyne’s hand and bowed deeply to them both. “I will do just as you say. This banner will fly wherever I ride, and I will make sure that all who see it know that it was you fine women who honored me with it.”

His words had brought smiles from the group of women and a long, lingering kiss to his cheek from Myranda that felt a bit too close to his lips. There were no smiles to be found from Sansa or Arya though as he mounted his horse. Only the smallest of waves from the sister who had chosen him and a final heartfelt gaze from the princess who was promised to him.

As the wind came once again, Jon pushed away the sadder memories to try and focus on the warmer ones once more. Yet the sound of cloth flapping in the wind drew his attention behind them. Four banners flew in the breeze, each tied to a long spear and held by a rider who was handpicked for the honor. The Mormont bear waved next to the lizard lion of House Reed while the Stark direwolf was raised beside the white dragon of his still unnamed house.

“Wintersbane!” Willem almost shouted, nodding enthusiastically at his idea. “I pray you are at least. Be a dear and bring spring a tad bit sooner for your poor friend.”

“Name the winter as my enemy?” Jon shook his head. “I’d rather choose my foes more wisely.”

“Not like it’s giving you much of a choice in the matter. If it wasn’t for this blasted weather we’d be at the Wall by now. How many days have we lost because of the snow alone?”

 _Too many_ , he thought,  _far too many._

Jon had urged them to begin riding especially early that morning after they had lost two days waiting out a snow storm in the crumbled remains of an abandoned keep. The horses might have been grateful for the rest but the crowded conditions within the ruin had not mixed well with idleness of the men.

The man holding Jon’s banner still bore marks from just how poorly things had gone. Aldred Hilgard sported a bruise upon his cheek and a broken lip from the fight he’d gotten into with two of the Stark riders. Apparently after some wine had been shared foul words were exchanged between Aldred and some other veterans of the Reaping. Somewhere in their column, a man had a broken nose to show for his comments against the House Hilgard.

“Twas well earned and well fought.” Aldred had shrugged when Jon had broken the combatants apart. “No blades, only fists, and no dead to show from it. In my home that’s the making of a fine feast.”

“We all know how your lot like to celebrate weddings.” One of his foes had said, checking to see if all his teeth were there.

“Enough.” Jon had broken in, his mind already set on punishment for the ruckus. “The elk Ghost brought in has made for some fine stew. You three have just volunteered to give away your share of it for the good of the party. Furthermore, whatever wine you have between you will be given over, to prevent any more ‘celebrations.’”

In conditions such as these, the loss of a hot meal was hard enough but to also lose the false warmth of drink caused all three men to curse. When the other two had left him, Jon had grabbed hold of Aldred’s arm.

“Whoever you served before, the Starks have decided you serve me now. If this is how you mean to act in my name, speak to it so I can know for sure that you are a man of little worth.”

“Little worth?” Aldred growled, jerking his arm free. “I fought at the Green Fork and killed three men and a knight. I lost two brothers there fighting the Lannisters-”

“You fought for Roose Bolton.” Jon spat at the name. “You fought for Ramsay Snow. Both are long dead yet you fight for them still. Should I accept what your opponents say? What Stark men whisper of you? That you and your family can never be more than Bolton men?”

Aldred had puffed his chest out at that, his flax colored eyes sizing Jon up. Jon had prepared himself for the man to strike him, perhaps even pull a dagger but it didn’t matter. Jon would be ready for it, just as he promised Sansa and Willem. Instead of attacking though, Aldred untied a wine skin from his belt and held it out to him.

“My lord commanded this of me.”

Jon had not expected the man to surrender the drink so easily and was surprised again when Aldred, instead of storming off, thought to share his thoughts then.

“The Hilgards have defended the Bolton lands for thousands of years. We were keeping the Umbers to their side of the Lonely Hills while other families rose and fell. We fought well and served honorably for House Bolton.” Aldred crossed his arms and grunted. “It doesn’t mean we liked them any. They kept more than Stark skins up in the Dreadfort. Some were Hilgard men who rose up too high for the Bolton’s liking and we keep our grudges as long and faithfully as we keep our word. What Lord Roose did at the Red Wedding… well, my father and I were surprised when that Frey cow was allowed to keep her head.”

Aldred stared at him then and Jon wasn’t sure what he saw in the hardy warrior’s eyes. It wasn’t threatening but it wasn’t warm either. It seemed that Aldred had a different idea about what Sansa should have done with Fat Walda Frey. They’d spared her and allowed the woman to return to her home at the Twins and Jon had thought it just and merciful, though he knew others shared a different opinion.

“House Bolton’s words were ‘Our Blades Are Sharp,’” Aldred continued. “Fear was the most important thing to their house and it worked. Even after flaying was banned in the North, the Boltons were still feared by all. Do you know my house’s words, my lord?”

“’We Will Face Any Foe.’” Jon had made sure to learn that much about the houses that would serve under him.

“That’s right. We don’t just fight bravely and better than most, we fight when ordered. When we bent the knee to the Boltons, we gave our word to them to do as they commanded, no matter how foul, and we followed through on that oath until their end. Now to the Starks we have once again bent the knee and given our word to do as  _they_  command. So my father fights for House Stark against the reavers and I fight for you where you’d have me.”

Aldred drew his axe then, though he didn’t brandish it in threat. He held it in promise. The blade shined brightly from the fire.

“That’s my worth, Ser Jon, and no matter what I think of you, I’m your man now and I will face any foe that you ask of me. I’m your warrior. I’m your killer.”  
  
Jon thought it was well said, wanting to believe most of it. The last claim was the only part he took issue with though.

“I need you to be more than that.” He’d said, tying the wine skin to his sword belt and walking away from his future bannerman. “There’s enough killers in this world. I’d have my captains be true northmen, men of honor…”

He didn’t know whether Aldred had taken his words to heart. When they’d ridden out again, Jon had offered the Hilgard heir the honor of carrying his standard. No argument had come from Aldred, little thanks either, only a curt nod. Yet the man had not let Jon’s banner dip once and there were no further fights since.

“Paledragon?” Willem’s next guess broke into his thoughts. “I mean Whitedragon is a little too on the nose.”

“Your nose is not the one I’m concerned with.” Jon pointed ahead, for Ghost had stopped along the side of the road. The direwolf was nosing through the snows and the smell of death quickly wafted up to Jon’s attention.

_Gods, how many must be dead to smell so strongly?_

Yet when he glanced to the others no one appeared to be as bothered by the stink as Jon. In truth, none showed any signs of having noticed it at all. Only Jon noticed the stench it seemed.

_It is not me smelling that stench in truth… it is Ghost._

What the smell was coming from became clear as they neared where Ghost had already begun digging up what lay hidden beneath the dirt and snow.

“Well, at least we know we’re close to the Wall.” Maege said sourly as she looked down upon the three bodies Ghost had uncovered.

“And things are likely as bad as we feared.” Jon added. “Why else risk such a fool’s march?”

All three men wore the blacks of the Night’s Watch, each laying in a frozen slumber from which they’d never awoken. Their clothes were ragged and their skin clung to their bones, clear signs of deprivation.

“Driven away by the infighting perhaps.” Howland eyed them carefully. “They should be burned.”

The lord then waved some men forward and commanded that they start collecting kindling for a pyre. When Maege protested that they did not have time for such a thing Howland looked to Jon.

“It would be best to deal with them now rather than later. Stannis said only flame did for wights. We may not have seen any south of the Wall but I would not risk it. If I am wrong, at least it is more dignity than they have now.”

Jon thought that wise yet was concerned with how coldly detached the lord seemed from his words. Most of the journey he had acted little better, taking most of his meals alone while staring off into the distance. Those who kept watch reported seeing the lord awake and doing much the same even when the night was too dark for anything to be seen.

What bothered Jon most was that the lord only ever stared in the one direction. His eyes were always set towards the south.

They left Howland with a score of men to see to the burning of the bodies, for there was a farm farther up the road where they intended to set up camp. The hope of a warm hearth and fodder for their horses turned out to be a false one, for the few buildings there had been long abandoned. The door to the largest hovel clearly having been kicked open while blood stained the floor.

Maege’s men reported finding signs of people using the barn recently, the remains of a horse half butchered found nearby, and discarded black cloaks. Ghost had not joined them at the farm but Jon had faith that his friend would give them warning of any threats nearby.

They all settled in for the night, with men tending to their horses and throwing up tents in the shelter of the barn and other hovels. Maege, Willem and he were accorded the use of the farmer’s home, all to themselves, with Howland expected to join them. Of course they all insisted on allowing more men to join them. Aldred sat to a corner by himself, honing his axe, while Jon’s new squire dragged his armor before the fire and set to cleaning it.

“No need for that tonight Coll.” Jon offered as he threw a log into the flames. Even with its heat he could still see his words in the air. “I haven’t worn my armor since you last cleaned it and I can see the shine from here.”

“It’s my duty, ser. Er- my lord.” The boy answered, his pale eyes set on the armor.

“Ser Jon is fine, Coll. How about you tend the fire for us instead? A man who can keep a fire burning is a valuable thing on a march.”

“Oh, that and a squire who can cook a decent duck.” Willem added, chewing unhappily upon some salt beef. “Or a rabbit.”

“We don’t have any duck or rabbit, ser.” Coll dropped another log in the flames and earned a laugh from Willem.

“I’m not eating this shit for fun then? Got yourself a real thinker here, Jon…”

“Leave him be.” Jon nodded at the boy. “Hand me your sword, Coll. You’ve kept my armor in fine shape, let’s check the state of your blade.”

Willem watched Coll carefully as he unhooked his sword belt and handed over his sheathed weapon. Jon was pleased to see the sword well-cleaned. More and more Jon thought that taking the boy to squire was a good decision. Coll was eager to please, uttered no word of complaint on the ride, and Jon’s horse and armor had never been so well taken care of.

 _Yet I still know little of him_ , he thought,  _and if he is the threat that Sansa fears then I can’t afford ignorance._

“Coll, tell us of your home. I’d know something of the lands I’m meant to care for.”

“We have a good-sized holdfast ser, called Ayvern. It’s more towards the Karstark lands along the Last River.” Coll smiled some as he spoke. “The current moves slowly there, in the summer I used to swim in the river with my older sister Cayllie. There’s a hill that’s good for sledding when it snows… with all this snow, I think my little sisters would be enjoying-”

“Someone actually happy for the snow?” Willem feigned shock.

“You’ve no brothers then?” Jon asked, hoping his count of the Lothien men was accurate. When Coll shook his head he tried to see what else he could learn. “With your father and uncle marching on Torrhen’s Square, that means your mother and sisters hold Ayvern?”

“Yes, ser. Only mother and the small ones. Cayllie’s been gone for awhile.” Coll lowered his eyes then before Aldred grunted from the corner. “Father had to send her away.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Lord Rams- I mean, Ramsay Snow.” Coll poked at the fire angrily with a stick, sending some embers up between them. “Cayllie and I were swimming once and Lord Domeric was out for a ride with Ramsay and he was just watching my sister. My uncle was with us and saw it too… the way the bastard stared at her.”

“Not the kind of attention I’d want for my sister.” Willem didn’t mock the boy then, offering him a drink of his wine instead.

“After Lord Domeric died, the bastard came around more. He was always watching Cayllie… smiling at her and making her scared. It made us all scared in truth. We heard foul things about him.” Coll drank of the wine then and Jon was impressed at how easily he did so, being a boy of only ten. “When Lord Roose went to fight for the Young Wolf, he left Ramsay at the Dreadfort as castellan and not a week later the bastard came to Ayvern, saying Cayllie was invited to a hunt. She was long gone though, for my father hadn’t taken any chances. As soon as he heard Lord Roose would be leaving Ramsay behind, he sent Cayllie away, to the daughter of a great-aunt of mine, who’d married a family in the south. A place in the Vale called the Coldwater.”

“Coldwater, it’s just Coldwater. Sometimes called Coldwater Burn.” He corrected the squire.

“My uncle has spoken of ice burning, but how can water that is cold burn?”

“Is the Umber castle truly the Last Hearth?” Willem jested. “Is the Dreadfort truly a fort to be- well that was a bad example but-”

“I’ve been there, to Coldwater.” Jon continued after he shot a look at Willem. “Though I can’t claim to have seen your sister when I visited.”

Coll perked up at that, passing the wine back to Willem and leaning in eagerly towards Jon. His eyes that looked so pale and cold, reminding many of Lord Bolton himself, now seemed bright and warm, like a cloud in a spring rain.

“Is it a nice place? Are the lords kind? Cayllie was supposed to be a handmaiden to the lady there but I haven’t heard from her in so long…”

Jon told Coll what little he could of Coldwater and the lords there but it wasn’t much. The castle had been little more than a stopover during his journey to the Neck with Sansa and he’d been eager for them to be on their way. Willem surprised him then by showing kindness toward the boy, for his friend had been telling Jon for weeks not to trust Coll. The knight spoke a bit more of Coldwater, saying that Lord Royce Coldwater was a good man and had enough daughters and nieces to ensure Coll’s sister would not be lonely. The squire had appeared heartened at what he heard.

As was Jon.

For he now knew that Osgar Lothien had a daughter whom he loved so much that he’d risked the fury of Ramsay Snow to keep her safe. A good man like that would have hopefully instilled the same good values and warmth in his only son and heir.

 _That also means his beloved daughter is safe in the hands of a Vale family_ , he thought,  _a family who owes allegiance to Bronze Yohn… good to know, just in case._

Not long after, most of those in the hovel began to find warm nooks and spaces to rest. Jon stayed awake though, for he was awaiting the return of Howland.

He tried not to worry as the wind outside the keep howled with the promise of a bitter cold but it helped that Maege was snoring loud enough to compete with some of the others among the men. Trying to determine who was the loudest kept his mind sharp and awake. A strong gust struck the rough walls about them and a harsh breeze whipped the fire within. 

_I hope the Greatjon and his men are doing well, them and the other armies too._

_It’s a good thing the man got to marry before beginning this hell of a journey._

_Even finer, he gets to escort Lady Lyra to Last Hearth as he does so._

In that he was jealous of the Greatjon. Not only did he get to stay with his bride for that much longer but he had someone to warm him during these colds nights. It was a selfish thought Jon had then, of wishing Sansa and he could climb up into the loft above and forget the winds through each other’s bodies.

It became even harder to imagine when the hovel door opened shakily and the winds blew harder into the keep. A chorus of curses answered the entrance of two Reed captains, both shivering against the cold.

“All is well?” Jon asked while rising. “Where is your lord?”

“The lord keeps watch without. He would not hear otherwise.”

Jon frowned to hear it, before gesturing to his now empty spot at the fire, willing the men to warm themselves by it. With that he kicked Willem, who was doing a poor job at pretending to be asleep. 

“I go to share the watch with Howland.” Jon said as he walked by and towards the door. “Get some food in these men’s bellies.”

Outside the wind howled impossibly loud and it was pitch black, save for what few fires had not already been blow out. There were men on watch at those fires, bundled up thickly as they searched the darkness in vain for any threats.

The man Jon sought stood apart from all the watchers and even the fires as well. Howland was a solitary figure in the night, his hands clutched behind his back as he stared out over ancient trees and rolling hills.

Facing south yet again.

“My lord.” Jon said as he approached the crannogman.

Howland turned and blinked at Jon for a moment before appearing to realize who it was speaking to him. A faint smile appeared on his face and Jon tried to remember the last time he’d seen such on the man.

“Jon, it is late still, you should be resting.”

“As should you my lord, for you have been out in this weather longer than any of us. We have enough men on watch, they need no extra eyes.” Jon doubted the man could even see the ground with such light. “Come within and rest…”

“I have had my fill of dreams for the nonce Jon, but thank you.” Howland turned away again yet Jon would not be thwarted so easily and he would speak to the lord’s back if he had to.

“Then some warm broth perhaps. I’d have you keep your strength up for the journey ahead. What lies north demands it of us.” Jon’s words did nothing to break Howland’s continuing gaze southward, so he pressed on. “My lord, I expect our party will find little threat from the south, for the Lannisters are far from here.”

Surprisingly, a laugh come forth from the lord at that, so quiet that Jon was barely sure he heard it. So unhappy, he wondered if it could truly be called laughter.

“The Lannisters… if only it was they who plague my thoughts. I look south not to seek danger Jon but to find the memories of what I had there. For my home was south, and it is there I try and see. Where I loved my wife and raised my children, of the joys my family brought me. I think of them now. Now more than ever.”

_Where his home was?_

_Greywater Watch moves but I suppose it never ventures very far from south of here._

“Why didn’t you march south with your men then if you missed your home?” Jon would not have thought such a decision as craven. Howland had given and suffered much in the Stark cause, and surely he could hold Moat Cailin and the Neck better than any other.

“Why? Why, indeed.” Howland nodded somewhat, yet in such an absent-minded way that Jon wondered what he was truly agreeing with. “It would have been sweet to see my wife one more time. She is well with child now. Before I left for the Twins we had a moment of love together and I thank the gods for that. No word has come about the news, nor would it. For Jyanna knows better. I’ve always dreamt of my children before they grew within her. I always knew when to be at her side for when they came forth. She trusts in that… and in that I must fail once more…”

Jon was struggling to keep up with all that Howland was telling him. If he was to believe the lord’s predictions, congratulations were in order. Yet the other things he said gave Jon pause, for this did not seem a happy occasion.

“Howland, you could’ve gone home for a child. For your wife. Surely you know Sansa would have understood you wanting to return home.”

“Home… is it home if Meera and Jojen are not there? As I sent my children north, I must now go too.” Howland turned to face Jon then, a weak smile upon his face. “Jyanna will sing to him, to this new boy. He will be but a swell in her body yet she will sing nonetheless. They are sitting before the hearth, warm and safe within our home… their home. My wife and newborn son’s home. Mine no longer.”

Jon saw the tear tracing a dark line down the lord’s cheek. He expected it would freeze there soon unless Howland wiped it away. The crannogman appeared content with that fate.

“It was a long summerm ser.” Howland said quietly.

“Yes it was.”

“My life has been a long summer… and now, just as a long winter creeps upon the realm, so does mine own winter descend upon me.” He moved to put his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Fear not, I will do what needs to be done ser.”

“My lord… Howland, you’re causing me to worry for you. Have you no hope for your return? Have your dreams troubled you? ” Jon made his voice as quiet as he could. If Howland had dreamt something foul, he would want none to know of it.

The lord merely offered the south one last lingering look, before turning back and shaking his head.

“It is my stomach that troubles me ser. Perhaps you are right. Some warm broth would do nicely. Truly, I am fine Jon.”

Despite what Howland had said Jon feared for the man.

Just as he got the sense that there was something else to fear. That something was coming towards them out of the darkness. For half a moment, Jon could see the farm, from a distance away, the fires sparkling in the darkness as he snarled and snapped at the feet of two men.

Two men coming on towards the camp.

Jon drew his sword as if on instinct, Howland doing the same without question. Soon enough a third sword scraped free of a sheath, for behind them Willem emerged from his hiding place in the shadows.

“What is it?” The knight asked Jon.

“I’m not sure.”

One of their sentries facing the woods cried out, the men around him all drawing weapons. Jon quickly made his way towards them, Howland and Willem following closely behind, others emerging from tents and from the hovels. Three figures were coming out of the darkness, moving quickly through the snows on their way to the camp. One figure was Ghost, Jon could feel that as much as he saw it, while the other two were clearly men.

The pair was being driven onwards by Ghost’s relentless biting and snarling. The wolf’s silent threats had already been tested it seemed, for the wolf had some blood dripping from his jaws and one of the men limped slightly. The direwolf was herding the men as easily as he had herded the sheep that they had helped the Brotherhood bring to the Riverlands. Ghost did not stop until both men fell in a heap before his master, as if presenting them for approval.

The pair were clad in mismatched furs and rags. One was a common enough looking man but the other was balding and so stout that he was almost keg shaped, with large jowls on his face and a frog-like look about his eyes.

“Help us!” The common one begged, grabbing at Jon’s feet. “It’s trying to kill us!”

“Doing a poor job of it then.” Maege said, rubbing at her eyes as she came alongside Jon. “What’s all this?”

Jon almost answered before realizing that he should have had no idea. Yet in his mind, he had visions of these two men crouched low and hiding beneath great pelts as they watched the man camp. A smell of fear had been thick upon them, and a smell of threat from the larger one, a threat so strong that he had gnawed on the man’s leg to hobble him and keep him from escaping. Jon said nothing to it of course, pretending only to hazard a guess.

“Ghost found us some strangers in the woods it seems.”

“Be you white walkers or wildlings?” Willem asked as he shivered.

“Not either!” The common man started hesitantly before looking to the frog-looking man next to him. “I swears it! We are… we are…”

“Men of the Night’s Watch!” That large one tried awkwardly at filling in the other’s pause. “Yes! Sworn Brothers! Sent south to hunt wildlings that escaped from Castle Black!”

Jon and Maege exchanged a glance, and it was clear that she felt something amiss as well. Howland began whispering to one of the Stark men, who nodded and took off back to the barn.

“Where are your black cloaks then?” Maege asked. “Sworn Brothers usually dress the part.”

“Ruined… yes, ruined! We took these furs off wildlings to stay warm!” The frogman’s jowls quivered as he spoke. “We are to keep watch on the road for… for wildlings and cutthroats. Wildlings escaped Castle Black, you see!”

“You said that.” Maege answered.

“Only the two of you were sent after them? With no horses? Were you to shout at them from afar until they saw the error of their ways?” Willem laughed. “Are your voices so powerful?”

The large one bristled, his jowls shaking all the more and Ghost tensed again.

“The Lord-Commander knew he could trust Janos Slynt!” The stout man named himself proudly and did his best to sound threatening. “I was Commander of the City Watch in King’s Landing!”

_Janos Slynt… City Watch in King’s Landing…_

The man’s pronouncement brought back a memory from a good time ago. When Robar and he had still been in Highgarden, and the news of Eddard Stark’s execution was still a fresh wound in Jon’s heart.

“Joffrey called for his head and that toad of a gold cloak jumped right to it.” Robar’s words came back to him quickly. “Our late Lord Hand, and the Vale’s beloved Warden of the East, Jon Arryn, spoke to my father the last time he visited the Vale, saying how absolutely corrupt the man is. I’m told that he’s the one who pushed your father down to his knees for the headsman.”

“A man like that becomes Lord of Harrenhal while my father is dead.” Jon had answered bitterly, slashing savagely at Robar’s shield. He had been filled with grief and fury at the time and now it seemed the gods and Ghost had presented Jon with a chance for justice.

“You helped kill him.” Jon’s hand went to his sword hilt as Janos jerked back. “It was you!”

“Ser?” Maege’s hand went to her mace as well but she was clearly surprised at his actions.

“This is the man! Janos Slynt! He helped execute Lord Stark.” Jon proclaimed, taking another threatening step towards the murderer. “Ser Robar Royce told me the tale himself, who had it from men that witnessed it at the Great Sept of Baelor. This man helped kill Ned Stark!”

At that, some of the men swore and others pulled their steel. Janos Slynt was trying to crawl away as his companion moved away from him. Ghost and several men barred Slynt’s escape and he quailed before them.

“The king commanded. I obeyed… I am a man of the Watch now… forgiven…”

Jon heard little of those pleas, moving forward with vengeance in his heart. All he could see was the man who raised him being thrown down by this cowering waste of space. The only father Jon had ever known, being murdered by this scum. The father that Jon was doing all he could to remember.

Then Maege grabbed him, pulling him back.

“He is right, Jon.” She spat at the man. “As much as it disgusts me, he is right. For he is a man of the Night’s Watch now and we cannot harm him for crimes that were wiped away.”

His thoughts were of vengeance and his father’s head on the walls of the Red Keep. Of Sansa telling him how Joffrey forced her to look upon it. Jon wasn’t alone in wanting justice, for in his stead other Stark men moved in on Slynt as well.

“Stop right now!” Maege shouted. “We serve the Starks! Ned Stark was a great man! A great lord! One who was a great friend of the Watch! You cannot stain that friendship in his name!”

“Bugger that! Justice for Lord Stark!” A Stark rider shouted and a great many others echoed it. One went forward and shoved Janos violently down upon the ground.

“His head! A head for a head!”

“We’ll stick it on a pike by the roadside!”

 _Just like those monsters did to my uncle… my father…_  
  
_‘The Watch takes no part, Jon.’_

“Stop. We must stop. Lady Mormont is right.” Jon spoke up then, tasting bile in his mouth. He noticed that Janos Slynt’s face became relieved when it seemed he would be spared but also flinched at the mention of Maege’s name. “The Starks have always been friends to the Night’s Watch. For as long as they are sworn brothers, we can do them no harm…”

“You are right ser.” Howland interrupted, one of his men depositing a great amount of black clothing into his arms. “Yet I suspect these men are no longer Sworn Brothers. They are in fact oath breakers.”

“Lies!” Slynt protested as his companion offered a choked denial of his own.

“Surely, but not from me.” Howland dropped the garments on the ground. “We found these clothes here, abandoned, the garb of the Night’s Watch. Now we find two brothers without their garb.”

“Soiled…” Slynt urged. “Ruined…”

“It does not appear ruined to me, only unfashionable for men wishing to desert. Heading south perhaps.”

“Then those are not ours!” Slynt appeared almost joyful in coming up with the argument. “Yes! Yes! Those are not ours! You cannot prove those are ours!”

Jon seized on that, giving a quick whistle and Ghost bounded towards him, the wolf’s red eyes locked on Slynt.

“You would be right, save for Ghost here.” Jon pet his the direwolf’s head. “He brought you to us for a reason. I suspect that reason is that he could smell you for the oath breakers that you are.”

“A beast cannot determine the worth of my word!”

“Perhaps not, yet he can determine who those clothes belong to.” With that Jon reached down and snatched up one of the cloaks, far finer than most sworn brothers would wear. He then held it up to Ghost’s snout. “Find him. Find the oath breaker Ghost.”

It was not a long hunt, the direwolf took maybe five steps before baring his teeth at Janos’s quivering face. When Jon threatened to do the same with the other cloak, the common looking man had broken down. He claimed that Slynt offered him gold and women if he helped him south, that they’d eaten their horse when its leg had broken. How they would hide whenever riders approached and had been hoping that Jon’s party would move on soon.

“The Starks are friends of the Watch.” Maege repeated afterwards. “They also help the Watch enforce its code towards deserters.”

Jon nodded, gazing down at the two pathetic men, his heart beating fast despite how cold he felt.

“As there are no Starks here to see the sentence done I, Ser Jon, Lord of the Dreadfort, hereby proclaim your lives forfeit.” He laid his sword’s edge flat upon his palm. “Aldred, fetch me a block.”

As Aldred walked off, Maege’s face broke, as if she had had a sudden realization. A realization that Jon was sure was the same as he’d had.

“So you are deserters… turncloaks…” Maege whispered softly in thought. “We had a message from Last Hearth. That Castle Black was in disarray after men of the Watch turned against their Lord-Commander, murdering him in cold blood.”

Jon saw the common-looking man pale and stare down at his feet while Janos Slynt’s face began to turn red.

“He was the turncloak! True men of the Watch needed to stop him from destroying our order! I was proud to have served so well! All traitors-”

“Oh gods, please shut up!” The common man cried, tears in his eyes. “I didn’t want to, but Marsh said that we would all perish if we didn’t do something to-”

“So you are the ones who killed Lord-Commander Mormont?” Jon asked with a voice so cold, he wondered if Sansa would even recognize it. Having already anticipated Maege’s rage, Jon pressed his hand down on her arm which had been about to grab at the mace tied to her belt. He would restrain her for the same sake of honor that she had restrained him.

This couldn’t be revenge.

It had to be justice.

When Aldred returned, Jon commanded that the common-looking man was to be first. He had spoken the truth, so Jon would not make him wait and suffer. Jon asked for his name, which was Pate, and then he ended it for him quickly, as Eddard Stark would have done. Jon struck clean and with as much strength he could muster. It took two more swings to take off the deserter’s head, but the first blow had killed him instantly.

“No! I beg of you! I am an important man… I have gold…” Slynt wept and begged as they pushed his head down upon the bloody block. “Let me go back to the Wall… let me be a brother again. I’ll be your man at the Wall, your man-”

“The Night’s Watch has no use for men like you.” Howland cut through his pleas as Maege held her fists before her in rage.

“All I’m wanting of you is your head, for my brother.”

Jon waited until they were finished and Slynt had closed his eyes before he raised his sword up, ready to strike. Then he paused, lowering his blade and shaking his head.

“I can’t do this… not like this…”

Gasps and murmurs of discontent went through the men and he saw Slynt look up at him with a twisted sense of relief, his smile as sweet as curdled milk.

“Not in my name.” Jon continued, planting the sword in the snow and lowering his head. “In the name of Rickon Stark, first of his name, King in the North… and in the name of his father, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, the father of wolves… I sentence you to die.”

Jon did just as he had seen Eddard Stark do so many times before. During every execution, Jon had not flinched, nor looked away. For his father would always know if he had. He had always been watching.

As Jon swung the blade down, he did not flinch and he did not look away.

For he hoped his father was still watching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Cold Wind is an excellent editor... so blame any mistakes that got by on him. Heh.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strength of the Starks, the manning of the Nightfort and the things we don't see coming through the winter storms.

**ARYA**

 

She pulled her arrow.

Notched it. Drew back. Took a breath. Then let fly.

All in one fluid motion.

The arrow shot forward so fast that it made her movements seem slow and clumsy in comparison. Barely following the fletching through the air, Arya cried out in joy when the arrow not only struck the target but hit precisely where she'd meant it to. For her shot had sent the arrow to a place near the straw man's neck, just above the chest.

_A good spot to hit a man in mail._

“Princess, I think you would be a terror to the bog birds.” Marlen laughed from his place to her side. He had been moving about during archery practice to ensure that her stance was proper.

In that he reminded her of Septa Mordane, save that Arya actually cared about why Marlen was checking her posture. The septa had only cared about Arya standing properly for the sake of lords and ladies. Marlen wanted a stance that helped her bring down knights and men-at-arms. At least that’s who she pictured her target being. Not some straw man in a torn shirt but an actual enemy. The poor straw warrior had a score of arrows through him, the last one being the most important, as it was the first time Arya had put it exactly where she’d wanted it to.

“You notched and knew where you would send it didn’t you?” Marlen smiled. “No aiming?”

“Yes Marlen.” She nodded back at him. The crannogman could never be her favorite Sworn Guard or trainer, yet he remained her only archery master.

“Good shot! Anguy would be impressed with you!” A voice yelled from off behind her, causing Arya to smile and her face to warm.

Even though the forge was lit up and buzzing with activity, Gendry wasn’t donning his smithy apron today. Instead he wore a handsome black tunic with rough spun wool beneath as he moved about and instructed the newcomers. It fell to the collection of smallfolk to dress as smiths today, as Gendry had taken to teaching some of the men from the Winter Town all he knew of his trade. Sansa had asked it of him as payment for letting Gendry have his pick of what armor they’d collected during all the battles. Arya remembered him picking up greaves and a damaged cuirass seemingly at random, for most of the parts did not match in design or style.

“They’ll match where it counts.” He’d said while stoking the flames.

She hadn’t understood that at the time, biting her lip at the thought of the stubborn arse looking like some clinking, clanking collection of junk. Gendry’s reasoning made sense soon enough when she saw him start to melt all the different bits down. He planned on taking the odd mix of metals, which probably couldn’t have done well as they were, and would reform them into something strong and durable.

At least that’s what Gendry had said. She didn’t know how it was going as he hadn’t let anyone see the finished work yet. He kept it hidden away in the forge and only ever worked on it when he was alone at night.

_Knight by day but still a smith at heart._

_Just like I used to be a girl by day and a direwolf at night._

While Gendry would keep people away when he worked, she’d often come watch him anyway and it didn’t seem to bother him too much. He’d even toss her food at times. For Arya never came as herself to keep an eye on him, she’d only did so when after slipping into Nymeria’s skin.

Her talks with Rickon in the godswood, and the time they’d spent skinchanging over the last few weeks had made Nymeria more welcoming to Arya’s presence. She wasn’t losing herself in the wolf anymore. The lines between who she was and who Nymeria was had begun to blur. They were a part of each other now. Each time Arya felt more awake when wearing Nymeria’s skin.

More in control.

“It’s all about practice, and you’ve been doing a lot of it.” Marlen poked his own bow at her legs and arms. “Stringing the bow and drawing has made the right muscles stronger. You’re gaining more control over yourself.”

_More than you know._

The sound of a snap followed by a loud curse drew both of their eyes to Pod, who was shaking his one hand while clutching his bow, the string now snapped, in his other hand.

“Unlike some.” Marlen sighed. “Lad… I hate to say it, but I think you’d be better off throwing rocks.”

“I can throw rocks.” Pod answered back, sucking at his finger. “I can hit a man in the head at two score paces. I helped the lady once when-”

“He was jesting Pod.” Arya blew some hair out her eyes, angry at how long it was becoming.

“I wasn’t.” The squire handed the broken bow to Marlen, who whispered something comforting to the poor weapon. Pod now towered over Arya and Marlen, his growth spurt becoming quite irritating. “Do you think Brienne and Rodwell will finish their meeting soon?”

Arya shrugged for she had no idea. She was trying not to think about it actually for fear that her temper would get the best of her. Sansa knew that they usually had their lessons with Brienne at this time of day, yet she was in a tizzy over the Manderly caravan being late and had forced Brienne into council chambers over it.

_If Lord Wyman’s granddaughter is the size of him, her poor horse might’ve just dropped dead from the effort._

She wanted to tell Sansa that, or that with all the storms raging south it was no wonder the wagons were held up. Yet she knew Sansa was truly worried about her friend, some Stone girl who was supposed to be joining them at Winterfell. Getting mad at her sister for caring about a friend wasn’t exactly patient.

_And I made a promise._

So rather than getting mad about not being able to take up sword lessons, she notched another arrow into her bow. In the weeks since Jon had left, Arya had thrown herself into her training. She did swordplay with Brienne, archery with Marlen, skinchanging with Rickon, and sometimes lessons of her own. She had to practice what Syrio Forel had taught her from memory, hoping she was honoring her friend and dancing master’s memory in doing so. Over the last week she had caught three cats and four voles yet hadn’t been able sneak up on Nymeria or Shaggydog.

There were other lessons Syrio had taught her too.

_‘Look with your eyes.’_

Arya had realized how important a lesson that was a few weeks ago. She and Rickon had been working on skinchanging when Shaggydog accidentally pushed her into some mud near the weirwood tree that had collected from a recent rain. The purple gown that Sansa had made her wear that day was covered in muck and Arya hadn’t wanted her sister to find out and have a fight over it.

So Arya had snuck out of the godswood, unnoticed by Morgan or the guardsmen, over to the guard barracks and stole some clothes from a squire and a dirty hooded cloak before heading to her chambers.

That was the first time in weeks that she had been without people treating her as a princess. For they hadn’t seen a princess, they only saw what they wanted to, a steward or kitchenboy who’d dirtied his clothes. Some of the men even scolded her for keeping her cloak in such a sorry state.

Most people didn’t look with their eyes right, Syrio had said, and Arya was glad for the important lesson. If friends didn’t recognize her in such a paltry disguise, enemies never would. Being hooded had helped of course, yet still she’d been able to run about the castle for a little while with no one telling her to slow down or asking whether she was guarded. That was a feat in of itself in Winterfell, where it was hard for her to not be recognized.

_Harder still to be free._

As she notched to shoot again, someone gave a shout and her arrow went free, veering far off from the straw man she’d meant to hit and into the groin of another. Arya ignored the collection of hisses and groans that rose up from Marlen, Pod, and the other men in the yard as she sought the source of the disruption.

“Arya! Arya!”

“Sound the alarm.” Marlen said as he pointed across the training yard. “The king looks distraught.”

Sure enough, Rickon was running towards her, his bone necklace jangling and his undone cloak flying behind him. The boy was red-faced and doing his best to stay ahead of his pursuer while everyone else bowed and stepped aside.

“Arya!” Rickon yelled again as he entered the yard. His hair was shorter now, cut to just below his ears in a style similar to how Bran’s had been when she last saw him. That been a joint effort between Sansa and Arya.

Sansa had told Rickon that a king must always look well kept. Arya had told him he looked like an ugly girl. They weren’t sure which argument Rickon took to more but he’d eventually accepted the grooming.

Their Sworn Guard was giving chase to their king, Morgan Liddle hot on her brother’s heels, huffing and puffing to keep pace with the small boy. She spotted Sansa further back, following at a slower pace yet Arya focused more on the sibling set to bowl into her.

“Rickon slow-hey!”

Rickon slammed into her so hard he may have knocked her over had Arya not remembered her balancing lessons and kept her stance. From how tightly his fingers clawed into her back, and how red his face was, she guessed he was pretty angry.

 _Good thing the direwolves are outside the castle hunting_.

_Else someone would likely be getting hurt._

_Inside the castle at least…_

Shaggydog was not as wild as he had been and it was growing rare for Rickon’s moods to get so dark that the direwolf bared his fangs at people. Yet it still happened, and there was always the chance that Sansa and Arya wouldn’t be around to calm Rickon before someone got bit.

Whether it would be Shaggydog or Rickon doing the biting was anyone’s guess.

“Tell them to leave me be!” Rickon said angrily, clutching her even tighter. “Tell them!”

“Leave him be!” Arya called out and smiled as Morgan stopped midstride and looked back at Sansa then to Arya again.

“Princess, your sister told me to-”

“Don’t call her that!” Rickon yelled before Arya could. Morgan was left speechless and Arya ruffled the boy’s hair in thanks. It felt good to do that, for she liked letting Rickon know that he was loved like Jon would always do for her.

“Why are you chasing our king Morgan?” Marlen teased his fellow Sworn Guard. “And doing so poorly at it?”

“I wasn’t chasing… I’d like to see you catch him…” Morgan wheezed which caused Rickon to beam up at her.

“I’m fast! Almost as fast as you Arya.”

She was proud at how quickly her little brother could run yet took notice that Sansa did not look nearly as impressed. Sansa passed Morgan wordlessly, coming straight at them while Rickon hid his face against Arya’s cloak. When Sansa stood staring down at both of them, Arya half expected a scolding herself then. Instead Sansa’s face softened and rather than berating the king, she sighed.

“I asked you not to run.” Sansa said softly while Rickon continued to hide. “It is not proper for you to run about dressed as you are…”

“I’m the king!” Rickon’s muffled voice came forth. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Nor would I. You are my king, my little king.” Sansa said softly. “I thought I asked quite nicely… was I rude your grace? Did I yell?”

“No…” Rickon moved so that one eye caught sight of her.

“Was it kind to yell at me? To run away and leave me behind?” Sansa touched her chest then as if Rickon had done her some great wound. “Rickon, please tell Arya what I asked of you.”

He met Sansa’s gaze with his own fierce eyes, in a way that made Arya proud of him.

_Good boy, don’t give in._

“If you could have my bones, but they’re not yours! They’re mine!” He yelled and then released Arya to hold up the thick bone horn hanging around his neck. “Daecon and I made them ourselves! When we went hunting and Shaggydog killed a unicorn and-”

“I only asked that you take them off for a short time.” Sansa broke in. “Just for our visit to the Winter Town, and then you can wear them again. Last night you said you would if I let you name the new Sworn Guard yourself. You promised Rickon.”

Rickon’s gaze went to the ground then and Arya knew hers would have too. For Sansa was speaking in a tone so much like their mother’s, it had a way of making you feel unreasonable, no matter how in the right you felt you were. Hearing Sansa talk that way bothered her. While their fighting had become rarer since Jon left, whenever they did argue it was usually about Rickon.

_When Sansa acts like she has more say in his care than me._

_I’m his older sister too. I’ve got just as much say as her._

_She’s not his mother…_ _she could never be mother._

Whether or not Sansa was truly trying to be their mother didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Rickon was Arya’s responsibility too and just because people called Sansa a regent didn’t change that. When they argued over this in the past, Arya had come up with some new titles for her sister to bear.

_None that were too bad. I only thought them, I didn’t say anything. Jon would understand that._

Rickon clearly didn’t understand why he couldn’t keep his ugly necklace.

“Why leave it here Sansa?” He asked. “I can show the people in town my bones and tell them about Shaggydog and Skagos… and still make new warriors!”

“A king should not be seen by his subjects wearing bones. Why, it might scare them!” Sansa’s tone was not loud but it was firm then. “We don’t want to scare them any more than they have been. They were not treated kindly when our family left Rickon. We must be gentle with them now.”

Arya saw how that made some sense, albeit grudgingly.

Sansa and she had both visited the Winter Town several times already, delivering food and showing the smallfolk that House Stark cared for them. More came everyday, even in such harsh weather, and Arya felt bad for them. She’d heard tales of how the common people had suffered at the hands of Roose Bolton and his bastard. Before that it had been Theon and the krakens, and now with the rumors about the Others returning, Arya had seen how fearful their people really were.

_I could almost smell it in the air._

_Like the threats on the walls…_

She pushed that thought away, sensing that it wasn’t time to deal with that yet.

For today was supposed to be Rickon’s first visit to the Winter Town as its king. Sansa had wanted to give the townsfolk a proper glimpse of their brother, the first most would have had in a long while. Letting him ride around with a half wild direwolf and a necklace of bones would make a poor impression indeed, even Arya saw the sense in that.

_Shaggydog’s with Nymeria… they’re hunting…_

“What happened to them?” Rickon asked. “To the little folk?”

“Bad things Rickon, like what happened to us.” Arya leaned down to speak quietly into her brother’s ear before whispering so that only Sansa and him could hear. “Remember when you were afraid of Winterfell? That’s how they feel.”

“What if you wear your new cloak instead of the bones?” Sansa added. “I know the smallfolk would like to see how powerful you look in it.”

Arya thought he looked a bloody fool in the thing Sansa, along with Myranda and Jeyne, had completed a few days ago. The cloak was a fine white thing with a black direwolf on the back, much too large for him yet Rickon loved it all the same. He had run up and down the corridors yelling that he was the Blackwolf for most of the day after Sansa had gifted it to him.

Rickon looked to be thinking that over when Sansa leaned down to whisper in his other ear.

“They see Shaggydog come in and out of the castle but they don’t know he is yours. That he will keep them safe like he does for you. You should be there to tell them or they won’t believe me.”

Rickon’s eyes widened and he lowered his bones and glanced unbelievingly between the two. Arya tried not to laugh at how startled Rickon looked. He could still be such a baby, to fall for a trick like this.

“They don’t know Shaggy is mine?” He asked and when Sansa shook her head, Arya did much the same. “They have to know! We have to tell them!”

“Then you must take off that necklace my little king, like you promised.” Sansa urged, holding out her hand.

“If I do… can I still name the new warriors?” Rickon scratched his head and fidgeted some at that. She was impressed that he was bright enough to remember the other times Sansa had tricked him. For their sister was often firm enough with Rickon that when he disobeyed, or ‘broke promises’ as Sansa called it, whatever reward he’d been promised would not be given.

“Well you promised to give me the necklace before we went to the town, and we haven’t left yet, so you still have your honor.”

That made Arya smile, for something both sisters agreed upon was making sure that Rickon remembered father’s beliefs. When Rickon started asking for stories of father and mother each night before bed, they never him denied one. In fact it had been nice to think of father again, the painful memory of his death becoming a little less when they tried instead to think of good times with him. Besides those tales they remembered, their father’s lessons were all they had left of him, lessons that Arya and Sansa tried to follow and make sure that their little brother did too.

As Rickon lifted the necklace over his head and handed it to Sansa, Arya thought father would’ve been happy to see that.

“I will keep it safe in my rooms until we return.” Sansa held the thing with only the tips of her fingers. “Now go with Morgan back to your chambers. Osha and Jeyne will help you get ready.”

Rickon didn’t bid anyone farewell before sprinting across the courtyard towards the keep while Sansa gave a shout. Then Rickon was running back to the Morgan who then lifted the king up onto his shoulders, his mount moving at a much more leisurely pace.

“ Soon enough you’ll get him to leave those in his chambers too.” Arya said as she turned back to her straw targets once more. Not long ago Sansa had convinced Rickon into leaving that ugly doll of his in his chambers. For safekeeping she’d said, but truly it was embarrassing for him to be seen carrying it about. Arya knew that she hoped the bone necklace would be next.

“Perhaps. You think that wrong?”

_Not really._

Arya didn’t answer, instead shoring up her stance and pulling another arrow from her quiver. She lifted up the bow and notched the arrow in one quick motion.

She drew, took a breath, then let fly.

The arrow struck the center of the scarecrow and Marlen whistled. Arya spun around doing a mock bow as some of the others in the yard clapped. She took the compliments gladly and was happy that Sansa had seen her do so, even if her sister didn’t look as pleased. Sansa stared at the scarecrow and wrung her hands some, like there was something wrong with being a good shot.

“Arya, we should be preparing for the ride.” Sansa said uncertainly, giving her a quick once over. “You should take some time to be ready.”  

Arya wore a tunic and breeches now but she had agreed to wear gowns for events like riding out into the town. Such was the price she paid in exchange for not being guarded at all times in the castle, so she would not have a Sworn Guard watching her every move like Rickon.

_Gowns for my freedom. If that’s the price I must pay then I’ll pay it._

_But she’s already cost me my swordplay today, why must she cut into my archery too?_

“I’d say you’ve done enough for today princess, marvelous work as always.” Marlen took Sansa’s side like everyone always did. “Perhaps next time we practice with the bodkin arrowheads Ser Gendry smithed us.”

“The ones that pierce plate?”

Marlen nodded and the thought made her less sour, feeling almost excited as she ran to collect her spent shafts. The ones she used today would do well against lightly armored men but against heavy armor they’d be pitiful. If she could master the sharper bodkin-point arrows, she’d be even greater help in a fight.

“Are they heavier?” She shouted back at Marlen. “Would I need a stronger bow? Would they pierce all armor or just-”

“Arya. We don’t have much time.” Sansa said impatiently.

“Fine Sansa!” Arya dropped her arrows in her quiver roughly and stormed from the yard. “Sorry Marlen, I have to go brush my hair.”

Whenever she gave Sansa a chance, her sister always found a way to ruin it, making it almost impossible to keep her promise to Jon. Arya hadn’t made things nearly as difficult with Rickon as she could have.

 _I even helped_ , she thought, _and she can’t even say something nice about my archery._

_She only cares about making me a princess._

_I don’t care about being a princess._

Someone was walking hurriedly behind her and she just assumed it was Marlen or Pod. Instead it was the person she least wanted to talk to. As Sansa came alongside her, Arya said nothing and did not slow her pace.

“Thank you for helping with Rickon.” Sansa reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her and Arya came close to snapping. “I’m sorry we interrupted your lesson, truly I am. But this is important.”

Arya was about to tell Sansa where to shove her apology when Jon’s words came back to her.

_‘You’ll argue, there’s no doubt of that, but you’ll be there for each other as well…’_

_‘I trust you to do that Arya. I trust my sister.’_

It made her pause and take a deep breath, just like she would before letting loose an arrow. The calming feeling allowed her to reflect a moment, gave her a chance to believe that Sansa was being sincere. Slowly it dawned on Arya that it hadn’t been Sansa who interrupted her lesson. That blame fell to Rickon.

Nor was she truly upset about her archery being interrupted, for she’d been nearly done anyways. What bothered her was Sansa’s reaction to her last shot, or rather what had been missing from that reaction. Sansa wouldn’t shy away from complimenting Myranda on her gowns or Jeyne for her skill with the sewing needle or how well she was recovering. Yet Sansa had little and less praise for Arya, who was working hard to make sure no one could ever hurt them like the Bastard had Jeyne.

_That’s why I sent Nymeria and Shaggydog out hunting._

_To protect us…_

She took some more deep breaths as those thoughts thundered within her head.

“I could brush your hair.” Sansa squeezed her arm before plucking a strand of hair hanging down upon her cheek. “I’d like to do that… just like I did when you first came back. I could be gentle…”

“You could have said something about my archery.” She kicked at a pile of snow at Sansa’s feet before jerking her face away.

“I would have… but I know so little of it Arya. I’d sound a fool in front of the others if I tried.” Sansa smiled a little at her. “If you let me tend to your hair I could try then. I’d feel less embarrassed with just you and me there.”

She rolled her eyes, for it didn’t sound half bad. If only to keep Myranda away from her hair.

_Gods, she can even talk me into getting her way._

“Fine.”

It was midday before they were all brushed and dressed well enough for Sansa’s liking, then she gave word for them all to mount up. They rode out with their remaining Sworn Guards and a fairly large company of men toward the East Gate. Gendry and Pod were among them, as Rickon had commanded they join with a swish of his new cloak. The silly thing draped across the back of his pony as he rode between Sansa and her.

She took stock of their party, which had more men in it than she’d expected. Besides the guardsmen and cavalrymen with their long spears, having all the Sworn Guard together was a rare sight. Arya imagined that to most Morgan Liddle would seem the most dangerous. What with his large size and fierce demeanor, and the strips of different colored cloth hanging from his belt. Morgan boasted that he’d torn a bit from the garb of each man he’d killed, which made it a gruesome rainbow indeed.

Brienne had taught her to watch how men carried themselves though and while Arya believed Morgan to be powerful, she also knew him to be far slower than others. For a real threat, people would be wiser to look to Brienne or Marlen, who were more dangerous foes in terms of speed and skill with a sword.

_I’m just as fast as them, and far harder to hit._

The Winter Town had somehow grown even larger since the last time they’d come. That had only been a week ago and still she saw new buildings already being raised. Many were merely paltry huts of wood that offered little shelter from the winds and the cold compared to the larger buildings further within town. The stone ones that had stood since before Arya was born, they were built for winter. All had been repaired since the Bastard’s sack, and smoke drifted lazily from their roofs. The people who flooded out from those buildings did so quickly and in such great numbers that they began to clog the muddy roads. Sleighs carrying wood from the Wolfswood were held up and even their party was slowed down, Rodwell having to ride forward and shout to clear the press.

“Make way for the King in the North!” Rodwell shouted, his men doing the same. “King Rickon Stark comes!”

“Princess Sansa, the Royal Regent comes!” Morgan added as well, and then Brienne also took up a cry.

“Princess Arya rides here!”

Arya frowned at that, and even more so when people dropped to their knees in the snow and mud as they passed by. She didn’t like how some of the old ones struggled to do so, or that some of the little ones weren’t dressed warm enough to get so wet. Arya remembered the household in Harrenhal having to bow their heads to Tywin Lannister’s coming, stopping what they were doing even if it was important, for fear that one of the Bloody Mummers would whip them bloody for not showing respect.

The town folk moved back fearfully and Arya saw that most were moving into a cluster near the town square. The inn near the market place, the Smoking Log, was quiet now but she’d heard from Gendry that by night it was loud and boisterous and where all the people came for fun and excitement.

Now all the patrons of the inn were coming to them for food, like the rest of the town.

“Have them form lines Rodwell.” Sansa commanded, scanning the crowd full of eager faces while wringing her hands. “Orderly ones, all shall have their due.”

Rodwell set most of their party to the work, including Pod who had his hand on his sword and Gendry with his war hammer resting upon his shoulder. That probably helped to motivate those who did not listen quite so well. As their men set the people to lining up, the wagons were brought forward and the canvas covering them thrown off. They had brought salted fish and dried fruits from White Harbor, even some of the venison and boar from the castle’s stores. There was a great amount of food, almost as much as a feast, but she thought there were also just as many begging hands. She worried they might run out.

Sansa did not appear concerned about that as she was too busy fussing over Rickon and having his pony trot forward so he could be seen by all. She commanded something of Morgan and the man jerked to attention.

“King Rickon brings food!” He bellowed. “He brings justice! He brings honor back to the Stark lands! Long live the King in the North!”

“The King in the North!” Marlen shouted and other men in their party did the same, including Sansa and even herself. “The King in the North!”

The people already with food in their hands did the same, those further ahead in the line also taking up the call. Yet she saw that many towards the back stayed silent, moving about nervously as they watched the food on the wagons being given away, most likely worried that they wouldn’t get their share. Rickon seemed nervous with all of the attention, biting his lip when people came to kneel before his pony and thanking the king for his gifts.

_He’s right to feel that way. It’s not really our food we give away._

_Our stores do well but this is mostly the supplies White Harbor sent us for the siege at Torrhen’s Square._

That had been the best news they’d had in a long while. Arya had grown to hate ravens as they only seemed to bring foul news. Jon had had to leave because of word from the Wall, and a raven had told them of Uncle Brynden going missing. Their uncle Edmure was just a name to Arya but the Blackfish had been a real person, with rough hands but a soft gaze. A man she loved despite all their fighting and she needed to believe he was still alive. She had too.

So when they’d had ravens from Torrhen’s Square, Arya had feared that it was news of their army being broken, their heads on spikes along the castle walls, their bodies littering the snow.

“The North is ours.” Sansa had almost cried to tell her. “No more Lannister puppets, no more krakens Arya, they’ve been driven out. Torrhen’s Square is ours… we made the North ours again.”

Arya had been too happy to ask for many details, too busy jumping around with Rickon and Sansa and even pulling poor Jeyne into the celebration. She’d hugged the awkward lady, her screaming brother, and even Sansa in the end. For the news had been the sweetest they’d heard in weeks, and it was all she could do to keep from crying like a stupid little girl. As much in joy as gloom, when she realized the first person she’d sought to embrace was Jon.

So after escaping the celebration with her one family she sought her other one, finding Gendry and Brienne at the forge while he worked away on some armor. The sight had made her linger at the door before announcing herself, for Gendry hadn’t been letting anyone in to see his work lately and Arya had been curious.

“It must be as light as you can fashion it.” Brienne had instructed as Gendry ran his large, calloused hands across different bits of the armor. “I know to ask such, to have it be both light and strong is nigh impossible. If only we had some Valyrian Steel to work with…”

“I could work with Valyrian steel but this task is far from impossible, just difficult. With a forge of my own design and making, it would be easier… as it is though, I’m working with borrowed tools and a shabby supply of armor and steel... I’ll see it through though. You’ve my word on that.”

“Then I have no doubts. I will, of course, make recompense to the regent for your work personally.”

Gendry had laughed some then, turning towards Brienne and raising an eyebrow.

“I doubt she’d make you pay. Not for this work at least… unless Princess Sansa holds it against you that you mean to armor the greatest pain in her arse…”

“Arya!” Brienne had shouted, the lady finally taking notice of her standing without.

They’d been mad at her for listening to them, until she’d told them of Torrhen’s Square. Even with that great news, Brienne had still acted annoyed with her yet she hadn’t really heard anything too important she thought. Save that her friend wanted to pay to have someone armored that Sansa didn’t like.

_Which doesn’t make sense… you must have heard it wrong somehow._

What she heard now was a great bit of shouting from somewhere far down the line. People looked to be shoving, and over the yelling came the sound of a child crying. When she saw Gendry and Pod moving towards the commotion Arya kicked at her horse on instinct.

Only for Brienne’s horse to leap forward and cut off her path.

“No Arya.” Her friend said sternly, holding up her hand before glancing back at the ruckus. “Whatever happens there is for the Stark guards to deal with, not a princess. Do you understand?”

“But what if they need help?” Arya tried to see around her large friend. “I’ve been practicing to fight and I’m on a horse! I’m a better rider than most and-”

“I’d keep you here to watch over Rickon.” Sansa butted in, waving two more riders up to take places on each side of her. “While Lady Brienne rides on to see if the good ser needs assistance.”

“At once your grace.” Brienne bowed before Arya could say anything and was off riding down the line. People weren’t shoving at each other anymore but there were still shouts. Ulroy reached out to grab her reins as if to rub it in that she wasn’t going anywhere.

_I’m a wolf but they treat me like a lady._

_I couldn’t fight the Bastard with the rest of them… now I can’t even help in the bloody Winter Town?_

Jon and Willem were off at the Wall fighting the Others while she sat at Winterfell. Brienne took Gendry and Pod out on patrols all the way to Castle Cerwyn while she couldn’t even ride to the Acorn Water without half an army around her.

Her skill at arms was better than ever and she could shoot a bow without aiming. Every day she got out of bed feeling her legs growing longer and her arms getting stronger. She was quicker than ever before and had more training than some of the supposed guards they had about the Winter Town. It just didn’t make sense to her. Why wouldn’t they let her help protect her home?

She wasn’t truly blind to the answer. Many had sworn their lives to keep her safe for the sake of House Stark and Winterfell, it was their duty and an honor. Arya liked being able to carry on the Stark legacy but she could do so much more than that. She had survived Harrenhal, the Bloody Mummers, and even the Bastard’s Hounds. She could do justice to her family name, protecting her loved ones and fighting honorably, not asking others to do so for her. Arya wanted to follow the old way. The Stark way.

To do so she needed to be free.

Yet even the lowliest guards had more freedom than this princess did.

She saw them even now, the young men moving in groups up and down the lines. Rodwell had taken to recruiting youths from the Winter Town to join the watches on the battlements or to train as archers within the castle. She’d heard their captain saying that few were able to even hold a spear properly, let alone threaten anyone with it, yet Arya still saw them standing watch on Winterfell’s walls or even heading out on foot patrols about the town.

_I could be ten times as useful as any of them and they know it!_

Arya fumed as she watched one boy, almost the same size as her, walking quickly through the crowds of people towards the inn. He wore the dark cloak of a Stark guard and carried a bow. Beyond that she saw little enough of him, for his hood and shaggy hair covered his face. Soon after he disappeared within the Smoking Log.

_If I ever saw him again I wouldn’t be able to say who he was._

_Neither would anyone else._

She almost smiled to herself then if not for the foul feeling building within her. The anger she’d felt moments before was now boiling over into a furious rage. A violent feeling that was familiar but not her own. The other part of her was calling out then.

“Arya.” Rickon spoke strangely, her little brother’s face scrunched up and his eyes far away. “The prey.”

Even as he spoke the words Arya knew where the anger was coming from. The smells in her nose and the sounds in her ears were not coming from the Winter Town. She didn’t even have to close her eyes now, she just looked up to the sky, noting the deep grey color of it, and she let herself become lost. She flew through that deep grey abyss, searching for a pair of dark golden eyes that welcomed her coming.

Her eyes.

_My eyes._

_Their eyes beheld the prey ahead, the three men running and stumbling through the snows. They’d been fleeing for most of the night and all through the day. Heading south, always south, ever since they left the castle._

_They wore the wide shoes of the mountain men, the ones that stunk of bear skin and fur. It helped the prey move quicker through the snow than most._

_Not as fast as her though. She’d had their scent the whole time. The stink of filthy cloaks and wet wool. Of wine and meat._

_Of betrayal._

_Her brother and she had smelt it first on the walls a day ago. Drifting down into the godswood where they had furiously been digging at the burrow of a rodent. They’d followed the scent, the smell of foul thoughts and intended harm. It had led them out of the godswood and into the courtyard. The animals and men there feared the sight of the two wolves._

_They liked that._

_They hadn’t liked losing the scent though. It had been nightfall before they caught it again, near the tower where the old men kept the ravens. The stench of betrayal was thick at its entrance but led away to the gates and out into the night beyond. She sensed three men. She knew they meant harm to her family and she also knew they were gone from the castle. Fleeing from the castle, the threat moving far and away._

_The wolf in her couldn’t allow someone to violate their territory like that and live._

_The girl she was agreed._

_So she’d led her brother out on a hunt after the traitors. They ran through most of the night until they’d tired and found rest against each other under the shelter of some pines. Somewhere the white brother was laid to rest as well, but alone and in a fearful place, where wild men and men dressed like crows growled at each other. Where a red woman stared at him and knew his mind._

_After that they awoke and they’d begun the hunt again. While she had lost sight of her black brother, she knew it was coming to an end now._

_The prey had thought to flee down a long ravine, like a scar in the earth itself. The narrow trench was a bad place for her to follow. Trying to get around them in such tight spaces would be hard, would slow her down. The three of them with their  weapons against only the one of her made it more dangerous._

_Yet she was the hunter and they the prey._

_They were waiting for her, the three men all having stopped to face her as she made her descent down the ravine. She could smell the sea salt on their cloaks, the same smell that came with the wagons of food from the south. One man held a spear, the other a blade, the middle one was raising a bow._

_“I told you it was one of those fucking devils!” The spearman lowered his weapon at her coming. “You said the Starks wouldn’t even know we’d be gone!”_

_“Shutup!” The swordsman answered, swinging a satchel behind him protectively. “We kill it and keep going! It’s worth our weight in gold, remember?!”_

_“What if there’s riders coming too?” The bowman was shaking as he tried to notch an arrow, a growl and a snap of her teeth causing him to drop it._

_“Shutup and kill the fucking thing!”_

_“Alright!”_

_The archer reached back to bring out another arrow from his quiver, ready to make his kill, when he stopped all of a sudden. He must have felt the small pile of snow fall upon his head. She’d seen it fall as well and tensed in readiness. More snow fell upon the archer, forcing him to turn his gaze upwards, to the part of the trench above him._

_Where her brother crouched in preparation, ready to make his kill._

_“Fuck!”_

_The man’s scream did nothing to shield the coming of the black wolf, its massive body knocking all three men apart. As her brother raised his head, she saw the arm of the archer in his jaws, the rest of the archer crawling away screaming and bleeding._

_Her attack was for the spearman, who was desperately trying to pry his spear free from beneath his own fallen form. The point came nowhere near her and the flesh of his throat tore away easily with the wrenching of her fangs. His hot blood filled her mouth and sprayed the air between her and her brother._

_He was doing much the same to the archer, wrenching the prey’s head back and forth while the last man was struggling to crawl to freedom towards the other end of the ravine, his sword forgotten._

_When he saw her coming he leapt to reach the top of the dirt wall, pulling at snow covered roots as if that would save him._

_It didn’t._

_Her jaws clamped around his leg and yanked him down, the man screeching the whole time. The prey crumpled on the ground between the two wolves and soiled himself. Her brother lowered his head and came forward to make the kill but her growl stopped him._

_The wolves they were had been born together._

_Yet she was his older sister, he was her little brother. He was too young for so much blood. The writhing man between them would be her kill, she would spare the younger one this. The black brother growled some but backed away, for she would have her way._

_As she leapt to the task, her eyes saw the prey had dropped his satchel. From within had tumbled a great many papers and parchments. While the screaming echoed in her ears and blood filled her mouth her eyes took in the drawings she saw spread out on the ground._

_The drawings of lands she knew. Of a town she had just been in._

_And the castle she called home._

**DAVOS**

“These aren’t your gods, why do you come before them?”

The question had been itching at Davos for the past few days and the answer would hopefully serve as a distraction from the hideous face staring at him. The small wooded area where the weirwood stood could be called idyllic, if not for the tree’s haunting look. Why someone would have thought to carve such a thing into the weirwood was beyond Davos.

Even the early morning light did little to brighten the tree’s ugliness. The thing’s deep red eyes were cut in an oval shape, much like cat’s eyes, its mouth almost smiling save for the bone white fangs that offered more threat than cheer. The carved brow and cheeks were so pronounced that the countless years which had passed since its making had barely dulled them.

_Melisandre called the gods of the North demons._

_Looking upon this thing, I’m hard pressed to argue…_  
  
“The Drowned God has never heard my prayers.” Greyjoy answered from his place, kneeling before the weirwood. “It doesn’t know my name like the old gods do.”

_Again with that name of his… you’re Theon Greyjoy and it rhymes with nothing._

_I heard you the first thousand times._

No maester needed to tell him that whatever trials Greyjoy had endured had obviously rattled the man’s mind, possibly into madness. Davos suspected that as unstable as their prisoner’s wits were, they couldn’t be any worse off than the rest of him. The young ironborn reaver was half his age yet to any who didn’t know them, Greyjoy would appear the older of the two.

Such was the effect of being in the care of the Boltons, who apparently made the Skagosi look like septas. Davos frowned to think of that bloody island as Greyjoy rose stiffly to his feet. He hoped he hadn’t interrupted the man’s prayers.

_He might be a dead man walking but I’m not one for standing between people and their gods._

“Even if I kept with my people’s god, we are far from the sea my lord.” Greyjoy tried to smirk but it mostly came out as a grimace.

“Too far for my liking.” Davos admitted, waving the prisoner onward. “To feel the rocking of a ship beneath my feet would be a fine thing, far better than the crunch of snow.”

The snow was the only reason they had time for this little detour. The trail they hoped to take through the northern mountain range had needed to be scouted first, to make sure it was not yet blocked. The army had arrived at the entrance to the pass a day prior and could only wait now for their scouts to return.

In the meanwhile, the northern clansmen who’d acted as guides to Stannis’s army had told them of this place to rest. They were green boys in truth, for the strength of the clans had all rushed to join the king’s side during his march south. Those men now served the Starks which left only boys and greybeards who kept the mountains in their stead to help the army as it passed through their lands. What villages and humble halls they’d stopped at had always sat Stannis and Davos in places of honor, showing the king nothing but courtesy. Even with such meager fare as they had, the northmen offered what they could, easing the army’s march on to the Nightfort.

The young lads who led them now were of House Knott. Davos counted them as brave and earnest, trying to get Stannis and his men to their destination as quickly as possible. That had led Davos to question why they scorned seeking the weirwood themselves. The three youths who served as their envoys to the clan had opted to stay behind while allowing the guards, Greyjoy, and himself to journey onward toward the place of their gods.

“Our people don’t like that tree.” The eldest boy had said, crossing his arms and staring into the distance. “Haven’t liked it since before there were Knotts.”

“Is the way treacherous?”

“No, just cursed is all. Old ones talk of the way back time, when the Night’s King ruled the Nightfort. Them clans that fought him didn’t always win. Tales speak of when they’d be caught, that they’d be brought to that tree. Men, women folk, even the little ‘uns at their mother’s teats.” The Knott had drawn a line across his neck. “Made a mountain o’ dead as high as these hills. A great river of blood running down, washing away villages and-”

“You’re not s’posed to be tellin’ that tale.” One of the other boys spoke up, seemingly terrified to hear his friend talking so. “It’s bad luck. They all say its bad luck… the ghosts hear it when we talk about the Night’s King.”

“Bah! I’m not some scared ole woman! I can tell what tales I want…”

The Knott boy hadn’t continued his story though, instead just spitting off in the direction of the weirwood, perhaps to ward off whatever spirits his friend spoke of. Davos hadn’t put too much stock in it. Simple folk often came up with great tales over time. Some of the best storytellers Davos had ever met had been in the smallest ports, there was no reason to put stock in the boy’s fears. The face of the weirwood had given him pause though.

 _If there was ever a tree that was thirsty for blood, it be that one._  
  
When the small group left the woods to find their guides waiting, each one took time to stare Greyjoy down as he passed. Such was the ritual each northman followed whenever they learned the identity of Stannis’s prisoner. Davos had heard the tales of what the reaver had done at Winterfell but the meek, tortured man he walked beside now did not seem capable of such horrors. Greyjoy was barely able to eat food that wasn’t pressed to mush.

_He’s also the best company you’ve had on this march besides the king._

As they continued their way down the snow covered hill to the camp, Davos didn’t seek conversation with the men-at-arms Stannis sent with them or the young lads. The hobbled prisoner was enough talk for him.

“An ironborn reaver I met once in the Stepstones, a Codd I think, but I can’t rightly remember his name. We got to talking about sailing and the seas, which islands to fear and which currents to watch, that sort of thing.” Davos almost smiled to remember the old days on the sea as the wind bit at his cheeks. “Well he got it in his head that in my heart, I had to be ironborn. He tried his hardest to get me to take up your Drowned God, saying it was the only god a sailor would ever need. Man was drunk… I despised him to be truthful, yet he made some interesting points…”

“You kept to your seven though?” Greyjoy asked. “I’ve heard you pray to the Mother and the Warrior. I heard you curse to them as well.”

“I did, and I pray to make up for the curses.”

That was something of a lie, for Davos prayed every night for the safety and health of his wife and remaining sons. For his dear boy Devan at Castle Black. Sometimes even for Stannis and the success of this march.

“What made you keep them?” Greyjoy rubbed at his bound wrists. “There is no sailor among the seven and your king likes his god red and fiery.”

“The Seven don’t ask me to kill men for their good favor.” Davos spoke as bluntly as he did quietly. “The Warrior doesn’t ask me to see anyone burned. The Crone doesn’t care if I drown a man or not. My prayers and good acts are good enough for them.”

Greyjoy gave one of his rasping, choked laughs then, ending it by coughing into his hands. When the man had control of himself again he pointed to Davos’s hand, his ruined teeth wide in a grin.

“Not enough for Stannis else you’d have all your fingers.”

“Careful Greyjoy.” He warned, as pleasant as their talks could be, he would not let this man insult his king. “What His Grace did to me was just and fair.”

“Lord Ramsay thought he was being fair in leaving me some fingers and toes. He often made me thank him for treating me so gently.” Greyjoy lost his smirk as they neared the edge of camp. “You’re right though, I would be a burnt and smoking crisp of a man if it wasn’t for King Stannis’s kindness… a kindness that I thank him for.”

_We live in such a world where delaying the burning of a man is considered kindness..._

That Stannis had not allowed the followers of R’hllor to burn Greyjoy had been the source of many complaints among those men. In that Davos found a sign of hope. There was no denying that Melisandre had lied to their king, betraying his trust with her dark magics. With the army Justin Massey was expected to raise for them across the Narrow Sea, Davos believed the days of R’hllor’s influence among Stannis’s court would soon be at an end.

He couldn’t be sure what all men worshipped across the Narrow Sea, but he knew that their gods were as varied and numbered as the places themselves, and surely most would not be followers of Melisandre’s kind. Those thousands of new men flooding their cause with new gods, combined with the king’s schism with Melisandre, could push those that still kept faith with the red god aside.

When they passed the pits and stakes that lined the perimeter, Davos saw some of those followers ahead. Ser Godry and Ser Corliss shot him as foul a look as they did Greyjoy. Davos was Hand, but his status among the highborns in the army was tolerated only because the king decreed it. Just as the king had decreed none would be burned without his say so.

That position had once looked tenuous at best.

A week into their travels from Winterfell, when the king’s mind had still been darkened with the apparent Targaryen in their midst, a storm had come upon them. Winds and snows had brought their march to a crawl and the men had whispered of another month of hell awaiting them.

Unless they made use of their sacrifice.

“No.” Stannis had said as he walked about the edges of the camp with his men one night. “It has been two days of foulness and five without. I would not waste a possible tool against the usurper Euron Greyjoy in a fit of panic.”

“How many days must pass your grace? Three? Four?” Ser Corliss had asked, Godry and Clayton making sounds of agreement. “Is it wrong to have R’hllor’s favor so early? The last fires we lit saw us to victory over the Freys, well before we met our foes. Burn the sacrifice now, to avoid disaster rather than face such without R’hllor’s good will.”

“When we burned those who tried to eat of men-”

“That followed weeks of hardship if I remember correctly. They were desperate men, not monsters.” Davos had put in, ignoring how Godry’s words reminded him of Skagos.

“Weeks we marched with the king to battle.” Godry shot back. “Not enjoying some pleasure trip far from the fighting, sailing with a Stark pretender and delivering a rival to our king’s throne back into the safety of his-”

“If you call visiting Skagos and sailing the Bay of Seals, in winter of all times, a pleasure trip, then I commend your bravery ser.” Davos had looked up at the darkened sky then, from which the snow fell endlessly. “I must ask though, for a man so brave, how it is you fear some mild flurries?”

“I fear no snow!”

“Quiet.” Stannis barked and all had obeyed.

The king’s glare had been fixed upon something near a pile of stakes at the furthest extent of their camp. Without warning, Stannis began to stride towards the spot, ignoring their urging for him to summon more men as escorts while wandering so far from the center of the camp. As they neared the spot, the darkened shadow of a man slowly took shape. A sentry, laying down upon the ground, propped up against the stakes. Davos feared infiltrators at first before Godry offered a chuckle.

For there was no blood on the man and so sign of foul play, only an empty wine skin at his side and vomit across his tunic.

“While you all bicker like children, look at the state of our men.” Stannis had ground his teeth. “You look to the sky for threats and the fires for salvation. The true threat lies out there. Our true protection is strength and discipline from our men.”

“He should be punished your grace.” Clayton spoke, a cruel look in his eye. “As an example to others. Just like we did for the cannibals.”

“A just punishment!” Ser Corliss added. “For his life is forfeit already! Falling asleep in such a way, in this weather… why, he’d surely be dead by morning if not earlier! With the air as cold as it is, there is no doubt! Let his death be of use!”

As disgusting as the conversation was, Davos knew there was no saving this man from a harsh fate. Stannis could never permit such lax and reckless behavior to go unpunished. Corliss was likely right as well, for while the heavy snows were a recent development, the harsh cold which had befallen these lands was lasting.

Each day that they went north it crept deeper into his bones. Even his senses told him something was wrong with this cold, something unnatural. This wasn’t like how he could smell a storm on the seas long before the skies darkened, for the air held no foul scent in truth. Davos could just feel it, even without any wind or snow. This cold was oppressive and dark.

Ominous even.

“The sers are right.” Stannis announced and Corliss smiled widely. His glee dropped away quickly enough when the king continued on. “Have two more sentries take this man’s place. Put one guard to keep watch on what this drunkard has failed to, and the other to keep watch on the fool himself. For I will have none wake him.”

“My king?” Davos had asked and the others echoed his confusion. “Why would we…”

“Why would I waste good timber on a failure such as this?” Stannis turned away from the man, pulling some on his gloves. “Ser Corliss is correct, this stupidity will surely lead to his freezing to death and I would not offer him the comforts of a fire before the end.”

Stannis had begun to march back towards the camp, his face set and eyes far away.

“If one allows himself to be lost to the cold then let him be damned for it. Let that be the lesson all take from tonight. That is my will.”

The king’s orders had been followed. The next morning, when they awoke to only the lightest of snows, the march continued. All their men had to pass by the frozen, stiff corpse of the dead sentry. Some tasteless arse had dragged the body away from where it had been leaning, so the man’s corpse was awkwardly upright in the snows.

Davos had heard tell from the northmen that such a death was both a blessing and a curse. Not uncommon in the North, men could get so drunk that they wandered out into the snows, feeling warmer than they really were, before falling into a deep slumber from which they never woke.

“Worse is when a man’s loses hope.” The Greatjon had told him. “The old ones often fall to that in the winter. When the food grows scarce and spring is still a long way off, an old man will leave for one last hunt, he calls it. Going forth into the cold like he always has, save this time he has no hope for finding game… only seeking some sort of honor in a dark time.”

Even a man as fierce as Lord Umber had shivered to tell Davos of the harshness that winter brought upon his people.

“No easy death that… no false warmth of drink, only the cold… always the cold.”

Those dark memories were forgotten when Davos saw Stannis speaking with the very scouts they’d been waiting on. Had they delivered foul news to his king, he knew the boys would not look so pleased with themselves.

“The trail is clear. The way to the Nightfort lies open to us.” Stannis spoke with no smile as he sent men off to ready the army for a march. “The horse will form the van and we will lead it ourselves. For when we are clear of the pass, I mean to arrive at the castle as soon as possible.”

“With only horse and some good fortune, we could make the Wall by nightfall.” One of the scouts put in and Stannis nodded curtly.

“Have word sent to Ser Richard that I give him command of the foot. He is to move them at a brisk pace though. If they slow, remind them of the cold that awaits them if they do so. Inform him that I am taking Lord Seaworth and the turncloak with me.” Stannis ground his teeth then. “In case anyone should become tempted to honor R’hllor without my leave…”

Men ran off in all directions and one knocked into Greyjoy as he did, sending the prisoner tumbling to the ground. Without thinking, Davos bent down to offer the fallen man his hand, pulling Greyjoy to his feet and earning not only the glare of what other northmen remained, but Stannis himself.

The glare kept the men moving and had the camp coming down swiftly around them. Wagons were still being loaded and riders formed up until Stannis’s mounted host was ready. Once Ser Richard arrived with his orders, the king road off seeking the trail that was to cut days from their journey. Stannis led hundreds onward, with Davos and Greyjoy riding among the party.

Of course Davis didn’t ride beside Greyjoy this time as he had done the past few days, for his place was beside the king. The pass was rough and while able to be travelled, still had a healthy offering of snow to slow their journey. Stannis was not one for idle chatting and much of their ride together was done in silence. Until one of their northern guides rode by and spurred the king into speaking to Davos.

“Those green boys were useful, able, and worth more than a good many of the men that I lead.” Stannis’s eyes followed the clansman’s movement.

“They are an honorable people to be sure. The respect they showed you during our march-”

“Is what they owed me.” Stannis growled. “For I am their king, not that boy child in Winterfell or the one playing with dolls upon the Iron Throne. That the Starks command thousands of men of such quality while mine own die from drink…”

Davos wanted to point out that only the one man had died of drink, and the few other deaths that had befallen the king’s soldiers on their march could not be put down to such foolishness. Such was simply to be expected on a march during winter, when conditions were so fraught with peril and cold.

There was no denying though that the Starks now held all of the power in the North, with a large army not only fiercely loyal to them, but used to the conditions they all faced now. So he kept his quiet, not wanting to remind the king of such things.

“When we arrive at the Nightfort I will set that castle to rights first, and then the Wall.” Stannis continued. “From there we shall organize the defense of the realm and await the coming of my sellswords from the Free Cities. Should we have news from the Vale and Riverlords who do me fealty and find them in a position to strike at the Lannister pretender, I shall send word to Massey to direct some swords there.”

“Would you go south to lead them, to retake the throne yourself?”

“No. This is where the true war is. Whatever else Melisandre lied about I believe that to be true. As you counseled me my Onion Knight, when order is restored and the true threat ended, only then will I go south. Then I will seek my throne, with you at my side.”

“Always your grace.” Davos felt honored that his king had made a point of telling him that. “Wherever you would send me, however I could serve you best, I shall do so. Gladly.”

“I do not need you to smile and skip.” Stannis scowled. “All I care about is that you serve well and serve wisely. You are a man apart Lord Davos and in you I chose my Hand well. So when we arrive at the Nightfort it will be you who goes forth to collect Selyse and Shireen from Castle Black. I would have my wife and my heir by my side as soon as possible.”

Davos didn’t relish the idea of dealing with the Queen and the panderers she often kept about her, as it was likely they wouldn’t listen to him even with orders from their king. Complaining about such to Stannis was useless though, his king cared about actions not excuses. There was some good though, and that bright spot in the dark horizon was two-fold.

For Princess Shireen was a sweet child, too good for the harshness that life had dealt her. Seeing her again and then safely on to her father would be a treat. Yet it would be nothing compared to the joy he would have at being reunited with his Devan again. In his dreams he would often run to his boy and lift him high, just as he had done with all his sons. The ones still living and the others he had lost.

_I will pull him tight for I cannot hold his brothers to me._

_Seven hells, even if I embarrass him, it’ll be worth it._

The thought of who else might be at Castle Black when Davos arrived did cause him some concern though, for Devan was currently in the service of Melisandre, and the Queen was completely under her thrall.

“It will be an honor to escort the Queen and the Princess back to you, my king.” Davos spoke cautiously. “But what of the Lady Melisandre? What is to become of her?”

Stannis grimaced then, the strain on his jaw driving the king to reach up and rub at side of his face. Davos had seen him doing that more often of late and resolved to find a man with knowledge of teeth at the Wall.

“Melisandre will remain at Castle Black. I intend to have my men cast aside all other loyalties they hold, save to me. To do so I need Melisandre away from them.” The king glanced to Davos then, his hard gaze holding little warmth. “I cannot ignore that she holds power. The power to kill with a curse and to trick the eyes. So I need a man I trust, one who is not so easily fooled, to watch her. To stay at Castle Black and ensure the Night’s Watch knows my will on things.”

 _Oh no, please say Ser Richard… or your wife’s uncle…_  
  
“I will need the Hand of the King to act as such. After my wife and heir are on their way to me, you will remain at Castle Black and await my word.”

“Your grace, I have to beg-”

“I’ve no need for begging. Unless you are about to agree with my ordering you in staying at Castle Black then be silent. My mind is set on this.”

Davos wanted to shout a hundred arguments against his king’s will. A thousand reasons he should be by his king’s side and not at Castle Black. Keeping watch on Melisandre was as unpleasant of a task as he could think of. Being near that woman set his skin to crawling at times. Then there was the Night’s Watch itself. How was he expected to convey the king’s will as his Hand when Davos should have been, by all rights, among their number?

He glanced down to his maimed hand then, wondering at how many times during his smuggling days he escaped a capture that could have sent him to the Wall. In a different world, possibly even a just one, Davos would be a brother of the Night’s Watch. Yet in this strange and unjust world, he was the Hand of a King, being sent forth to dictate a king’s will to an order of men as old as the Wall itself.

_This is the world we live in now. A world of chaos and injustice._

_Stannis cannot suffer his realm to remain so… and to see him on the Iron Throne, to see some sense returned to the world… I would do as my king asks._

While Davos slowly accepted the task his king set before him, he realized there was a matter he should speak to while he had the chance.

“I ask a question your grace…” Davos raised his hands in defense as Stannis began to scowl. “Not regarding me staying at Castle Black. This is about the princess.”

“Shireen? What of her?”

“You have not shared… I mean, you have not spoken to what your position is on the offer made by the Starks. Of marrying your daughter, the heir to-”

“I remember their offer quite well.” The king stared forward then, his eyes set on the long line of riders ahead of them. “Offer you call it… That is what Lady Stark called it as well but let us call it for what it would truly be; a gift. Shireen is the heir to the Iron Throne and to Storm’s End. The Starks want her to wed their pretender? So his offspring can lay claim to not only their false crown at Winterfell but to my ancestral home, and the realm I claim by rights? They reach too high-”

“Someone must.” Davos did not mean to interrupt but he feared his king was being blinded by foul memories. “No matter who the princess marries… someone will become royal consort to her, and their children the future lord of Storm’s End.”

Stannis’s cold eyes moved back to him but Davos did not falter. His king valued his counsel for its honesty and he would give it to him.

“If you wish for a way to bring the North back into the Seven Kingdoms without bloodshed, I believe this a wise action to take. The Kingdom of the North would melt away as soon as Shireen bore an heir to Winterfell.”

He spoke as much with his head as he did his heart then, as the idea of Stannis waging war on House Stark one day made his stomach sour. They might be pretenders but bringing fire and sword to those young ladies and the little lord was a foul thing to consider. Davos did not think the Starks to be an evil lot, nor even untrustworthy. The only thing that gave him pause was the thought that Ser Jon and Lady Sansa had held something back during their discussions.

What that could be eluded him, yet he could not deny the fierceness with which the knight defended the lady. Such strength and devotion had stuck in Davos’s mind. For it was such a man that Davos wished for in a husband to Shireen. If the Stark ladies could somehow tame Rickon’s wild ways, Davos held hope that the boy could be such a fine husband. That he could be so honorable and true. The men who whispered in Queen Selyse’s ear, or stuck to Stannis’s side, all eyed a match with the princess for their own selfish wants rather than her good care.

“He’s a fine lad your grace, young Lord Rickon. I believe that he would treat the princess well, even with love.” He pressed on, despite Stannis frowning at the mention of love. “Though the Lady Sansa might be a pretender, all of the men who serve her are honorable and dutiful.”

“If they knew their duty they would follow their king.” Stannis objected.

“Yes but, my king, hear my words now carefully.” Davos gave a small prayer to the Father before he continued. “The Iron Throne, it is a far away thing to these northmen, something to be spoken of and almost never seen. They wish to serve something they know, someone they can see and trust. The Starks have given them that, for far longer than the Iron Throne ever has.”

Stannis was practically growling but Davos continued.

“These able men that you remarked on, boys in truth, they probably couldn’t speak to kings who have sat the throne, just as I couldn’t when I was a young and uneducated lad.” Davos gestured again at the green boy who had served as their guide. “Yet I remember the names and faces of every septon who fed me, every tradesman who gave me work, the man who taught me how to sail a boat. House Stark gives them that name to follow-”

“And in turn the Starks should give me their fealty. Fine, I accept that the common born may not understand their duties as clearly as needed, but the Starks should, and in turn they should direct their people’s fealty to me as well.” Stannis looked resolute and Davos felt the wind leaving his sails as he struggled for what to say when an idea struck him and the course became clear.

“Perhaps… perhaps young Lord Rickon cannot do that for you… but instead for your daughter…. Yes, the Starks understand blood over duty, to a fault your grace.” Davos added quickly, to avoid thoughts of the usurper Robb Stark.  “Rather than break them of that, use it. The Starks protect their own fiercely you cannot deny that. That same fierce protection could fall to your daughter.”

Stannis was still silent but he stopped scowling and seemed raptly at attention. Though his face betrayed no emotion Davos took it as a sign to continue.

“He had a protector with him when I found him, a wildling woman of no relation, yet if any person threatened her he acted as if he himself had been wounded. This was a woman who had earned his loyalty through nothing but service. If he could treat such a woman with no ties to him so warmly, imagine what would he do for a woman whom he calls his wife? Imagine such a lord, devoted to the care of your daughter… with an army already at his back. Who of any of her possible matches can you think of that would put her needs and the protection of her rights, above his own? This match would be good for the North and the Iron Throne… but perhaps most of all for Shireen herself.”

When he finished Stannis continued to glare at him, and for some time after as well. The king kept his mouth clamped shut all the while, the sounds of horses and the wind the only reply Davos was offered. No answer would come, for when Stannis finally moved his gaze away, Davos did not feel confident enough to try his luck at asking his king’s mind.

Thus was how they continued on their journey through the pass, in silence and in the cold. They lost only two horses in the crossing and when they emerged on the other side, the flat lands of the Gift lay open to them. No rest was allowed by the king, save for the two score riders he left to protect the entrance to the trail, to prevent any from cutting off their foot from leaving safely.

The rest rode onwards, at as brisk a pace as they could keep. In a couple hours or so they caught a glimpse of a dark shape in the distance. As they continued riding that shape only grew larger, stretching across the entire horizon. Davos did not need to be told that this was the Wall and a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

Not because they had finally arrived at their destination but for a much simpler, even fearful reason.

 _It stands,_ he thought _, the Wall still stands._

_At least it does so here but I had feared the worst._

As he reached for his fingerbones and came up wanting, he knew he had little cause to expect the Wall to have fallen. Yet that same cold that he’d felt their entire journey, the dark, unyielding chill in the air, had not left him hopeful. He sometimes even awoke from dreams where that cold was being blown down towards them from a giant chasm in the Wall.

A chasm filled with frozen monsters and dead things.

Ahead he saw no chasm, and even with darkness falling upon the lands he could spot the castle they sought.

“The Nightfort.” Stannis spoke quietly, with more reverence than expected. “Our new seat.”

Davos had heard the Nightfort was the largest castle on the Wall and he certainly believed it. He had only Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to compare it to but the castle was large even by southron standards. There were no walls protecting its southern approaches, and indeed most of the grounds and buildings were covered in snow but that did not take away from the grandness of the castle.

Three towers stood tall amongst a half score of small stone buildings, while two large keeps formed the center of the fortress. One was wide and squat, while the other was thin and tall yet still larger than the other towers. Behind the buildings, carved into the Wall itself, Davos spotted the zigzagging pattern of a great ice stair leading upwards to the top of Wall.

As large and formidable as the Nightfort appeared, Davos felt something akin to dread take a grip on him. For the castle did not look welcoming, or much better than a ruin in many ways. There were gaps in the roofs of building and walls that looked cracked and broken by time. The cold he’d been scared by awaited their coming, and while he tried to push it away as imagination, Davos believed that merely looking upon the Nightfort made him feel all the colder.

Something else bothered him more though, namely the lights they saw flickering in the castle windows.

“Your grace, you said they set builders to restoring the castle?”

“They did but not many.” Stannis answered, his eyes narrowing upon the lights as well. “There was talk of garrisoning it but I gave express orders that the castle would be mine.”

When they rode onto the grounds of the castle, the dark towers looming above them, it appeared someone had ignored Stannis’s orders. For they spotted horses within stables and a good number of men, heavily bundled, moving about the courtyard and buildings doing various work. These men were not men of the Night’s Watch either as Davos might have expected.

Their dress marked them as southron warriors, more importantly, Stannis’s warriors. There was one homely, stout man that Davos recognized before all others, for he was moving with great speed towards their arriving party.

 _Ser Axell Florent, our queen’s toad of an uncle._  
  
_What the seven hells is he doing here?_

“King Stannis! Your grace!” Axell hailed as he stumbled towards them. “Thank R’hllor you have come!”

“Axell!” Stannis bellowed. “What is this? You were meant to be by my wife’s side! At Castle Black!”

“Mutiny!” Axell almost screamed. “Mutiny at Castle Black!”

A hushed silence came across the hundreds of riders and even the horses quieted some. Lyn Corbray had been setting men about to guard against any surprises yet all froze at the cry from the Florent knight. Davos most of all, for his eyes began searching desperately for his Devan among the people he saw in the yard. When his eyes came up empty, he fought against the panic that threatened to arise from his gullet.

_He will be here, he is just inside somewhere._

_Inside and away from the cold, this bloody horrible cold._  
  
“The Lord-Commander was killed by good men! Men trying to serve their king!” Axell continued, coughing some and looking a tad too grey for Davos’s liking. “Rebels killed the man who led them! Bowen Marsh! Murdered as well…”

“Where is my wife?” Stannis asked with some restraint before yelling the next so loud that the walls of the Nightfort seemed to shake. “Where is my daughter!?”

Axell jerked backwards at the sound, just as a crowd of people began exiting the keep before them. Some swayed, others needing to be steadied, and it was clear to Davos that something was not right here. Far beyond the news of the mutiny, many of these people appeared sick.

The woman ambling before them was sicker than most.

“My husband…” Selyse rasped. Her were eyes bloodshot and her skin was a tinge of grey that Davos feared to recognize. “You have come… the fires… I kept them burning so I would see you come…”

Stannis wheeled his horse around to get a better yet distant look at the state of his wife and court. From the number of people exiting buildings or gazing down from windows, Davos thought that most of the king’s party who had not marched south was here. Yet he saw no sign of Melisandre or Devan.

“Why are you here? Why did you not seek Eastwatch? Where is Shireen?”

The king’s voice was still firm but Davos knew the man well enough to hear the worry as well. Axell and many of the other highborns around Selyse shared nervous glances and fits of coughing as well. Meanwhile the Queen tried to close the gap between Stannis and herself, her grey hand reaching up to him.

“In rooms… the top of the tower… we had to keep her away.” Selyse stumbled some yet no one ran to aid her. “No faith, our daughter has no faith in R’hllor…”

“Speak sense woman!” Stannis commanded before turning to his men. “Get off your horses and find my daughter! Now!”

Selyse ignored his words, turning back to gaze up at the top of a dark tower. Where a single dim light burned, a light so alone amongst the darkness that Davos felt a wave of pity wash over him

“It was her lack of faith…” Selyse rasped as a fit of coughing took her. “This is all because of her… the castle was cold but I kept the fires burning… the sickness came only after she refused R’hllor … it was her, husband. She is to blame… she brought the grey sickness…”

Davos was already climbing from his horse and his fixed his eyes upon the lonely light above them. Davos believed he knew who he would find at the top of that tower. Just as he recognized the sickness amongst these people, for he’d seen it a few times before, on ships that had left ports that became closed not long after. Barred because of the sickness that ran rampant through highborn and lowborn alike. A sickness that claimed thousands and for which there was no cure, only an almost certain slow, painful death. As sure a thing as the cold that was cutting into him even now.

A deep, dark cold for the ice building in his heart.

For the grey plague had found them.

And the Wall could not save them from that.

 

**BRIENNE**

 

“Do we kill them?”

Brienne tried not to show her shock that such harsh words could be spoken by so childish a voice. She wasn’t the only one to be startled by the young king’s question, a few gasps broke out from the hall full of people.

King Rickon was swinging his small legs back and forth lazily as he gazed from his place on the ancient chair his ancestors had once sat. The armrests had been carved into the shape of wolves and the seat itself was so large that there was space enough for Princess Sansa to share it with him. Young Rickon had requested that he sit on the regent’s lap before the audience came but had to accept Sansa merely sitting beside him. Together the two Starks almost filled the seat neither were large enough to do so alone.

_Though one day this king must sit it alone. May he grow to be strong and wise before he does._

_Until then this princess must teach him how to rule._

All had to gaze up at the pair of Starks, including the group of men standing before them, bound and surrounded by guardsmen. Brienne herself kept her place just to the side of the great throne, wary of any desperate attack that these men might attempt against the northern royals.

“Kill us?” A scrawny man with sunken cheeks repeated, his cap in hand. “No… no I only kept some meat…”

“I barely touched that girl!”

“That bastard deserved what he got!”

“Silence!”

The bellow that came forth from her right belonged to Brienne’s new companion in arms. Rossett Locke beat his longaxe down onto the floor, quieting the accused men and chipping the stone beneath. Beyond him, Ser Evan Whitehill put his hand to the pommel of his sword, eyeing the men as if to tempt them into coming forth. The two newest additions to the Sword Guard of House Stark could not be more different.

The knight was fair-haired, somewhat comely, and looked to be of an age with her. Yet Ser Evan had not seen half the number of battles. While most of the North and his own family had marched south to war, he’d been tasked with defending his home near the Sheepshead Hills. Far from most of the fighting, Ser Evan had finally been able to join the Stark cause only after the Whitehill lord, his uncle, was freed from captivity below the Twins. Brienne had watched the ser spar with others in the yard and thought him a talented swordsman, yet sorely untested on the battlefield. Like most young men though, he was eager for the chance to prove himself in battle, almost to the point of folly some might say.  
  
Rossett Locke was almost the opposite in every way. An older, hardened warrior, he had marched south with King Robb and had been one of the few northmen to survive the massacre at the Twins. He was a well-blooded killer who seemed as gruff and hard as the Greatjon, though with none of the lord’s cheer.

The Locke man had fought his way free of the feast tents that had been set afire at the Red Wedding. His escape had not been an easy one. A Frey flail had caught him across the face, leaving deep scars upon his right cheek and breaking his jaw. The open wounds had healed yet his jaw had not set properly, giving the man a slackened look. She’d heard men say that Rossett had once been called Rusty Locke, for the old half helm he wore into battle. Now because of his jaw, many named him the Broken Locke, though few dared do so to his face. 

_Makes me wonder what is said about me behind my back._

_The Beauty cannot be the worst of it._

She could see that the men before them feared the worst for themselves at the hands of their wild king. This motley collection included poachers, thieves, rapers, and killers, all driven from the Winter Town in the last few days to meet justice before the king.

Although Brienne now worried at what kind of justice that would be.

“They did bad things. So we kill them don’t we? Behead them?” Rickon asked, looking over to the princess as if expecting praise. Sansa offered none, her expression instead full of concern.

“To kill these men… that is a very grievous punishment my king.” Sansa gently guided Rickon’s chin so he could gaze upon the prisoners once more. “Three of these men stole food and supplies from the weak. Two did not give over the half share expected from hunting in our lands, which is akin to stealing. We give that game to the townsfolk. Is death truly a fair punishment for that?”

Rickon’s brow furrowed as his eyes swept over the men, the skinny one shaking his hands before him as if in prayer. The king pointed down to the other two, the ones guilty of crimes apart from the rest.

“What about that one? He killed a man because he was drunk, like how Ulroy gets...”

The Stark guardsmen gathered within chuckled, some even nudging Ulroy who acted abashed at being singled out. Brienne knew Ulroy liked the drink a bit too much for her tastes, but he’d never become violent to her knowledge, not like the accused.

The young king wasn’t laughing at his own comment and others stopped soon after. In fact the last criminal caused Rickon’s face to redden some and made him look even more like a little boy.

“And that one, he hurt a woman… he did the… the bad thing to her…”

“Both are guilty of what you say.” Sansa nodded, her own face darkening. “Yes, those are crimes that are surely worthy of harsh punishment my king. The crime of rape is a terrible thing and our father would have never tolerated his people to suffer at the hands of such men.”

“So we only kill those two!” Rickon declared and a growl went up from behind the chair. Brienne tensed to see the black direwolf appear from the shadows, its green eyes locked on the condemned men, its teeth bared in a snarl. “Shaggydog can do it. Just like Ghost did for Wicked Walder!”

“That he could, and you would be in the right to do so.” The princess then made soothing sounds towards Shaggydog, the beast actually pausing to look up at her. “Remember though my king, while it’s true that our lord father was strict, he was also fair. Death was only used as a punishment in the most severe of cases…”

With that Sansa’s expression hardened some more, her chin rising, and Brienne was struck by how much of Lady Catelyn she saw in the princess then.

“But we live in times of great severity. For winter has come and these men have threatened the sanctuary we are trying to make for our people in the Winter Town. Whether it is by harming good, law-abiding folk or hoarding food, both are serious threats to the survival of our rule here. In our father’s time, he might have condemned the poachers and thieves to flogging and let the marks serve as punishment enough. For these dark days however, I suggest to my dear king that they not only be flogged but lose a hand as well.”

Squeaking cries and a curse went up from the accused men but the princess did not so much as bat an eye before she continued.

“Or perhaps… we give them a choice. Give them the chance to take the black, to become sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch and spare themselves a maiming. Perhaps even regain some of their honor.” Sansa then pointed to the raper and the murderer. “For those two however… I say a gelding for the man who harmed a woman and a slit nose for the killer. After that, their choices are simpler. Death or the Wall. What do you think my king? Do those punishments seem fair?”

The king nodded enthusiastically as other sounds of agreement answered the princess’s question. All of the support came from the crowd rather than the prisoners who, to a man, had paled at their choices. Brienne may have found those punishments harsh, especially since they came from her lady’s children, but the princess was right. These were dark times and as new to these lands as she was, Brienne could tell that the Winter Town’s almost panicked growth could easily lead to chaos if not kept in check.

Hence the reason for their audience today, for half of the people gathered in the hall were townsfolk, invited by the regent to see how justice would be done from now on. Brienne believed it demonstrated how dedicated the Starks were to keeping order in the town. She also thought it likely these people would take back a message with them to the town.

_Foul acts, foul consequences._

Were the Starks only threatening to lop off hands or execute men in response to the Winter Town’s woes, Brienne’s confidence in them may have been shaken. Her thoughts had gone to Jaime when this audience began, of his story about sitting back and allowing King Aerys to execute and burn innocent men until he could stand by no more. He had done a dishonorable thing in dishonorable times and now that Brienne was a Sworn Guard she sometimes thought of what she would do if her king sought to do something so reprehensible.

It was a worry far from her mind though, for the Starks were just and kind, Princess Sansa most of all. Her actions today were but the most recent in several the regent had undertaken in efforts to properly rule the Winter Town. More often the princess poured over ledgers of food and men, trying to find the best ways to feed and defend her people. Along with her council she managed the lumber taken from the Wolfwood for more firewood and the building of new shelters in the town, as well as for trading across the Narrow Sea. Brienne could see the strain in Sansa’s eyes from being unable to do more for her people.

The delivery of food from White Harbor and the raising of a town watch from among the residents had done well by the people in Brienne’s eyes. Yet for all the good done in the past few weeks, tensions had almost boiled over during the royal family’s last visit to the town a week ago.

A fight over who deserved what place in the food line had almost led to a riot by the time Brienne had detached herself from Arya’s side. She had wanted to continue defending her charge, in case Arya saw fit to escape from her guards and try to witness the commotion, but the girl had calmly stayed on her horse beside King Rickon, both looking up into the sky. The behavior had seemed strange to Brienne but she took the chance from Arya’s tranquility to investigate the uproar herself.

“You heard me!” A loud man had been shouting when her horse arrived at the scene of the disturbance. “She tries to take my place! Thieving cunt!”

“It’s my place! I was here the whole time!”

Among the many townsfolk pushing about and watching the spectacle, Gendry had forced himself through the press. In the center she’d spotted a large, burly man, with an empty sack in one hand and the arm of the woman he was arguing with in the other. She had no free hands with which to fight back at the man, for one held a whimpering babe against her chest while the other pressed a child not much older than Rickon against her skirts.

“What happens here?” Gendry had asked, drawing all eyes as he shifted his war hammer from one shoulder to the other, causing a great many of the people gathered around to separate and single the shouters out.

“This harlot tried to take my place in line!” The burly man shouted, holding up his empty bag for all to see. “I gots a wife and children to feed!”

“He lies!” The woman snapped back, causing her smallest child to begin wailing again. “It was my place! He told me to quiet down but there’s others here ahead of him and I wasn’t going to let him take all the food…”

“Mama is telling the truth!” The little boy at her legs piped up despite his mother’s urging at silence.

“Child’s a bastard! Just like his mother!”

“Aye both of ‘em.” The man ahead of them in the line nodded. “Bastard trying to take the place of good men to feed her bastard litter. Trust in Wirrun, how much timber has he brought for us all?”

“Loads and loads! That I have! Enough to keep many of us good and warm! Only way she warms any is with that inn between her legs! To the back of the line with her I say!”

Some grumbled their assent at that yet Brienne had noticed how many of them were garbed in the same type clothes as the Wirrun character, seeming to belong to the same trade guild of some sort. Very few of the other people nodded in agreement, but none argued in favor of the woman either. One of the Stark guardsmen even came alongside Gendry, shaking his head at her sorry state.

“They’re not far off on that, she’s one of them that was on the lay for the Boltons…”

“They didn’t ask! I never offered!” The woman protested, trying to cover her boy’s ears as she pressed him into her skirts. “They just took! Please m’lord, these lot all work for Wirrun… I just want food for my little ones…”

“Then you should’ve closed your legs and lined up like the rest of us!” Wirrun shoved her back. “Back Bolton lover! Decent men-”

“Would not treat a woman so.” Gendry’s hand had clamped down on Wirrun’s shoulder and pulled him away from her. The guardsman did not follow Gendry among the men and many of them eyed the hedge knight with hostile eyes.

Gendry had not wilted beneath their gaze though, continuing to look between the man and the woman. She had been weeping then along with her children.

“You want us to believe that this woman, with two children in her arms, thought to push you aside in line?” Gendry asked, widening his eyes in mock surprise. “A big man like you? With all your friends about?”

“Never said she tried to push me aside.” Wirrun scratched his head. “She tried to offer herself to me for my place. A meal for a meal she said…”

A gale of laughter went up from the people then and the woman’s protests were drowned out in it. Brienne didn’t believe that for a moment. She’d seen men like this Wirrun before. Big ones who thought to push around the weak just to get their way. The lot around him who knew better were just too cowardly to do anything about it.

“Wirrun was your name?” Gendry had asked.

“That it is.”

“Wirrun then, I name you a liar.”

Gendry’s words had caused all laughter to die away and Wirrun and his allies to clench fists and cross arms. Brienne had thought to call over more Stark guards then. Though she and Gendry were armed, there were enough men about to overwhelm them easily and Gendry had not helped matters in her eyes by continuing to berate the man.

“I name you a liar and a Bolton sympathizer. Would you care to fight me, to prove me wrong?” Gendry had lowered his warhammer, spinning it slowly as he eyed Wirrun. “You and I right now, whoever wins speaks the truth.”

“I’ve no love for the Boltons. I hate the bastards.” Wirrun protested. “Tis not a fair fight though. You’ve got armor, heavy weapons! I’m but a logger, I’d not stand a chance against you…”

“So my being stronger does not make me right?” Gendry had addressed the crowd then rather than Wirrun. “Being able to push this man around and threaten him… that does not make me right? I know the Starks would think me wrong for doing so. Do you believe the Starks would think me wrong?”

A chorus of agreement answered that query and Gendry slung his warhammer back upon his shoulder as he waved the weeping woman forward. She sheepishly did so, coming to his side while Gendry gave the people a hard glare.

“I think Wirrun lies over who was in line first, are there any who’d speak to it?” Gendry had asked and when only silence and shamed expressions followed, he sighed. “Then I have no proof in the matter, for this man has many speaking in his favor. It’s only right that I ask you to follow me out of this line…”

“Oh please m’lord.” The woman looked back at the very back of the line with a look of utter defeat. “There’ll be nothing for us… I waited here most of the morning because I heard wagons were coming I swear…”

“I believe you.” Gendry put a hand to her back and led her away. “I have to do what’s right here, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ignore what is just. Being a knight serving House Stark I’m given a ration of the castle stores, so until the next wagons come I’ll share those rations with you and yours. A week or two of boiled oats won’t kill me.”

“Truly?” The woman had been as shocked as most of the people listening, including Brienne. A look of doubt crossed her tear-streaked face though, and she covered her boy’s ears again. “I’m not what they say ser… I can’t offer anything for the food… please don’t ask it of me…”

“The Starks ask for nothing in return, so neither do I.”

Gendry’s solution to the matter had gone over quite well among the townsfolk. Wirrun and his lot had not been the happiest, yet they’d had their small victory by keeping their place in the line. The others, intimidated and shamed for their behavior, had taken some comfort in hearing that Gendry would give their neighbor his own stores, telling the woman when to seek the castle gates for him.

“That was very shrewdly done ser.” Brienne had remarked to Gendry as they rode back to the royal party. While his kindness was no great surprise to her she was stunned at how Gendry, who had never grown up with a maester’s education, had shown such forward thinking in dealing with the smallfolk.

“Eh? Well… not really. They’re not bad folk, people just get worked up and need a way out sometimes with no one looking the fool… I just did as Lord Beric would have, I think.” Gendry acted modest but Brienne could see the blush coming. “And besides, that woman there had no one else but her children, bastards though they were… I guess I just… I thought of my own mother for a moment and what she must have gone through with me...”

Gendry had glanced back then at the rabble they left behind and Brienne rode ahead, allowing the knight a deserved moment alone with his thoughts.

Sansa had been more than impressed when Brienne came back to report the matter. The regent acted so enthralled by the tale that she wondered if Sansa even took notice of how distant Rickon and Arya were acting. Both continued to sit on their horses with blank, expressionless faces, just as when Brienne had left them. She’d been surprised that Arya had not been waiting impatiently for word on what had transpired.

_Always unpredictable, if Lady Catelyn were alive she’d be getting grey hairs over Arya._

_I just might be getting those myself._

In the present, the prisoners had all accepted the Wall over maiming or death, though some had acted conflicted over whether to lose a hand or not, with matters at the Wall being so ominous of late. When Ulroy had them led from the hall, their path took the group right by the man who’d helped see this justice done.

Gendry stood tall in his new armor, a shining suit of plate he had worked himself over the weeks. While she admired the craftsmanship of the steel gorget and the bronze bands interwoven upon his steel gauntlets, the true beauty was the chest plate itself. In that Gendry had proven himself more artist than blacksmith. By working the metal with great care, he’d made images worthy of a tapestry. A hollow hill, wrought in bronze, stabbed upwards from his midsection to peak just below his neck. Within that hill, a bronze bull charged forth, its eyes glittering crystals. The helm he held in his arms was also done in the shape of a bull’s head, the two horns arching upwards, capped in bronze as well.

While some may have preferred gold to bronze, Gendry had said the harder metal was better for battle and she thought it the most splendid bit of armor she’d seen in some time. Today was the first time Gendry had worn it in public and she knew he planned on escorting the smallfolk back to the Winter Town, armored for all to see. A gleaming symbol of the care House Stark offered those who served them well.

For Gendry was a symbol now, just as the king had decreed a few days ago after the incident in the Winter Town. In the same ceremony that young Rickon had named Ser Evan and Rossett Locke to the Sworn Guard, another duty had been awarded. That one presented by Arya and Sansa in a rare show of unity.

“Ser Gendry come forward!” Sansa had called to the surprise of their hedge knight, who had gaped at the two young princesses while others scratched their heads.

“Gendry get over here!” Arya had yelled impatiently, waving him on to Brienne and Sansa’s shared embarrassment.

When the knight had knelt before them, no grey cloak of the Sworn Guard was brought forward, nor any document presented to award him lands. Instead the Starks presented Gendry with a title of a different sorts. So impressed by Gendry’s handling of the situation at the Winter Town, and his good relations with those lads from the town who he’d been teaching to smith, Sansa had decided to make use of him.

“House Stark hereby names you, Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill, as our Knight of the Winter Town.” Sansa smiled to announce it. “We task you with care of its people and the peace within it. You shall-”

“You’ll protect them.” Arya had interrupted.

“If they have a problem, they will go to you. If someone hurts them, you’ll be the one to bring them to us.” Arya had shouted all this proudly but almost whispered the last part softly so that only those closest could hear. “You’ll be a knight who protects the weak and defends the helpless. A true knight…”

Gendry acted as if he hadn’t heard them properly and other reactions from the audience had been at best mixed. Brienne had warned Sansa about that beforehand, of how awarding titles to a hedge knight from the south might not be welcomed by prickly northerners.

“Many said the same about naming you to the Sworn Guard my lady, and I have never regretted it, not once.” Sansa had grasped her hand then and the gentle treatment had caused Brienne to feel unworthy. “Besides, the critics will comfort themselves knowing that the title is largely symbolic. House Stark will still collect all the taxes, command the guards, and rule the town itself. Ser Gendry is to be our symbol to the smallfolk, of how well lowborn men who are brave and true can be treated by the Starks. To me, his greatest strength lies stems from his lowborn beginnings…”

“He understands them.” Brienne had admitted. “I saw only a potential riot while he saw the opportunity to make a point.  To show them kindness and fairness… Gendry is thirsty for the chance to prove his worth but he does not seem eager for battle or bloodshed like most young knights I’ve met. I imagine Ser Evan would have acted differently.”

“Quite likely. Hence why we need our hedge knight in the town as often as possible. Not to crush my people into submission but to give them someone to approach with their grievances. Our people may come to love us but they will always remember us as their lords when it comes time to collect the taxes or spread out the rations. Ser Gendry can be something more to them, a knight they can trust and relate to.”  
  
Evidently the regent’s faith in Gendry had been well placed. After only a few days of acting as knight to the town, results had begun to be seen. He had made sure to mend fences with Wirrun and reach out to other influential townsfolk. No matter how petty the grievance the men had, Gendry would listen, causing Brienne to laugh once at his tale of solving a dispute over how close one man could dig a latrine to another’s hut. Soon Gendry didn’t have to seek out the townsfolk; they began to seek him out themselves, to air their grievances and to seek justice and protection from the knight.  
  
That was how he learned of the trio of thieves who were threatening widows and old folk into giving up their rations. He directed Rodwell into arresting the men and personally made sure that what stolen rations he could find were returned to their rightful owners. When a young lad whispered to Gendry of men holding back their shares of game owed to House Stark, he and Pod had found the men and brought them to the castle, as well as their hidden stores. Rather than seeking vengeance privately, a family had come to their Knight with word of their daughter’s rape and Gendry had done his duty, swiftly dealing with the criminal and bringing him to the king to face justice. When a man had been stabbed at the Smoking Log, so trusted had the ser become by the townsfolk, it only took a few hours of inquiring from the knight to find the culprit.

Gendry’s face was blank as all those men were led without, the gathering coming to a close. Brienne sought him out to offer her congratulations.

“You should be proud Gendry.”

_For I am. Very proud of you._

“I did little in truth. The townsfolk were the ones who pointed that lot out…”

“And how many rapes, murders, and thefts were not reported to the guards already posted in that town?” She asked. “Each of those guards likely has kin or ties to those people yet still the townsfolk could not trust them with such reports. You’ve no ties to any one group and all know you to be fair, even to those you dislike. Trust me ser, such loyalty and trust does not come from doing ‘little.’”  
  
Gendry had blushed some at that before she saw Podrick and Lord Larence Hornwood entering the hall. When the squire caught sight of them they came straight onward, seeking an audience with her.

“The horses are ready?” She asked and Pod nodded.

“All saddled and ready to depart when you give the word my lady.”

“Rodwell has already left with his party.” Larence continued, the young lord brushing some of his hair from his eyes. “Marlen was preparing to ride when we saw people leaving the hall.”

“Then we should be away as well.” Brienne nodded. “What of the hounds? Were there enough to spare for us?”

Pod and Larence exchanged a glance and it was entertaining how both immediately look abashed for doing so. Pod was a highborn lad, yet only a squire. Larence was bastard born, yet recently legitimized and made a lord. Both had it in their heads that they weren’t worthy of each other’s company yet the two were of an age, and Larence acted well.

He’d even performed some brave deeds of late. The latest caravan from White Harbor had been long delayed by storms and appeared to have drifted off their intended path in the confusion. The Lady Wylla Manderly had decided to take her riders and journey on ahead, to determine where exactly her party had ended up, only for the riders to become lost in a storm as well.

Larence had been told of the missing wagons and was leading search parties along the White Knife, coming upon Lady Wylla’s group of riders in quite the dire state. The lord had personally escorted the lady on to Winterfell while his men sought the caravan, though they had returned with no sight of it. Lord Wyman’s reunion with his green-haired granddaughter had been just as warm as the lady’s praise for Larence, the young man reddening before Lord Manderly as Wylla spoke.

Even now, while Lady Wylla was speaking with Sansa and Lady Myranda, Brienne caught the girl smiling at the young lord. Larence saw it as well, for his face burned in a way that she’d seen him do many times now. The lady motioned to wave at him but he turned away to hear Brienne’s question.

“The hounds?” She asked again. “Do we have any?”

“No hounds my lady.” Larence piped up. “But Princess Arya has said that her direwolf could lead us…”

“Nymeria? Not bloody likely.” Gendry shook his head and she was inclined to agree.

“The beast is too wild. No, I’d rather we just search the area we were asked to. Marlen and Rodwell’s parties have the greater distance so they need the hounds more than us.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me m’lady?’ Gendry asked, gesturing to the waiting townsfolk. “I could take my horse to town and then ride to catch up…”

“Your place is in the Winter Town, ours is where King Rickon commands, let us all set forth and do as we are bid.” She gave the knight a quick nod before joining Larence and Pod in leaving the hall. As they did so, she reflected on the task they were set to embark upon.

For the wayward Manderly caravan was not the only thing missing out there in the frozen lands of the North. So were three White Harbor men who’d come with the last food supply run, men who’d disappeared from the castle around the same time that a great many parchments had been stolen from the Maester’s turret.

Maester Henley had been the one to report the missing papers, and to the regent’s outrage he had waited several days to do so. In truth, even his fellow maesters had grown wroth to hear exactly what had been lost

“There were ledgers on the strength that each house brought to Winterfell and has left to them at their own seats.” Henley had said in a plain manner, unbefitting of the dire news he shared. “Maps of the castle and areas which need far more extensive repairs, just as her grace commissioned me to make-”

“To make! Not to lose!” Wyman Manderly had thumped the table, his jowls quivering in rage. The man had already been embarrassed by the thought of someone from his own party being involved in the theft.

“I did not think them lost! I thought perhaps Maester Medrick had taken them himself, to deliver to her grace. Oh, he often moves my work without a thought…”

Brienne remembered the anger that clouded her judgment then, so the man’s words were almost lost to a haze. The memory soured her mood even more when she saw who awaited their party of riders at the stables.

“My lady! My lord!” Maester Henley hailed them as he walked to meet them. “A word please! Of utmost importance.”

Pod almost stepped on her foot in his haste to find a way around the man and onwards to the horses. She did not care one bit for how the maester wrinkled his nose to watch the squire pass.

“What is it maester? We are meant to ride out and seek the caravan that came with Lady Wylla from White Harbor, as well as the men who stole your work…” Brienne spoke as evenly as she could manage, trying to set an example for the young Lord Hornwood at keeping her temper.

“Thieves, yes, my work stolen and myself the victim… perhaps more than any.” The maester nodded. “Your search is why I have come, for I have already spoken to the Captain Rodwell and our Sworn Guard Marlen, on the specifics of which parchments I have lost-”

“I was the guard watching over the meeting, I know what you have lost.” Brienne sighed.

“I thought to share it with the lord as well…”

“Lady Brienne has told me all she knows.” Larence added. “I may be guiding these riders today but she is the one the regent has tasked with leading our party. I defer to her expertise in this matter.”  
  
The maester did not hide his disapproval of that notion well. To her it was just another reason to disdain this man. The other maesters were capable enough and she liked them fine, but mostly it helped that neither one had gagged or bound Podrick after his rescue from the Boltons.

_His suffering is your fault and you know it._

_He was right there, yours to save, and a rock defeated you._

_If not for some otherworldly fortune you would have surely lost him that night._

“If you have anything else to add, it is for the lady’s ears, not mine.” Larence broke into her thoughts as he escaped the conversation, edging around the man to walk on to his waiting horse. The maester grumbled something at that which was not as quiet as it could be.

“Not even legitimized a year and already-”

“Is that what you wish me to share with the _Lord_ of Hornwood?”

“What? No… no not, I mean, I said nothing.” The man fidgeted under her gaze before finally leaning forward. “As I asked the others, if you do find the thieves and my work, I would appreciate if you could handle it with the utmost care. I put much time and effort into those ledgers and maps. Having to recreate them-”  
  
“Is that quite all?” Her irritation with the man was getting the better of her.  
  
_By the Warrior, did Roose Bolton bring this man to Winterfell as some sort of sabotage?_

_Or can a person truly be this ineffectual?_

“Actually… there is the matter of that scarred squire.” The maester did not even deign to hide the fact that he was speaking of Pod, pointing to the lad upon his horse. Pod likely couldn’t hear his words yet she saw how her squire jerked some upon seeing the man pointing at him.

“He took that injury in service to Princess Arya, what of him?”

“It regards the princess actually… I’ve held my tongue for some time but when I saw him conversing alone with her in the corridors earlier with no supervision… well I cannot be silent.” The maester turned to face her then. “You are the lady he serves so I thought to bring my concerns to you first…”

“That squire you speak of has always served me and House Stark well. He acted as a hero saving Princess Arya. What concerns could you possibly have?” She choked out, fighting the urge to strangle the man. The maester nodded, yet in a listless way, like her words meant nothing.

“I imagine he was a fine enough squire beforehand, yet I fear that young men who have been… _interfered_ with in such a manner are rarely able to be-”

“What does that mean?” Brienne asked. To use such a term to describe Pod’s captivity seemed foolish. “Interfered with?”

“Such was why I didn’t believe him when he was first brought to me! My examination of him showed clear signs of what had been done, and other survivors corroborated the tale.” The maester made a clucking noise. “I saw much of it during my training in Oldtown. Young men saved from the streets by septons, rescued from the improper lusts of other men, brought for treatment to me… only for their minds to have become so deranged that they placed the blame on the septons themselves!”

Brienne’s world was slowing down then. She understood the maester’s words well enough but their meaning caused her mind to numb. Podrick had been stolen away from her, submitted to beatings and having to witness the cruel acts done to others. She knew that, and it had kept her up sometimes thinking of it. When Pod would come to the yard looking like he hadn’t slept, she’d chosen not to pry. For his nightmares could be his own if he wanted, just as she kept her own to herself.

Renly’s death. The murder of Lady Catelyn. Facing the bear in the pit at Harrenhal. The memory of Podrick being dragged away into the darkness. The dread nightmare where Jaime had not been there to save her and she was dragged away by the Bloody Mummers. Dragged away and raped.

Yet that last one was only a nightmare, for Jaime had saved her.

“Some at the Citadel think that such unnatural relations between men is not so damaging, I however am more learned. What I saw leads me to believe that those boys become deranged, untrustworthy, and prone to lies. They often start injuring themselves, simply for the attention and pity of others, some even engaging in buggery themselves…”

Brienne’s hands wrapped around his grey cloak then, wrenching the man up so quickly that he gagged as the chain around his neck became taut.

“Shut your mouth.” She rasped through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you. Speak so again and I’ll kill you.”

As the man stammered and struggled, she could not say it was an idle threat. For in that moment she meant it. In her mind she remembered the terror of being dragged away by the mummers, the helplessness and fear that she’d be ruined because of it.

_You were a woman grown, not some poor scared boy._

_A boy you should’ve protected… as Jaime protected you._

_Oh Podrick… I have failed you so terribly._

“Unhand… unhand me!” The maester squirmed and choked in her grasp yet her eyes were only for Podrick then. The squire was staring at her with an expression of horror and she heard others yelling as well. Suddenly she felt filthy holding the foul man in her grip, so she did as he asked.

Brienne tossed him away from her, not even bothering to watch where he fell. She merely continued on, climbing upon her horse. She looked quickly to Podrick and gave a quick nod before kicking her heels into her horse and riding as fast as she could from Winterfell.

To her shame, she kept her horse at such a pace for some time. Brienne’s rage and sadness mixed with a deep, painful guilt inside of her, making her completely oblivious to how selfish she was acting. They were well out of sight of Winterfell before she finally found the sense to rest her horse and allow Podrick and the others to catch up.

_Leaving him behind is what led him to such a fate._

While it was Podrick who came alongside her first, it was Larence who spoke up before any others.

“My lady! I think you just did what half the castle has been dying to!”

“Including the regent!” Another man piped up and the whole party laughed.

All save Podrick, who was looking at her with an expression that bordered on anguish. He made no move to come closer to her though and she truly feared then the damage she could do to him if she tried to speak now. Her strength had never been with words or gentleness, only the force of arms.

And her skill with a sword had failed him once already.

So while Larence led them on a southward search across the frozen lands for the missing White Harbor men, Brienne struggled with her own thoughts and demons. She’d become so complacent with her role as the protector of Lady Catelyn’s children, she’d let the suffering of another child she held dear to her go unnoticed.

Deep down she held a great pride in how she’d served the Starks since donning their grey cloak. While it held none of the brightness of the rainbow cloak that Renly’s guard had given her, the simple grey one had felt all the warmer, simply because it had been Arya to place it upon her shoulders. In a way it shamed her that each day she awoke and the first thought in her mind was what drill she would put Arya through. Her feelings for the girl went much farther than a Sworn Guard’s should.

Surprising her princess with new lessons or odd ones her own teachers had made up always brought a smile to Arya’s face and such was enough to drive away the cold for a few moments. While Brienne did care for Sansa and Rickon, so much so that she would die for them, they were truly the Royal Regent and King in the North.

Whereas Arya, well Arya was her princess.

Lately the girl had been acting strangely though, and now with the revelation of what she’d missed in Pod, Brienne worried what she might have missed in Arya.

_When she learned we’d be seeking the missing men, she didn’t even ask to come._

_She didn’t give a word of argument, no protest at us risking ourselves, or her being of use._

That in itself was strange, and setting aside how well the Stark sisters were getting along of late, there were other odd activities Arya had been up to. The king and princess would seek the godswood together, playing sometimes, yet whenever Brienne let them leave her sight she would eventually find them, standing still among the trees as if entranced. Podrick had told a tale of seeing the girl leaving the stables with a sack full of horsehair and even stranger, Arya had apparently taken up needlework again. Her princess hated needlework and Brienne wondered how she could improve that skill by practicing alone in her rooms.

What it all meant was lost on her.

The hours they spent riding yielded no answers. Not to her worries about Arya, not to how she would approach Podrick about his trials, not even the whereabouts of the missing parchments.

At one point Podrick and she had drifted away from the others, the pair at the top of a ridge and the rest fanned out below them. She saw nothing in the lands visible to her, yet further ahead laid a hill that hid the terrain beyond. They were alone at the moment and she could endure it no longer.

“Podrick.” She croaked, her throat was stiff with disuse and the lad jumped in his saddle.

“Yes my lady?”  
  
“I must ask you something…”

“Please don’t.” Podrick would not look to her then, his eyes focused on the top of the hill they now climbed. “If he said anything to you, please, I beg you… forget his words and do not ask me to-”

“Pod.” She leaned out to grab his arm, desperate to reassure the lad. “Whatever that man said, however I have failed you, I need you to know that I trust you. There are no others that I have more faith in.”

“You didn’t fail me… I failed you.”

“Nonsense.” Brienne shook her head as she released him. “And listen closely, for the maester asked me to keep you away from Arya while I intend for you to do the exact opposite. You and I both know she has been acting in an odd manner…”

“I think she stole a pair of my breeches...”

“Yes well, besides your breeches, other things have bothered me as well. I need you to learn if anything is wrong with her… I cannot allow one of my charges to come to harm. Not again.”

“I would never let Arya come to harm. Her or any of the Starks. If you need me to guard her when you sleep, I will.”

“Good lad.” Brienne tried to smile but couldn’t find the strength to. “Guarding her is not what I would ask of you though. For Princess Sansa has permitted Arya the freedom of the castle without a Sworn Guard. Nothing however was said in regards to having a sworn squire watching over her. I seek a shadow to keep an eye on her instead, to make sure she is not up to anything I need know about…”

Podrick gave her a confused look and she forgave him that, for she was being somewhat guarded in her speech, which was foolish considering how far the others were now. They’d sought to round the hill at its lowest base rather than follow the ridgeline up like Podrick and she did. They’d rejoin the others as soon as they glimpsed what was beyond the hill.

She was about to explain to Pod what she meant by the shadow comment when a great many figures popped up on hill ahead of them.

“Podrick!” She cried, pulling Oathkeeper free as Pod began to pull upon his own blade. She counted almost a score of mounts ahead of them at first glance.

That count was adjusted soon after, as the surprised calls of her horse caused the mounts ahead to cry out as well. The unmistakable braying of mules filled the air and Brienne could not believe what her eyes were showing her.  
  
For a party had indeed appeared ahead of them, but not one of spear wielding warriors or even lords and ladies riding ponies. Instead she saw mules, almost a score of them, loaded up with goods and at most three riders upon them. The stranger calling out in an attempt to calm the mules was a tall, handsome-looking dark-haired woman. The other two Brienne thought were men, but both were hooded and one was so bundled up that she could barely tell if it was human.

While Brienne and Podrick were taking stock of the newcomers, they were apparently taking stock of the pair. For one of the men gave a shout, pointing at them and laughing in a familiar way.

“By the Maiden’s hairy teats! You again!”

Brienne was dumbstruck at what face she pictured upon hearing that voice. It was a voice that she hadn’t heard in moons, in a far different land than this. In a castle where they’d left him as a prisoner of sorts.

“Anguy?” Pod asked as the woman swore and cursed to bring their group towards them.

“Pod the Sod!” Anguy threw back his hood laughing. “Weeks of snowy hell and of course, it’s you two we find!”

As Brienne tried to comprehend how she was seeing Anguy the Archer again, in the North of all places and on a mule of all things, her eyes moved to his companion. The bundled up form was tossing away his coverings as quickly as he could and when his scarf was tossed away and the hood thrown back, his pale blond hair fell down in a cascade and his dark blue eyes glinted almost purple in the weak winter light.

“Lady Brienne!” Edric Dayne called out, spooking the mules again, causing the mule woman to curse. “Sorry Mya… but this is Lady Brienne and Podrick Payne! Answers to our prayers!”

“Some proper mules would be the answer to my prayers.” The young woman grumbled.

“Edric… my lord, what… why are you…”

“Why have we travelled from bloody Maidenpool, all the way to Gulltown, then White Harbor, then to fucking who knows where to find you lot?” Anguy took in a deep breath then. “Why for a foolish quest of course!”

“It is not foolish.” Ned protested, reaching into a satchel at his side. “It’s a debt owed, and one you said was worthy…”

“I also said mules would be quicker than those fucking wagons and-”

“They were!” The girl named Mya protested. Brienne thought she remembered the regent saying something about a girl named Mya but she and Pod could only continue to stare, at a loss at this strange spectacle.

“I needed to do this for Arya… I mean…” Ned choked on his words when Anguy laughed. “That is we have come to return something once lost.”

Such was how Ned pulled forth what he’d been fumbling for in his satchel. Gripped in his hands sat an object that Brienne had only ever heard described to her by Lady Catelyn, yet somehow she knew by sight.

A circlet of hammered bronze. Runes of the First Men. Nine black iron spikes shaped like swords…

A crown any Northman would covet.

The crown of the King in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The A Cold Wind


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The preparations for the battles to come. A look at potential allies, enemies and those who risk all for a chance at victory.

**BRAN**

 

_These weren’t his eyes._

_They weren’t Summer’s, nor a raven’s, or even Hodor’s._  
  
Wherever Bloodraven had led him, it felt like gazing through a weirwood again even though Bran knew it wasn’t. He could see but couldn’t move, like when he was in the trees but this wasn’t a tree. It was a person.

_‘Not just any person.’ Bloodraven whispered in his mind. ‘A seer, a holder of the third eye, a fellow traveller through the mists of the past and the shadows of things to come.’_

_Whoever this person was, it appeared that she was a woman. A very old woman, impossibly old he thought, considering how weak and brittle her body felt. She could even be a dwarf. Her height barely reached three feet. For a moment he’d thought the woman was sitting, being so low to the ground._

_She had to gaze upwards to watch the men fighting nearby. The fire gave off enough light so that the two dueling men could be seen slashing and cutting at each other with their swords. As brutal as that battle was, Bran could see that it was only one of many brutal acts that had been committed here._

_On this hilltop Bran had never been to before, bodies were sprawled all about in the snow. He counted four in all, men and women both, some bleeding from open cuts upon their bodies while others had arrows sticking out of their corpses. The one woman, with what looked like moss tied in her hair, had a fletching imbedded through her neck, eyes still staring into the fire._

_They were in the south, that was he certain of. The air was too warm for it to be the North. The winds were cold and snows were falling from the sky, yet it was nowhere near as cold as it was in the lands that Summer would hunt in. He felt like this was someplace far away. Bran felt a strain while gazing through this woman’s eyes, like he was squinting to see into the distance._

_‘This is a sacred place young Brandon, a ruin of sorts, as close as men can ever come to seeing of the world made by those who sing the songs of earth.’_

_The hilltop did feel special to him, it pulsed with the same kind of energy that the cave of the three-eyed crown did, albeit much fainter. Maybe because the weirwood above that cave still lived while the great many trees around this woman had been cut down. His host was standing in the middle of a great ring of weirwood stumps, the blood of the bodies already beginning to seep down into their roots, far below the ground._

_He could almost taste it._

_“Monster!” One of the combatants yelled, a shabby looking man whose face was red with rage and blood. “I’ll kill you! For all of them!”_

_His opponent was not dressed much better, wearing a weather-beaten and stained cloak, yet something about his bearing did not allow Bran to think him shabby. He was also far older than the other man, his hair gone to grey and even in the darkness his face appeared lined and weathered. His movements were far more youthful though. His cuts came fast and steady, the man jumping forward and back, dodging with a swiftness that was terrifying to behold, spilling more blood as he did so._

_“Swampy Meg.” The older swordsman growled as the other retreated, clutching at his bleeding leg. “Merrit O’Moontown. Melly… now you.”_

_“Stay the fuck back!” The younger man limped backwards, holding his sword out in an effort to prevent the inevitable. “I thought the Lannisters were fucking monsters… I thought Stoneheart was a monster… what are you?”_

_“He is your death Jon O’Nutten.” The woman spoke as both Bran and she watched the killer close the gap between him and his victim. “I told you, for the wine I told you all…”_

_When the younger Jon O’Nutten man shot her the slightest glance, those words were proven true. For the killer leapt forward then, his blade flashing in the firelight, causing O’Nutten’s weapon to fall away, along with the hand that grasped it still. The man did not even get a chance to scream before his killer spun about and drove the point of his sword through O’Nutten’s chest._

_The impaled man jerked in the air before becoming unnaturally still, as if frozen._

_“For my beloved niece.” The killer rasped, pushing on the man’s chest until his weapon was pulled free and the body collapsed backwards into the snow._

_More blood to feed the roots._

_The wind blew across the hilltop then, horses whinnying from somewhere among the trees nearby. He thought perhaps the woman would run then, to flee the killer as he turned towards her. Bran wanted to run himself and it wasn’t even his body at risk._

_As he neared the fire, the killer’s face became illuminated in the light and his horrible scars were laid bare. The eight jagged red lines running down from his eyes were hard to look upon yet this woman did so all the same. She did not even flinch as he raised his bloody sword between them._

_“You knew I was coming Ghost?” He asked, pausing to stare across the fire at them. “I’ve heard tell of you in my travels, of what you can see. You warned them of me?”_  
  
The woman let out a wheeze and her knees cracked and popped as she made to sit upon the log behind her.

_“I warned them of nothing, I told them all I could though.” She sighed then, looking about the bodies. “Everyone listens closely until I speak of their doom… kings or outlaws, it doesn’t matter. Once they hear of their deaths I am suddenly a liar. They argued with me, foolish young heroes they were… they felt safe here.”_

_“They should have. High ground, clear lines of sight… took me a full day and night of crawling to get here without being seen.”_

_“Then you are surely cold ser. As cold as your heart of stone. Warm yourself by my fire for a spell.”_

_“You think I will spare you if you are kind?” The dark knight asked and women’s shoulders cracked in a shrug._

_“I have seen my death and you are not it. My death will come at the hands of something far colder than you.”_

_The killer and the woods witch continued to stare at one another, the snow whipping onto the bodies around them, burying them. The howling of the wind died down and a gruff sound that could have been a laugh came from the dark knight. He pulled a cloth from within his cloak and began to clean the blood from his blade._

_“I killed this lot for the crime they were all a party to. Others for learning of it. If you are truly a seer then you could not help learning such terrible knowledge so I won’t kill you for it. I put no blame on those few who sorcery is forced upon. That you’re an old defenseless woman helps as well. I have not fallen so far as that.”_

_“You have a great way to fall yet ser.” She cackled, waving at the bodies around them. “The dead you’ve seen, the dead you’ve made, the dead around us. Nothing. Nothing compared to what comes… but that is all I’ll speak to, without a gift.”_

_“A gift?” The dark knight scowled and Bran thought the knight foolish. He should have known better. To learn of events to come, such knowledge would obviously require giving a sacrifice._

_Like Jojen had._

_The man looked about him before bending down to the body of the swampy woman. In one hand she held a short sword but it was the wine skin in the other hand that he stole. He tossed it over to the old woman who snatched it from the air with deftness that Bran was shocked by._

_She drank deeply of the skin, her shrunken lips sucking hungrily the whole while. He thought of how he’d last eaten of the weirwood paste then, and wondered how long ago that was. How much time had passed since he’d entered the trees?_

_‘The trees will provide all you need… keep focused on the task at hand. You must learn to seek out those like this old one. The ones connected to the great truth as we are… for she knows we are here… as I have come to her before, like you will come again…’_

_Bloodraven’s voice fell away as the body they sheltered within finally had its fill of wine. She lowered the skin to rest upon her lap and let her fingers run down her throat._

_“It feels warm… a lie of course, for the cold will only deepen… but not for you ser.”_

_The old woman pointed into the fire then, jumping back up to her feet and swaying some as her other hand sought the sky above._

_“Fire! Fire and blood for the heart of stone! You will beg for death then, scream for it-”_

_“I do not fear death. To see my family again would be a kindness. Until then I will find those who wronged my family, those I need to kill before my end. So tell me of Thoros of Myr! Where is he?”_

_“Your kin sees you now! A thousand eyes and one have fallen upon you! The old gods are hungry and your offerings sate their thirst!”_

_“Thoros! Where!?”_

_“You will find what you seek at the edge of the sea! Where the maiden bathes in the open and forgotten men whisper of old loyalties again!” The old woman began to thump her head, hurting Bran as much as herself. “The dead march now! Thousands upon thousands! The dragons fly once more! Their wings glide on smoke of the burnt below! The dance begins! The breakwall comes! The Long Night is-”_

_“Not tonight.” The dark knight cut her off, sheathing his sword and standing once more. “From all that nonsense I heard Maidenpool clear enough. Works well enough for me. After Thoros I can get a ship to Dorne, only a few more left now.”_

_The old woman was cackling again, clutching her stomach as she did so, as if it pained her to laugh so hard. Bloodraven was pulling on him then, wanting to leave this sight and Bran did not fight it. There was nothing here he wanted to see more of. The woman said a little more as he slipped away._

_“So few left… speaking of your kin ser? The kin you abandoned… the family that watches you now… the three who hide behind their walls, blind to the threat that is coming… the lord who knows what is dead may never die… they all remember you… not the hangman… the kindly uncle, the Black-”_

The blackness he saw was lifted as Bran opened his eyes.

What stood before him made his dry lips crack as they spread in a smile.

“Bran… Bran you’re back.” Meera said softly, touching his face gently as she held up a bowl of water to him. “You were gone so long this time, I was worried…”

A rasping sound of disapproval rattled from Bloodraven, the old lord clearly displeased. Bran didn’t care though, not if coming out of the trees meant finding Meera waiting for him with her warm touch. There was nothing that could make him think badly of such a thing.

“Meera.” He tried to say but his voice was but a croak. She made soothing sounds while pressing the water against his lips, the cool liquid almost as welcome as her care.

“You must stop interfering.” Bloodraven spoke sternly, pointing at Meera who scowled back at him. “He was being shown how to reach those whose third eye has glimpsed pieces of the tragedy which is to come. To gain from their knowledge.”

“Look how thirsty he is! It’s been a day, a night, and then almost a day again!”

“The trees will provide for him…”

“I will provide for him!” Meera snapped back, allowing Bran to hold the bowl for himself while she went to collect some cooked meat from a plate below. From the spread out furs and other empty dishes, it looked as if she’d set up a camp of sorts here since he’d last sat his weirwood throne.

 _That’s not fair. I don’t want her to watch me rest. I want to watch her._  
  
“Here Bran, eat.” She offered him a bit of something that was burnt almost black. “It’s a badger. I’m sorry for how stringy it is, the thing was half starved. I think that’s why it even tried coming here, to feed on the wights-”

“You went outside without me?”

Meera had been journeying outside the cave, like she’d planned to, but always with him in Summer’s skin watching over her. His pack had not understood why they did not eat of the woman and having to protect Meera against them, as well as the other dangers of the lands beyond, was too much. So Bran had been forced to slip into each of their skins, bending all the wolves to his will. It wasn’t like it had been with Hodor, for these wolves bent far more easily, like they were used to such treatment. Only the larger male with the one eye gave him any trouble.

_It wasn’t the wolf that was the trouble._

_Only the ghost of a monster called Varamyr…_

When Bran slipped into One-Eye’s skin he’d found another presence inside the wolf, one that had been waiting for him. At first he thought that this wolf was somehow stronger than the other wolves. He’d only been fooled for a moment though. As they’d battled the truth became clear. Another skinchanger had made this wolf his second life, and he was less man than beast. At first Bran had almost fled, for whatever lived within the beast was desperate, screaming and clawing to stay there.

During the fight for control however, something had drawn Bran to stay. Glimpses had come forth of the man called himself Varamyr Sixskins and the dark life he’d led. Of the dark acts he still meant to commit. Bran saw how the skinchanger had meant to hurt Meera, how the beast wanted tear her apart and taste her flesh and how the man who still remained wanted to do even worse than that.

That was when he’d truly begun to fight Varamyr, Bran’s righteous fury fuelling his attack. The two powers battled like beasts themselves for mastery over One-Eye. The poor wolf had been growling and whining, rolling about on the ground as they fought. Varamyr was much like that wolf in a way, older and seasoned in fighting. Yet Bran was like Summer, young and more powerful, driven by the need to protect his pack.

His loved ones.

In the end Bran had been victorious. Not only driving Varamyr from the wolf’s mind but also crushing his spirit, deaf to the man’s voice as it was pleading to spare him. The end was quick, like father would have done, but it had been far from painless. Bran had crumpled the thing’s mind into a weeping, pathetic lump before driving it out into the cold. Somehow Bran sensed that beyond this second life that Varamyr had made for himself, there was nothing but darkness waiting.

He’d killed before, in Summer’s body, as a wolf.

This was the first time Bran had killed himself.

Even though he’d done so with his mind, his hands felt bloody all the same. He had felt guilty afterwards but deep down Bran knew he wasn’t as troubled as he should be. He’d wanted to be a knight to fight monsters and protect maidens, and by vanquishing Varamyr from One Eye, he’d done just that.

_I had to kill him, I had to do it…_

_For Meera._

As angry as he was towards Meera now that feeling was nowhere near as powerful or dark as when he’d been battling on her behalf. Yet it still drove him to push aside the offered meal and grab at her wrist.

“Why didn’t you wait until I was back? Until I could protect you!”

Meera wrenched free from his grasp as easily as if he was a child. He was weak from his time in the trees and forgot again that the strength he felt in Summer and the wolves did not come back with him. Bran sometimes let himself forget his stupid broken body.

“I’m supposed to protect you and I wanted you to wake up to a proper meal.” She hissed at him, inclining her head towards two of the children watching in the shadows. “I don’t care what’s in that paste. You need to eat a human meal now and again. Not fish or mushrooms, meat! Something that lived in the sun and ran through the woods…”

Bloodraven grunted at that, his red eye squinting in what almost appeared to be a smile of its own. Bran ignored his teacher in this. The three-eyed crow was always trying to make things harder for Meera and him to have moments together.

“It’s not safe to go out alone… ”

“I wasn’t alone.” Meera pushed the plate back at him again, this time letting one of her hands rest on his. “Joramun was with me.”

Hearing her call Coldhands by that name almost made Bran cringe. He remembered going to confront the ranger after they’d learned the truth about the living dead protector. He’d asked Hodor to carry him back to the entrance of the cave, with Meera following behind.

“Hodor, what I’ve been doing to you was wrong. Deep down I knew it was but I couldn’t help it… no, no that’s a lie.” Bran had done as Meera did now, reaching up to touch his friend’s face. “I could’ve helped it. I could’ve stopped. I should’ve stopped.”  
  
“Hodor.” Hodor had spoken while a tear fell down from his face, landing upon Bran’s cheek.

“I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll never do that to you again, not ever… unless you let me.”

Bran would’ve apologized and said those things to Hodor anyways but the truth was, sometimes he needed his friend to let him continue slipping into his mind. For Summer was too far away at times and Hodor’s legs were of use to him and more importantly, to Meera. So he’d asked Hodor then for permission to do so, to be allowed to seek out his friend’s help and use his strength when there was a need.

“Hodor.” Was the only answer he’d received.

So he’d gently reached out for the stableboy’s mind, if only to know what decision he’d made. The first thing Bran had felt was panic and fear so he’d begun to pull away yet something in Hodor’s mind changed, like Hodor himself was shuffling back within himself to allow Bran to control. He’d tried to send his friend a message of thanks and hoped that Hodor had felt it.

Just as he had hoped there was enough light in the day for Meera and him to seek out the man who was legend. With Hodor’s body and Meera at his side, they descended the snow-covered hill in search of the black-garbed thing that shouldn’t be. Which surely couldn’t be.

They’d found him, keeping a solitary, constant watch on the unnatural piles of snow below. His only company was the flock of ravens squawking noisily above them in the trees.

“They told you.” Coldhand’s voice rattled forth, no warm mist following it.

“Brynden Rivers did, yes… how did you know?” Meera spoke for them and Coldhands nodded stiffly before pointing at Bran in Hodor’s body.

“Told you and showed him. Just as my ravens once showed the three-eyed crow the way here. We keep no secrets between us and he shares what he knows with my flock.” Coldhands looked upwards towards the ravens, waving another hand then and causing them to take flight into the air. With simple moves of his hand they flew back and forth in the sky, in almost beautiful formations.

“Once, the man I was commanded sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch just as well. My men were disciplined, well-ordered, the best warriors of their time…”

“So it’s true?” Meera asked. “You’re Joramun, the King-beyond-the-Wall from long ago… from ages ago…”

That was when the figure whipped around to face them, pulling back his hood and revealing his face, the face that Bran had seen in his visions. Save that this one was drained of all color and its dark eyes were devoid of all warmth.

“I was the first King-beyond-the-Wall. For a sliver of time.” Coldhands rattled. “A short time, so short... I led a warm life for but the blink of an eye. Now I am older than some mountains and rivers in these lands. Like the Wall itself, the truth of me was lost to the passing of time and the ignorance of men.”

Bran had wanted to speak so badly then but Hodor was just not built for it. So he took the hint Coldhands had offered and split his mind with one of the ravens in his flock. Staying grounded in Hodor while also soaring above their heads.

 _‘The Wall… the stories said you sounded the horn and brought down the Wall…’_  
  
“I sounded the horn and raised the giants from the earth. That is true. Not to tear down the Wall, but to save it.”

“From the Night’s King?” Meera had asked and Coldhands moved his dark eyes over her.

“From the Others… they are not fools and they do not forget tales as men do. They remember and they learn. After the Long Night, when they failed to defeat the ones with warm blood in their veins, they remembered their defeat… they learned new ways to try and drive back the living…”

_‘What did they learn?’_

“The giants, the singers, men themselves, all living things united to defeat them. To drive them back. The white walkers stood alone… they hate to be alone, I sometimes think...” Coldhands looked down upon the snow where the wights slumbered. “Allies is what they wanted, more than just the wights and ice spiders they raise, and in my time that is what they sought… they stole my brother from me… a good man, the best of us. I loved him once, I think...”

“You mean the Night’s King? A cold woman made him evil in the tales, she seduced him and he gave her his soul with his seed and that’s why he crowned himself.” Meera recited.

Bran felt a strange sensation in his raven and suddenly the whole flock was cawing, almost in laughter.

“The tales of men… they are untrustworthy, filled with half-truths, and tainted by whoever tells them. What details they care to keep, those which they want to embellish… men… I think I would hate them now if I could…” Coldhands touched the frozen flesh above his face then, probing it as if trying to remember something.

“You must feel to hate and I am too cold for such.”

_‘The Night’s King… who was his bride?’_

“There was no bride. Not at first. Not until long after he donned his dark crown. Before, when he was my lord, my friend, and my brother… he was a good man, a great leader. When his vows were tested, he faltered… as many would. Loss can weaken us and the Others made use of it. They have seers of their own… the cold winds carry their words far.” Coldhands gazed up at him then. “Power. Great power. It can tempt… seduce… lead one astray… a man can lust after it as easily as he does a woman… perhaps more so. Especially if the cold winds whisper of what such power can offer you, or even return to you…”

“This doesn’t make sense.” Meera had interjected. “If the White Walkers helped the Night’s King, then why would they bring you back? You fought against them! Why aren’t you like the other wights? How can you be thousands of years old?”

The wind was the only answer that came for Coldhands only eyed Meera with a cold disregard.

“Joramun! Answer me!”

“That man is dead.” Coldhands had pulled his hood back over his head to face out into the wild again. “His son is dead. His line is ended and became dust long ago. Seek your answers in the place I led you. Leave me to my watch.”

No matter how much Meera tried to force the creature to speak after that, Coldhands had not offered any help. Save to say that whatever truths Bran was meant to know, he’d learn them in the cave. Except Bloodraven hadn’t shown him anymore of Joramun’s tale and the visions Bran already saw had made him fearful of what else he could learn. Watching the man Coldhands had been lording over the slaughter of wildlings had not been pleasant. The thought of Meera outside the cave alone with the undead ranger worried him.

_Even when he was a man he was almost a monster._

_And I know he’s still killing wildlings… I remember his smell on their bodies…_

“It’s safe for me if Joramun follows behind.” Meera continued. “He moves quietly, he doesn’t even answer me when I try and ask him…”

“Meera, don’t call him that. He’s Coldhands, not Joramun.” He reminded her. “He even said that Joramun is dead.”

“Coldhands is not his name.” She countered, forcing him to eat again before inclining her head to where his ancient teacher and a singer spoke softly to themselves. “Just like Bloodraven isn’t his. Nor did his mother name him the three-eyed crow. He’s Brynden Rivers.”

“Why are we fighting about this? Why can’t you just stay safe inside? Why-”

“For you Bran.”

Meera set the plate aside and brushed the hair away from his face like Bran’s mother once had before cupping his cheeks in her hands. When she drew in close, her green eyes became level with his and Bran almost believed that they shimmered for true. Far beyond being beautiful, they held something more important, knowledge of a kind he couldn’t place, and fear as well. He preferred them greatly to Bloodraven’s red eye in the dark yet felt nervous now. For as close as Meera’s face was to his, her lips so near to his own, he thought perhaps she meant to kiss him.

_I don’t know what to do… no one ever told me…_

_Robb said he would one day but he’s gone now and if I don’t do it right…_

“I do it for you, Bran.” Meera almost whispered, glancing towards Bloodraven quickly. She leaned forward and he closed his eyes, ready to feel her lips upon his. That touch never came though, for Meera had not sought to kiss him, only moving to whisper in his ear.

“I do this for Hodor and myself. All of us…” Her grip on his face tightened some. “The three-eyed crow and Coldhands, I don’t know what happened to them but I know that they forgot who they are. The men that they were. The things they are now, I don’t trust them Bran. They tell us too little and keep us in the dark, always in the dark…”

“He says I’m not ready-”

“And I say you’re Bran Stark, the Prince of Winterfell.” She almost hissed. “Not the last greenseer or the Winged Wolf. I can’t let you forget yourself, not again. If you did, you might try and use us again, to steal our minds and-”

Bran pulled away then, angry and ashamed to think of when he’d done what she said. With Hodor it had been wrong, even though he still had to do it at times, he knew now it was wrong. When he’d reached for Meera it had been an accident, one she said she’d forgiven him for.

“I promised I wouldn’t do that again.” He tried not to shout. “I swore it!”

Meera tried to hush him but he was angry and couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to be quiet and he didn’t want her to risk herself to protect him. If he wasn’t a cripple, he could take care of himself. All the strength Bran had was in his third eye, in his skinchanging, and Meera was afraid of that.

That made him mad. Mad and embarrassed at his life and his very existence. He had thought for a moment that Meera wanted to kiss him, to return his love, but that had been childish, foolish even. How could she? She was a woman grown, beautiful and strong, while he was still a child, a broken child who had to be fed by her like a babe.

The only thing he could do was greenseeing and that frightened her so much, he couldn’t even tell her how he saved her from Varamyr, for fear of how she would react. He felt his face burning and was glad for once that it was so dark, so that she couldn’t see him then.

“I promised I wouldn’t! Like you promised you wouldn’t leave the cave alone!” He raged before turning to look at Bloodraven and Leaf, fighting Meera’s attempts to pull his face back to her. “Take me back! Back into the trees! Give me the weirwood paste!”

“Bran please listen, I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, it is time to be going again.” Bloodraven nodded as Leaf and Snowylochs moved to stand between Bran and Meera, edging the girl away from his throne.

“Alas, our stores of the paste have grown limited of late… but not to fear my dark prince, for where you would travel there is no need for the paste. It is time for you to fly again, to see through the eyes of another ally we have in these dark times… a favorite of mine… a familiar one, like your direwolf is to you… he will be calling for you to join him. He’s always calling.” Bloodraven almost smiled as he moved his hand in a halting manner, bidding Bran to close his eyes.

“A battle is coming and our friend shall show you who will fight it. The young lady is right; it is time your eyes were opened to more of what happens in the world above. Of how your families will shape the beginning of the true war…”

“Our families?” Meera asked as Bran began to slip his skin, drifting away. “What about our families?”

“Keep her safe.” He said and in he heard Bloodraven as much with his ears and he felt it in his mind.

"I have already promised to do so." 

The man's reply was confusing, for Bran had never made him promise to any such thing. That thought was lost to him though as he drifted away, Meera's protests all for naught.

“No Bran, wait! Rivers answer me! Don’t let him… Bran…”

_He was already drifting through the earth, following the call that beckoned him to glide upon the winds. The woods and lands beneath became a blur, blending together as if to become a dark ocean, with Bran moving faster and faster until he found who called him._

_His teacher’s friend was flying high above the world below, cawing its call for Bran to join him._

_Which he did easily. Slipping within the raven’s skin felt like putting his feet in a pair of well worked boots, soft and warm to the touch. No strain or resistance met his coming, in fact the raven welcomed his presence._

_They flew high over the dark, unending forest that stretched across the lands Beyond-the-Wall. Bran had once journeyed through those woodlands, with Hodor, Meera, and Jojen. The journey had been long, cold, and harsh, where he’d feared that behind each tree, some unknown threat lurked in hiding._

_That threat was no longer hidden and what he saw among the trees made him thankful that they had made their journey long ago rather than now._

_The sun had only just set yet his eyes were so powerful that the darkness mattered little. He saw clearly how the forest was filled with movement. A fool could say it was teeming with life yet they’d be mistaken. For only the dead were moving down there and he flew lower to get a closer look. Flapping his wings over the tops of the great snow-covered pines, he took stock of the undead march._

_He saw wildlings in torn, ruined leathers shuffling beside sworn brothers whose black clothing shimmered with frost. There were warriors among their numbers, or at least corpses that carried their weapons. Many carried nothing and wore less, their pale, rotted bodies missing life and limbs. Some were women, others just barely older than children._

_There were giants as well; he counted scores of the lumbering creatures in as ruined a state as the wights. One was missing both arms while another looked like a pincushion, with spears poking out of it in every direction. There were beasts even more fearsome, for some of them dwarfed the giants themselves. Mammoths who could not fit between trees casually knocked them aside in their passing. He flew above snowbears, shadowcats, wolves, and even a direwolf he thought._

_This great army had little in common beyond being dead and their bright blue eyes that glowed in the darkness._

_And that they all moved in the same direction._

_The thousands he saw coming from the north were being joined by thousands more coming from the east. All were heading south now, forming a pale, frost covered horde of death moving silently through the Haunted Forest. He chanced to follow their path some, seeing that it wended its way along a great river. As he circled above them, he became sure that he was looking at an army numbering tens of thousands, perhaps more._

_The sheer numbers terrified him but the raven bid him to be calm, that they were safe where they were. Bran couldn’t feel safe though, especially when some of the wights turned their freezing gaze upon him. As if they saw something more besides a raven._

_Like they could see him._

_So he fled, flapping his wings and rising far and away from the monsters. His panic was so great that he didn’t stop the raven from choosing their course for him. They flew for a long time he thought, until the army was almost forgotten far behind them. The raven was bringing him south, at a pace that should have been tiring yet this body held some sort of otherworldly strength._

_After hours of flying, Bran’s fear slowly fell away. He was even able to enjoy flying again. Without the wights below, it was like all the worries and dangers of the world could be forgotten. This body wasn’t broken, it was free, it soared high and so did he._

_Not as high as the great wonder lying ahead of them though._

_The Wall loomed in the distance, its icy body a pale shape in the darkness, somehow brighter than he thought it would be. As he flew in closer, he saw that a great glow was radiating from the forest before the Wall. The winds brought smoke and hints of warmth up to the raven and Bran realized that a giant fire had been set in the woods. He passed close enough to see the remains of a sprawling, chaotic camp, still burning among the trees._

_Large pyres containing scores of bodies were burning as well._

_Closer to the Wall, where the forest died away, more lights awaited. Hundreds of torches guiding another army, this one made of people, towards a gate carved into the ice. He saw that they were wildlings and they looked to be a desperate lot. Moving slowly and many needing help to do so, their pace was slow, which was upsetting the scores of riders guarding their march through the Wall._

_He could have flown higher, to get a closer look at the scores of lights along the top of the Wall. It looked like a great many men were lining the parts of the Wall nearest to the gate. Yet as curious as he was to see exactly who guarded the approaches, something had caught his eye below._

_Among the riders urging the wildings onward._

_A great white wolf he knew all too well._

_‘No.’_

_He soared down, as quickly as he could and his fears were borne out, for it was Ghost running about the edges of the march. The beast’s red eyes and those of the raven’s met for a moment as he passed overhead, Bran almost screaming in his mind._

_‘No Ghost! No, I warned you to stay away! To stay safe with Jon!’_

_That was when he saw three riders who stood out among the others, for they alone lingered behind the escape from the woods. The men were all gazing out into the darkness, like they expected the worst to come from it._

_Just like Bran saw the worst of what he feared among their number. The largest rider was a man with long, bushy white hair with a thick, matching beard. The smallest was someone he knew, from a vision of the past, though he appeared to have aged greatly in the meanwhile. Yet it was the man in the middle that caused Bran a great anguish._

_For the tall, dark youth was the brother he’d warned away from coming. The one Ghost ran to now. The one Bran flew towards._

_‘No Jon!’ He screamed. ‘I told you not to come! I told you that you’d fall!’_

_His squawking caught Jon’s attention as he dived towards him. Bran’s frantic flapping and attempts to warn Jon were met by curses. The young man began striking out with his arm to ward off the raven._

_“Hey! Get off!” Jon swatted at him. “Stop!”_

_‘Run Jon! Run! The dead are coming! A dead army! All dead!’_

_That’s what he wanted to say; yet all the raven could squawk out as he battled with Jon was a simple word._

_“Dead!” The raven squawked. “Dead! Dead!”_

_“Aye I’ll help you out with that then!” The large man struck at him with a maul._

_Bran barely dodged the blow, and finding Jon a hostile place to land, sought out a softer perch from the shorter man’s outstretched arm. He yelled at Howland Reed instead, trying to get Meera’s father to listen to his warnings._

_Still only squawks came forth and he raged in his mind that he couldn’t master the raven’s speech like his own. Yet Lord Reed gazed down at him thoughtfully, his eerie green eyes staring at him with a mournful understanding. The man even nodded slightly as he raised his arm up to whisper in the raven’s ear._

_“I have come. I have done what you asked.”_

_The lord’s voice shook some, but not from the cold he thought. His arm quaked as well and Bran took notice that Lord Reed was doing all he could to keep their conversation away from Jon and the loud man’s hearing._

_“I have prepared myself.” The lord rasped. “For what I must do… for what is to come… I am ready for the sacrifice to come…”_

_As confused as Bran was at what the lord was speaking of, he shot a quick glance back into the forest. His eyes seeing far behind what the men could, to see a pale shape shimmer once between some trees before falling back into the darkness. It had happened in but the blink of an eye yet Bran had seen enough to know what it was. The creature had been watching after Jon and the others._

_And he knew Lord Reed was wrong._

_There was no way he could be ready for what was coming._

 

**SANSA**

 

“Your grace I do not believe they are quite ready.”

Ser Evan’s gentle urging for her to put this task off was quickly becoming irritating. While she had rarely journeyed this far into Winterfell’s crypts before, her men at work deeper within the catacombs had sworn to its safety. The portions under repair were further down and she could still recognize many of the statues of her ancestors. The group had only just passed the tombs of Benjen the Sweet and Benjen the Bitter and she saw Edrick Snowbeard ahead. 

“Careful your grace.” Ser Evan hurried ahead to kick aside some stones from her path. “Those workers… such carelessness could lead to broken ankles or bruised bodies!”

“Or swollen heads.” Mya grumbled from just beside her, earning a hiss from Myranda and a chuckle from Ulroy behind them.

“I thank you ser.” Sansa did her best not to sound irritated. “If you could perhaps go on ahead and ensure that there are no dangers lurking in our path…”

“At your command my princess.” The knight nodded quickly before striding further on into the crypts, torch in hand.

He had insisted on carrying a torch for her despite others having already done the work of lighting the way. For the catacombs now had many torches lining their walls. It felt strange to see the crypts so well lit and part of her felt almost foul for ordering it. This place supposed to be a place of rest for her ancestors and kin.

_They might prefer the dark to do so._

_I hope they forgive me and understand why I must bring the light here._

_To spare so many others from living in a fouler darkness._

When Ser Evan was just out of hearing, Myranda waved Ulroy and his fellow guardsman back as well. Then the lady latched onto Mya’s arm and pulled her close.

“Do you have so many knightly suitors that you can mock this one?”

“Him? He’s not my suitor.” Mya jerked her head so that her dark braid almost swung out and struck Myranda. “The ser has not even glanced at me, he’s after Sansa…”

“Of course he is!” Myranda rolled her eyes. “She’s a beauty and a princess to boot! But when he finds out what a fool’s errand that is and needs to be consoled, you’ll be there. A friend to our dear princess who is ready to offer lands to any willing-”

“Oh Sansa, you didn’t.” Mya sighed, her blue eyes full of accusation. “Please say you aren’t trying to buy me a husband. I thought to marry once and look where that led me. No decent man would want a bastard for a wife, no matter the reward…”

“I would never ‘buy’ you a husband. To have my dear friend marry some man who only wants her for what I could give him?” Sansa reached back and took Mya’s hand in hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “The dowry I’ve set aside is meant to encourage a good man’s family to approve of such a thing.”

As Mya’s face fell and Myranda beamed, Sansa felt no shame in doing as she had done. For she’d gone over maps of the Bolton lands and knew of some small portions that could be given over to a decent match for Mya. Jon would surely approve of such, and it would be good to have a friend near when they were married and moved into the Dreadfort together.

Besides, after Mya had helped return Robb’s crown to them, this was the least Sansa could do for her.

Mya’s arrival at Winterfell had been a joyful one. Her friend had seemed little changed from how Sansa last saw her, save for the thick cloak of fur over her riding leathers. Sansa thought it made Mya look striking, the fur-lined hood calling even more attention to her beautiful eyes.

Myranda on the other hand only had eyes for how Mya had arrived, escorted by Brienne and Podrick, leading a line of mules.

“Our dear friend, a member of the royal family of the North no less, invites you to her court. She does her best to rid you of such beasts and you see fit to bring them with you?” Myranda had scolded the girl before even letting Mya off her mount.

“These aren’t _my_ mules!” Mya had sounded incredulous that Myranda could make such a mistake. “Mine were of much better stock. And how else were we to get all the gowns and things you sent for across this frozen, hill-ridden land?”

Mya had dismounted and made to kneel before her when Sansa embraced the young woman instead. Her friend had been taken aback by her actions yet soon returned the embrace wholeheartedly, Mya’s arms feeling warm and strong. When they separated, Mya had been bold enough to take some of Sansa’s hair in hand, inspecting it in wonder.

“I almost didn’t recognize you! All this time I was still picturing Alayne and her dark brown hair.” Mya shook her head, causing some snow to shake free of her own coal-dark locks. “You look so much like your mother when she came to the Eyrie… now I’m in Winterfell. Everything’s changed…”

“Not everything.” Sansa had taken Mya’s hand and pressed it firmly into hers. “When it comes to our friendship, I promise you’ll never see a difference between Sansa and Alayne.”

“But remember to call her Princess Sansa in company. It sounds so much better than Alayne…” Myranda had offered, pulling away Mya’s cloak to hiss at the riding leathers beneath. “By the Seven Mya, you-”

“You are most welcome.” Sansa smiled. “And I thank you for coming all this way. I pray the journey was not too foul.”

“It was fine, only somewhat colder than the Giant’s Lance.” With that Mya had begun to look around, almost in awe. “I’ve never been in a castle so big. It makes the Gates of the Moon look like a shed.”

Sansa had laughed and Myranda acted affronted to hear her family’s home insulted so. Mya’s arrival had heralded more than just laughter. She had brought with her word of where the lost Manderly caravan was, just to the east of Castle Cerywn. More importantly, Mya had helped return the crown of her dear brother Robb, once lost in the Riverlands, back to the keeping of House Stark.

Alongside two companions Sansa had been far more wary of.

For as thankful as she was to Edric Dayne, the lord of Starfall, and this Anguy the archer character for bringing the crown here, she knew better than to trust so easily. Brienne knew them far better than Sansa and the lady had thought it wise to have Larence Hornwood and the rest of his men bring the pair straight to the castle.

The lord of Starfall had a pleasant appearance, his pale hair and beautiful eyes only adding to his fine features. The youth certainly made an impression on Nymeria, who had practically knocked over both Lord Edric and the archer in her excitement at seeing them.

Sansa had been far more restrained and cautious.

“You are both admitted outlaws.” She’d said after they had been brought to the Great Keep. “Outlaws who were last seen alongside my uncle, Ser Brynden Tully. You were his prisoners. Now I find you here in the North while that man I love dearly has been missing for some time.”

The pair had both been shocked to hear that, professing that they believed her uncle was still in command of the river lords. The young lord had pleaded his case to them quite passionately.

“The last we saw of the Blackfi- I mean to say Ser Brynden, he was wounded and in a poor way but not at our hands.” Lord Edric had dropped to a knee before her. “I admit that we fled Riverrun, after the battle with the Brotherhood, but we meant no harm to the ser. We fought beside him in that battle...”

“I almost died in it…” The archer had added sullenly. “Didn’t even get a chance to rest and bleed in peace before we were off again.”

The lord had grabbed at his friend then, dragging him down to a knee as well.

“We didn’t know of Ser Brynden’s disappearance. All we knew was that we had to come here. We had to return King Robb’s crown to House Stark and the Kingdom in the North and see that the princess was safely-”

“Don’t call me that!”

Arya’s yell had cut off the rest of the lord’s testimony and her bursting through the door had sent it smacking into the back of Ser Evan’s head. Both the kneeling men had jumped up and Rossett Locke readied to draw his blade until Sansa stayed his hand. Her sister gaped at the sight of both the outlaws in joy, the archer staring back at her with a smile while Lord Edric struggled to make his mouth work properly.

“Arya, you uh…”

“Idiots!” Arya had laughed, running forward and enveloping them both into her arms. “You smell like mules!”

Such behavior was far from proper, Ser Evan and Rossett both clearly uncomfortable with their princess treating outlaws so favorably. Yet their expressions were nothing compared to Ser Gendry’s, who had stood as still as a statue in the doorway.

The knight looked every bit the part in his bright, shining armor; the look he offered his former outlaw allies was far darker. She even spotted a bit of anguish upon his face as Arya began haranguing Lord Edric for details of his journey. The lord’s face was the exact opposite during this, the youth smiling broadly and his beautiful eyes gazing upon her sister in a way that Sansa found familiar. She suspected not even the appearance of Balerion the Black Dread himself flying outside the window could have dragged the Dornishman’s gaze from Arya at that moment.

_She barely acts a girl, let alone a princess, and still my sister already has two suitors!_

_This lord and knight are as enamored with Arya as she is clueless to their affections._

_She hasn’t flowered yet but as beautiful as she’s becoming, it makes some sense._

_I wonder which one she would favor if she knew…_

Her sister’s love life, as intriguing as it was to Sansa, was the least of her concerns these days. When Brienne returned, she had conferred with both Lord Edric and Ser Gendry in private while Sansa welcomed Mya. Afterwards, the lady had been convinced that neither the lord nor the archer was lying in regards to their involvement in uncle Brynden’s disappearance. Brienne had clearly been bothered by something though, her face pale and drawn, as if she’d had a scare.

Sansa suspected that it was due to the lady’s journeys that day, or possibly the confrontation between her and that fool Maester Henley the entire castle had been whispering about. Whatever it was, Sansa had still granted the two new outlaws sanctuary here in Winterfell, as thanks for their returning of the crown.

Ser Gendry had already set some of his new apprentices to adding a padded lining within so that the crown could fit securely on Rickon’s small head. Sansa had asked the knight himself to see to another task within his forge, a project she entrusted to his skilled hand alone. He’d done as she asked, but only after the knight helped see to the distributing of the new supplies in the Winter Town.

The long-awaited arrival of the wagons from White Harbor had been more than a gift from the Manderlys, it was a gift from the gods themselves. Their stores would hold for some time the maesters assured her, but the extra food raised spirits in both the castle and the town. It bolstered the belief House Stark could feed its people through winter, or at least for another half a year.

“I would have the man leading that party flogged for his incompetence, if her grace would allow it.” Lord Wyman had grumbled.

“I forgive my lord his foul mood, for he has improved mine greatly.” She’d waved away any thoughts of punishing a man when the fault lay with the weather. “Your assurance that the next wagon train is already well on its way and that its arrival will be timelier is all I need of you.”

“Besides the wagons themselves of course.” Ser Morton Waynwood had attempted to jest yet none had found it humorous.

The council she now ruled in Rickon’s stead was far different than the one she’d first convened in Greywater Watch. In place of Howland now sat Wyman, who she’d begun to rely upon for his sage wisdom, despite his constant attempts at grasping more power over the kingdom. Appointing Rossett and Ser Evan to the Sworn Guard had been the White Harbor lord’s idea, and Sansa knew that he had plans regarding possible husbands for her.

With Galbart Glover long dead, Ser Kyle had come from Castle Cerwyn to take his place. Maege’s seat was taken by the newly made lord Larence Hornwood and Ser Symond’s by Ser Morton. None could ever truly take Jon’s place by her side, yet having Brienne act as her Sworn Guard during those meeting helped at times, the lady’s strength filling the void left behind by her betrothed.

Jon was the reason why they were even in the crypts now. As sad as she’d felt to see the tombs of her father and Robb again, Sansa’s heart had pounded in her chest when they’d passed aunt Lyanna’s. For the memory of Jon’s proposal had almost brought tears to her eyes.

She hadn’t wept though, nor had she slowed her pace while they descended into the crypts. The hope she’d had since meeting with the maesters regarding Jon’s letter drove her onward.

To help the man she loved. The one she would marry.

“As far as I can tell, the suitor count is up to four for our autumn-haired princess.” Myranda whispered loudly to Mya then, smiling wickedly. “Spirited Ser Evan of course, the anxious Roger Ryswell, and a newly released Brandon Tallhart…”

“Lady Berena’s offer was kind.” Sansa shook her head at how quickly the offer had come after the liberation of Torrhen’s Square. “I’m sure she’ll understand the wisdom of my suggestion, that her son marry his cousin, Lady Eddara.”

Eddara Tallhart was the only living child of the late Lord Helman Tallhart while Brandon, the son of his murdered brother Leobald, was the eldest living male left to House Tallhart. Robbing young Eddara of her birthright felt wrong to Sansa but the girl was too young to rule, so uniting the cousins seemed the best match possible, to reassure and strengthen the house’s hold on Torrhen’s Square.

Especially since Sansa had already guided Rickon into granting the Tallharts a lordship rather than a masterly title over of the lands they currently held. She thought that gesture, along with taking Brandon’s younger brother Beren as a ward, would compensate Lady Berena for raising up Larence as Lord of Hornwood rather than her son Beren.

_Having an army liberate her home and rescue the lady and her children from the ironmen should surely help as well._

_Especially with the newly made Lord Stout holding Torrhen’s Square as we speak._

“That’s only three.” Mya piped up, holding up three fingers as if Myranda was daft. “You said four suitors but you only named three.”

“Did I?” Myranda shot Sansa a knowing glance. “How foolish of me.”

They were well past the deepest parts of the crypts that Sansa had ever visited and nearing the parts that had collapsed over the centuries. Parts she’d had men set to restoring for weeks now.

“You’re playing games again. There is a fourth...” Mya drew close then, whispering all of this. “Is it that ironman? The lordling? Tristifer Boatley?”

“What? No!” Sansa almost laughed while Myranda actually did so, causing Mya to scowl and blush. “Gods no! He’s my prisoner Mya, not my lover! And it’s pronounced Botley!”

“That one is quite attractive though. Any maiden could do far worse for a lover. His lovesick eyes just scream for someone to give him a reason to smile…” Myranda sighed. “I daresay Sansa, Mya can’t really be faulted for thinking so. You have been hogging him quite selfishly.”

“Oh hush. That’s enough of that.”

It was frustrating to hear Myranda complain about Sansa spending too much time with a man her friend likely wished to bed while she was doing all she could to protect a man Myranda already had bedded. For keeping Ronnel Stout well informed was the first step to keeping him, and the rest of Torrhen’s Square, safe. For the Botley lordling’s information had never been more important in protecting their lords closest to the Iron Islands.

Besides Ronnel Stout sending word of victory at Torrhen’s Square, he’d also sent warnings. This so-called king Euron Greyjoy was becoming all the bolder in his attacks it seemed. Word had reached the ironmen holding the northern keep that Euron’s forces had defeated the Redwyne fleet, recently sent by the Iron Throne to drive the reavers from the Reach. Which meant the krakens were now unchallenged in the Sunset Sea, free to sail up and down the western coasts as they did in days of old.

For the moment, the North’s own western shores were secure but there was no way to know how long that would last. They needed to move quickly, to shore up strength there and prepare for the possibility of having to throw back any more raids that might come. While House Flint of Flint’s Finger was still strong, they’d never been the strongest of the North’s vassals and Ronnel Stout’s men were already stretched thin. The other houses to the west had suffered many losses as well, specifically the Ryswells and the Tallharts.

For the siege of Torrhen’s Square had been a foul business. Lord Rodrik Ryswell had fallen ill during the march and was now bedridden in the Tallhart keep. Ronnel had been left in command, and rather than test his Bolton men’s allegiances with a long siege, he had pressed for a quick attack.

The first wave of men sent against the castle walls had been Boltons, and then Ryswells. House Dustin, now House Stout of Barrowtown, had sent its forces to attack a different approach while the Tallhart men among them formed small groups to try and break past the walls at points they knew to be weakest. Though the plan had seemed sound, with forces coming at the castle from seemingly every direction, the ironmen had not surrendered until the bloody end.

The losses had been heavy among the infiltrators but one of the groups had gained entry and secured the Tallhart heirs early on in the battle. Ronnel Stout had interrogated the ironmen prisoners that were left after the battle and reported all information he’d gained in a letter to Winterfell.

After reading such grim tidings, Sansa knew that the ironmen were not just a problem for the south, they were a problem for the realm. Keeping Torrhen’s Square and the rest of the North secure from the threat of Euron Greyjoy had meant many long discussions with Tristifer Botley for Sansa.

She couldn’t tell when the man had been more heartbroken. When Asha Greyjoy had threatened to kill him or when he’d watched the lady leave the castle alongside Morgan Liddle. Not long after Torrhen’s Square had been returned to them, Lord Rodrik Harlaw had sent word that he was bringing the Glover children to the Stony Shore and demanded that his niece be there to meet his coming. Sansa had entrusted the duty of an escort for Lady Asha to Morgan and a score of loyal men, for the Liddle man had already acted as a guard to the woman before.

Rickon missed Morgan terribly, for Rossett Locke was not as inclined to offer their king rides upon his shoulders. That Rickon would soon be able to wear Robb’s crown had brightened her little king’s spirits greatly though.

Just as Myranda and Mya were doing all they could to lift hers now.

“There’s no shame in taking stock of comely men.” Myranda pointed out as she eyed a statue that had been adorned in the runes of the First Men rather than the Common Tongue. “What with all the marriage talk lately can you truly blame us? My own wedding awaits me in the Vale but who is to know when or if that will ever come to pass?”

“Harry’s taken up with the youngest daughter of a hedge knight.” Mya added to that, shrugging away the shocked expressions they both gave her. “You know he’s like that. He’ll likely be the same after he marries you. Men who father bastards often act as bastards themselves…”

“Trust me. He won’t have to go elsewhere for after he weds me... unless I’m invited along.” Myranda winked before looking to Sansa once more. “Speaking of weddings though, did Lord Manderly agree to your plot- I mean, proposal?”

“He did so gladly and I have hope Lord Mallister will as well.” Sansa hated that she spent so much time planning the marriages of others while her own betrothal could not even be admitted to any beyond a small circle. “The Manderlys are a wealthy and powerful house, one of our closest supporters and allies. I can’t imagine that he would pass up the chance for White Harbor be bound to Seagard by marriage.”

Matching Patrek Mallister, the heir to Seagard, with Lady Wynafryd Manderly, eldest daughter to Wyman’s heir Ser Wyllis, meant uniting two of House Stark’s most powerful allies. In truth, her proposal had more to do with gaining influence over the Riverlands than securing unity. Lord Mallister had sent word that Roslin had given birth some time ago to a healthy son whom Roslin had named Edgar, after his missing father. Upon reading the news, Sansa had prayed even harder that the three would one day be reunited. Until that day though, Lord Mallister had taken Roslin and her infant son under his care, acting as Lord Protector of the Riverlands.

_That babe was the last good news we’ve had._

_Everything else has been fraught with danger and terror._

Of course Lord Mallister had reported more than just the birth of a new Tully heir, and the news had been shocking to hear. Ser Kyle had even dropped his goblet when Maester Medrick read the words.

“It’s a farce. It must be.” Roger had declared with a false sense of certainty. “The child’s head was smashed to bits… many saw it…”

“I only read what Lord Mallister reports.” The maester had countered. “That a new claimant to the Iron Throne has declared himself in the Stormlands. That this Aegon Targaryen asserts himself as the son of Prince Rhaegar, bundled away across the Narrow Sea, now returning in command of the Golden Company itself.”

“Is this Golden Company truly capable of doing all we’re told?” Larence asked, dumbfounded as well. “To take Storm’s End-”

“Not even the might of House Tyrell could bring that castle to heel.” Lord Wyman had interrupted the young lord, which he was prone to doing. “Yet if any force could, it would be the Golden Company. Finest Sellsword Company in the world it’s said. Founded by Bittersteel for the sake of the Blackfyre Pretenders… why they would support a Targaryen pretender now is beyond me though.”

They’d tried to pass it off as mere folly or misinformation, yet ravens from the Gates of the Moon, sent by Nestor Royce himself, also claimed the truth of such a tale. Lord Edric and Anguy also spoke of it; apparently Maidenpool had been thick with these stories. They’d also claimed that many sailors had seen longships sailing about the Bay of Crabs off Crackclaw Point and even near Blackwater Bay itself.

The idea of ironmen now in the Narrow Sea had seemed as farfetched as a returned Targaryen. Until Sansa remembered who she was betrothed to and what Tristifer had told her of the Iron Fleet.

“Tales were, before we lost Deepwood Motte, that Euron had sent them east.” Tristifer had said while they looked over a map of the Seven Kingdoms. “If he sent them to reave along the eastern coast… well, I’d be worried about White Harbor before anything else.”

The news had made binding White Harbor and Seagard together all the more important. While Bran had ruled Winterfell in Robb’s stead, he’d apparently set House Manderly and House Umber to working together in building ships, ships that now gave White Harbor and the North a fleet for the first time since Brandon the Burner.

House Mallister had been fighting ironmen raids for centuries, right up until the Greyjoy Rebellion when Lord Jason Mallister himself had thrown the raiders back from his shores. Seagard had been hard pressed for funds though in recent years, lacking the wealth to build more ships to be anything but a defensive force.

White Harbor could help fund them in the building of those ships, sending over the lumber, some coin, and experienced ship-builders that had made their Northern fleet. In return for that help, Lord Mallister would send a few of his most capable commanders to White Harbor, to help command the Northern fleet while training other northmen to do so as well.

Even without the fear of ironmen coming to sweep into its harbor, White Harbor had already been a concern for her. For both the Lord Wyman and she feared that someone in the city had been involved in the theft of Maester Henley’s parchments.

_The list of who that could be is as troubling as anything._

_For it could be Lannisters, Greyjoys, this feigned Targaryen, or perhaps even Stannis himself._

All they knew for certain was that those traitors had never made it to their destination. The hounds in Marlen’s party had discovered the remains of the three in a ravine not far south of the castle. Stranger still, most of the parchments they’d taken had been torn asunder, destroyed and buried in the snow itself. While it was not unheard of for wolves to attack men if desperate enough, why they would do House Stark the favor of seeing to Henley’s parchments was beyond her.

_No matter how disgruntled the maester is to remake his ledgers, I am thankful for our wild protectors._

_Even the beasts of the North know to protect House Stark._

_And now we need to protect the North in turn._

_All of it._

“Prepare yourselves!” Ser Evan called from further on, pointing to a steep drop in the tunnel ahead. “My princess, I would say that this is where we should stop…”

“Is this where I was summoned?” She asked, noting the ropes extending the length of the sharply angled tunnel that aided their workers in their descent.

“Why… well, no, but surely reports would suffice. You need not risk yourself.”

“You’re speaking to a woman who took part in the Reaping.” Myranda shook her head, finally exasperated with the man.

“And who killed Petyr Baelish with her own hands.” Mya added while touching a hand softly to Sansa’s back.

“Your princess and regent besides and I will be going onwards ser.”

While she would suffer no more of the knight’s interruptions, she did accept his hand in helping her travel down the passage. Ulroy had smiled widely to wrap his arm around Myranda’s middle to help her, while the last guard endured an icy stare from Mya, who took the journey alone.

 _She has more experience than any at climbing,_ Sansa thought.

“How badly were the collapses here?” The girl on her mind asked.

“None were fully buried. The crypts, like the castle itself, were built strong.” Sansa called back. “There was only rubble blocking the way, and a lack of knowledge to which passage led where. I’ve had scores of men working day and night to clear the ways and explore what lay below.”

“I’m confused.” Myranda said before slapping at Ulroy’s hand playfully. The guardsman’s grip had slowly moved to cup just below her breasts. “Your father and brother, we passed them early on did we not?”

“We did.”

“But why? I mean, would not the builders of these crypts want their king’s remains to be the first ones seen? Or at least be easier to reach?”

Mya made an exasperated sound then while Sansa gently eased Ser Evan’s hand from her hip back onto her shoulder.

“By the Seven Randa, why do you think the Arryns made the Eyrie so bloody hard to reach?”

“Act a lady!” Myranda snapped back. “And to keep themselves safe of course!”

When Mya nodded in reply, Sansa was struck by her reasoning. She couldn’t truly imagine how anyone could feel safe travelling so far below the castle. As a child, she’d played in the crypts when her siblings forced her to, but to go beyond a certain point meant wandering into the places only spirits walked. Yet Mya’s words spoke so easily to why she’d sent men down here in the first place.

_To find a way to keep us all safe._

_To help him stay safe._

When the tunnel finally righted itself, Sansa found herself wondering how far they had travelled beneath Winterfell. It was likely they’d gone as far below as the First Keep rose up. It almost felt like they’d gone so far down that they’d left the North entirely. For rather than being dark and cold, like the world above them was, these tunnels were now lit and far warmer than they should be.

The maesters had told her that the heat that caused the hot springs to bubble and kept her chambers warm, came from deep within the earth itself. The heat was so great down below that above ground it gave Winterfell a pleasant warmth, a reason the First Men had probably settled the land in the first place. The maesters had also said that other treasures came from such heat.

_A chance at victory._

_Victory and hope, I pray so at least._

As the others joined Ser Evan and her in the lower levels, some laborers were making their way towards them from further on in the cave. She recognized one as the chief they’d set to repairing the tunnels, for he’d been a digger for the Wull clan in the northern mountains, a man used to far worse conditions than these and an expert at surviving them.

“I take my sons down with me whenever I dig and I still have most of them.” Kurt was fond of saying, even though it raised questions about what he meant by most.

“Your grace.” Kurt said to her now, bowing alongside another man. “I didn’t think you’d come… I’d thought maybe a lord or a ser-”

“The princess goes where she wills, that is not a matter for you to worry on.” Ser Evan said with a frown at the man, seemingly forgetting that he had said something similar to Sansa not moments ago.

“I sent you down here in my brother’s name.” Sansa answered with a smile. “I will see what you’d have to share with him.”

“Yes princess.” Kurt gestured back the way he’d come, urging them all to follow.

She left Ser Evan’s side to join Kurt’s, eager to hear of what he could share about her family’s crypts.

“Well first I have to say, no offense to her grace and all, that I never really believed the stories about Brandon the Builder making this castle.” Kurt acted sheepish to admit such. “After being down here for a week though… I believe. By the gods, I believe. There’s no way anyone else could’ve made tunnels or vaults so strong…”

The man reached out run his hand along the earthen wall then, clearly marveling at the stone pillars which showed only the smallest bits of decay. Which was strange, as these were the oldest parts of the crypts yet they seemed in as good condition as the parts she had most often visited.

“Have you been restoring these pillars? The supports? Polishing them in a way?”

“No, not at all!” Kurt smiled then. “That’s what I’m trying to say, the parts closest to the top, those were made different and a long time after these. Whoever built the lower levels put a lot of care and time into them. These are thousands of years old and if I didn’t see the marks of the First Men in their building, I’d say there were only a few hundred-”

“You’re hardly an expert.” Ser Evan broke in, looking down his nose at this man of common birth. “Have you studied under a master builder? At the Citadel?”

“No ser. I’ve only mined for most of my life in hills that the First Men themselves did. I’ve seen their work, I’ve seen how it can falter and fall away.” Kurt once again gazed up at the pillars like he didn’t believe it. “This doesn’t falter, they’re impossibly strong. All we had to do was clear rubble that fell, piles where there should be cave-ins. There’s other tunnels and what not leading away from here, under the godswood and walls of the castle itself, but this was where the main trail led us…”

That was when the tunnel opened up into a far larger space, one so warm that Sansa began to sweat in its embrace. Where other parts of the crypts formed large vaults, this one dwarfed them all, almost appearing like a Great Hall in comparison. There were nowhere near enough torches to light the entire cavern, for stone stairs carved into its side led lower and she saw at least two score men moving about the large underground hall.

“It’s marvelous.” Mya said in wonderment, and for once Myranda did not correct her in her choice of words.

Sansa thought they were quite fitting as well.

“Here your grace.” Kurt pointed off to the side towards where they’d entered, at a great rock wall that looked smooth to the touch.

With the digger leading the way, Sansa followed behind, feeling almost ashamed at how far she’d travelled across the realm while apparently being so ignorant of what her home hid beneath its keeps.

_How many couldn’t speak to what went on between Jon and you within these walls?_

_What else could you be ignorant of going on within your own castle?_

“By the Mother… it’s beautiful.” Myranda said as the fullness of what they approached became clear.

“Aye that it is.” Kurt answered, grabbing a torch from another man to help light the rock wall some more.

Adorning the rock face was a great many drawings, simple ones, yet the sheer number of the depictions boggled the mind. What confused her more was how they seemed so clear, despite how old these parts of the crypts were supposed to be. Drawings much younger than these were supposed to wear away, to become but shadows of their former selves. Yet these remained vibrant.

They lived.

The one that caught her eye was of a solitary figure standing in a great, shaded-in darkness, with only a bright shining sword pushing away the black parts. Within the dark areas stood a great many pale figures, scores of them. The light from the sword drove them all away. There were more depictions of this man with the bright sword and she followed them down the wall to find one where the wielder now lay prone, with mourners gathered around him.

The bright sword was being mourned as well, for it no longer burned with light. There was only one more drawing of the sword, of it being put over flames, with several fiery rivers pouring away from it, forming new swords.

“Look at this Sansa.” Mya called her attention to another set of glyphs. “Are these supposed to be giants?”

These drawings showed what looked like the Wall, but it was incomplete and barely taller than the drawings that could only be men. The large figures gathered around the Wall, dwarfing the men, must have been giants as Mya said. Sansa noticed then that there were other characters as well, far smaller ones, who appeared to be watching from behind the trees. The giants were bringing ice from above the half-made Wall and using the blocks to build the great structure that stood today.

“Those ones are dead. All these ones are dead I think.” Mya pointed to drawings of prone figures about the walk, touching them as if she would feel anything but stone.

Sansa joined Mya in touching the wall then, and something strange happened. As she did so the warm feel of the rock suddenly chilled and she felt a queer sensation, as if someone had walked over her grave.

“The giants here aren’t dead…” Mya continued as Sansa shook her head against the strange feeling, joining her friend in gazing at the drawings once more.

The one Mya stared at now showed a large collection of giants, all standing together like an army of sorts. A man, holding something that had been smudged over by time, stood before the giants. The glyphs that followed did not change much, save to show the man leaving and the giants remaining, slowly being covered in snow. Then what she thought to be ice until-

“Step back.” Mya said then, grabbing at both Sansa and Myranda’s arms, pulling them backwards then. “Bring the torches back too… I think I saw it for a moment or two but just look… try and see it…”

“Try and see what?”

Myranda’s question hung in the air as the sound of Sansa’s own breath catching answered for her. With the torches drawn away, without the shadows playing about the wall, she’d been able to spot what Mya had. From among the hundreds, if not thousands of drawings, a common pale image emerged in the empty space between the carvings. Each individual story adding a detail to this one great vision. A pale one, that when the light caught it, glowed with an icy blue coloring.

The entire thing took up the space of the cavern wall itself and Sansa could not even fathom the detail that had gone into making such a thing happen.

For over half the wall itself went into forming its wings. The lower half was devoted entirely to its winding tail. The upper parts its neck and a great empty corner its head, complete with horns and pale fangs. Its breath was a white wind where the glyphs depicted the worst of winter.

As they stared, somehow, impossibly, the drawing began to almost glow. Sansa turned and saw that Kurt had never noticed this drawing before.

“How did I miss that?” He asked himself softly, scratching his head. “It’s plain as day but I swear it wasn’t…”

“Is that… it can’t be…” Myranda said in awe.

“It’s a dragon.” Sansa whispered. “The First Men didn’t have dragons… the only dragons the North ever had were ice-”

“Father!” A voice rang out from the bottom of the stone steps nearest to them. “We’ve almost got a barrel’s worth!”

Kurt went forth shaking a fist at the younger man.

“This is the princess you’re yelling at!”

When the young man merely protested by holding up a handful of something towards them, her mind turned from the wall completely. For while it could have been shards of stone or even gold in the boy’s hands, all she saw was black. The color of the very substance she’d sent these men in search of.

_Please say it is so, it must be._

_Say I’ve helped in ordering all this._  
  
Before Kurt could do anything she was already moving past him, heading down the narrow steps as quickly as she could. In this lower part, Sansa saw men chipping away at the walls, some with a care that she wouldn’t have expected. She also took notice that no matter how close some torches came to the walls of this great cavern, the shadows did not pull away, for the walls themselves were black.

“Is this it?” Sansa asked when she came upon the young man, reaching into his offered hand and pulling away something that felt as smooth as glass in her hands. “You’ve found-”

“Obsidian.” Kurt answered, huffing down the steps behind. “Dragonglass most call it. This whole part has a good amount of it.”

She almost cried out in relief, her eyes catching Myranda’s as she descended the stairs as well. Her friend’s eyes welled up as well, for while she’d kept Jon’s letter from Arya and Rickon, she’d shared the importance of all of this with Myranda.

_Princess Sansa,_   
  
_We have arrived at Castle Black. We have restored order but the situation is dire. Less than one hundred fifty men man still garrisoned here. Just over three hundred with our number added to them. Wildling host in the thousands are camped without. They did not wish to fight. Only to flee._

_I have granted them safe passage through the Wall. If the next Lord-Commander permits, they can settle the Gift. If not, I will allow them to settle my own lands. I made this decision in King Rickon’s name. If I have overstepped I will accept the consequences._

_We need their strength. We need dragonglass. The Others are coming. I fear for our chances._

_We are under attack. Send help._

_Ser Jon, Lord of the Dreadfort._  
  
When Maester Medrick had read that letter, Sansa had been barely able to excuse herself before she began weeping. She’d prayed that there would be no true threat at Castle Black, that some mutinous sworn brothers need only be brought to heel.

Instead she’d learned that the worst of what she feared was true.

_You sent him into a nightmare. Within the grasp of monsters._

_He is under attack, he needs help._

_I have to keep him safe._  
  
“Keep him safe, please swear to it.” She’d remembered begging Willem before they’d all departed.

The poor knight had been sick from drink the night before and exhausted besides, yet he’d smiled all the same.

“I so swear it. If only to make sure he does right by you.” Willem had pulled her forward to place a kiss upon her cheek. “You deserve a good man for a husband. I happen to know a good man, fairly smelly but otherwise decent, and I will do all I can to bring him back.”

With that Willem had tapped the pommels of his two swords, smiling widely at her.

“I’ll never lose a fight due to a lack of swords. And I won’t lose Jon for a lack of trying… I ask a favor though…”

“Anything ser.” She’d been desperate to have any comfort she could before they left and he’d put a hand to his chest.

“When you marry, and you two have some babes, name the prettiest one after me.” Willem smirked once more, jerking his thumb towards Jon far across the yard. “Not one that looks like him-”

She’d hugged the knight then, so tightly that she feared to break him. It had been as much in thanks as it was in fear that what he asked may never come to pass. She had faith in Willem and Jon but that belief was challenged by the power of her fears. With the tidings Jon had sent them from the Wall that fear nagged at her more than ever.

“I want all the dragonglass you’ve collected brought to the castle. Immediately.” Sansa commanded, looking around at the sweaty, exhausted men. “I shall have more men sent to you. For these efforts cannot stop. I shall have the first shipment of dragonglass leave for Castle Black on the morrow.”

“At once your grace!” Ser Evan struck his chest, reminding Sansa that he was standing there, acting as if she’d been commanding him personally.

When she made towards the stairs once more, she found the knight waiting to offer her a hand, but she scorned his help.

_I’m not the one who needs help._

_The men at the Wall, all the men I sent there, they need help._

_Jon needs help._

_He is under attack._

 

**JON**

 

“Well I’m underwhelmed.”

As if to make his point, Willem made a hacking sound and spit over the side of the Wall. That prompted Jon to shake his head, not bothering to join his friend in following the spittle’s descent.

Even with daylight slipping away, Jon knew what he would see below if he dared to look. He couldn’t forget it if he tried. Sleep itself was no escape from the horrors Beyond-the-Wall, for whenever he shut his eyes, the nightmares always awaited him.

Dreams of death and darkness, of a cold wind calling his name.

Of her calling his name.

The wind blowing around them now called no names. It only shrieked and howled as the cold snapped at their faces. Once Tyrion Lannister and he had shared a skin of wine and marveled at the view before them. The great dark forested country was as he remembered it, save for the blanket of snow that covered the trees now.  In truth, the view still took his breath away, even if what lay beyond chilled his heart.

The short daylight afforded them was almost at an end and soon they would be under siege again. When night came, what lay buried in the piles of snow, the ones dotting the cleared lands before the gate, would begin to stir. There were hundreds of wights out there, resting beneath the snows and gods knew how many more waiting in the forest to join them.

Each night the wights came, their slow march aimed directly at trying to breech the gate, and every night the men defending the Wall would rain flaming arrows and burning pitch down upon them. They’d kept the wights from breaking through so far but every morning there were more bodies to clear away and less arrows for the next attack.

_We grow weaker as they grow stronger._

_And I just know that this is only a taste of what they have in store._

“I mean it Jon. I’m sick of this.” Willem complained, crossing his arms and frowning down at the sight below them. “Sick of freezing my ass and losing a fight we have no right to be losing. All because these stupid fucks can’t stop bickering…”

“We came here to set the Wall to rights.” He countered. “Not to usurp the Night’s Watch’s solemn duty.”

“The wights will do worse than usurp it, and if the Others come behind them? You can bet that none will care who held what bloody title.”

Jon knew his friend was right. The Wall could hold back almost any invasion from the north, but it needed help to do so. A united group of defenders prepared to act, not merely react in a grim pattern of burning their enemy and cleaning up the mess. They needed to be able to send out large groups, organized patrols of rangers, cavalry, and spearmen, to begin pushing back the armies of wights, instead of simply waiting for them to come right up against the Wall itself.

Battles couldn’t be won just defending. No fortress could withstand a siege forever.

They needed to send out an army to answer the call of battle.

Instead all they had was thousands of half starved wildlings, barely held together out of fear for their lives. The northmen who’d ridden here with Jon held little love for those people and had not been keen on taking cuts to their rations to feed the newcomers. Then there was the Night’s Watch itself, or at least what was left of it, who eyed both the forces of House Stark and the wildlings, free folk they insisted to be called, with distrust.

Just as Willem eyed the large young man now exiting the winch cage, whom Jon could already tell brought foul tidings.

“Is it finished?”

“Yes ser, and it was a draw yet again.” Samwell Tarly said with poorly hidden fear as he too stared out towards the buried wights. “Dead… that is to say, it was deadlocked again.”

“Seven fucking hells!” Willem spat again and Samwell jerked back.

The Tarly man was the closest thing the Wall had to a maester, and perhaps even a savior in Jon’s mind. He had met Samwell’s father, Lord Randyll, and his younger brother Dickon when he had marched with Renly’s army. Jon had thought Lord Tarly stern and cold, in a way that most people might have thought wrongly about Eddard Stark. To see the man’s eldest son at the Wall made Jon suspect the Lord of Horn Hill to be more than cold, perhaps bordering on cruel.

When Jon had asked Samwell how he came to be here at the Wall, the man had shakily told the tale of his lord father’s ultimatum to him, a story that turned Jon’s stomach. While Lord Randyll had found his eldest son unworthy of being his heir it appeared he had done a great service for them all by sending his son to the Wall.

As far as Jon could tell, if not for this fat black brother, Castle Black would have been far worse off than they’d found it. Despite his shaking and stuttering countenance, he had been one of the main leaders of the few true men of the Watch, who’d rallied together the broken order and held the gate for the weeks it took for Jon’s party to arrive.

The man clearly had his uses and Jon was not one to ignore useful men, especially good ones.

“Another deadlock, just as you predicted.” Jon gave Sam his due, for just as the man preferred to be called Sam, he had also foreseen another draw in the sworn brothers’ choosing of a new Lord-Commander.

“They realize your order faces destruction?” Willem spat as he leaned against an icy crenel. “That those creatures grow in numbers each night?”

“They do ser, but the rivalry between Cotter Pyke and Ser Denys Mallister is strong.” Sam kept his eyes lowered. “And no other claimants have as much prestige or experience. I fear it will be a lasting stalemate...”

In the days since the commanders of Eastwatch-by-Sea and the Shadow Tower had arrived at Castle Black, there’d been almost three score votes to choose a new leader for the Night’s Watch. Each choosing would end the same as the one before, with no choice being made at all.

Neither Pyke nor Mallister had been free to intervene at Castle Black earlier, for both had undergone trials of their own. The Shadow Tower had been fighting off attacks by wildling raiders led by some man called the Weeper while Eastwatch-by-the-Sea had been deluged by a constant stream of wights at their shores. When both had been assured that the threats to their castles were contained they had finally come forth to put down the mutiny at Castle Black, only to find Jon and the others had already done so. Clearly disappointed with the lack of action, the pair now battled over who would succeed as Lord-Commander.

A rivalry which threatened to undo all the good they’d done here.

They had arrived to find Castle Black in dire straits, to say the least. Its original garrison had been decimated by fighting against the Others, wildlings, and even amongst their own brothers. If it weren’t for Samwell Tarly and a loyal few, the gate would have surely been breached. Somehow the steward had cobbled together a coalition of sworn brothers, including Jon’s old friends Grenn and Pyp, a dour man that the brothers called Dolorous Edd, and a group of wildlings led by Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn, and his new wife, Lady Alys Karstark, or Lady Thenn as she insisted on being called now.

United in fear against the threat of the Others breeching the Wall, the arrangement had been simple enough. Both sides had agreed to hold Castle Black against any attack. The remaining sworn brothers held the fortress while a company of wildlings held Mole Town. Apparently the whole while, Sam had insisted help would be coming, from the other castles along the Wall, from the Starks, even from Stannis. Pyp had told Jon privately that most had given up hope, calling Sam a fool for thinking such things. That such a view was naïve, most of the men accepting that they would die when the Wall inevitably fell.

Only one person, one of the few remaining members of the king’s party at the castle, had agreed with the black brother.

To Jon’s great displeasure, he’d found that Melisandre had stayed behind while Queen Selyse fled to the Nightfort with her knights and men. Only a paltry few southron guards remained to see to the red woman’s safety. As Sam told it, the unity between the Thenns and the sworn brothers had been partially motivated by a need to see to their own safety from Melisandre and her dark sorcery.

Jon had scorned every one of Melisandre’s many attempts to speak with him. In truth, had Sam and Lady Alys not insisted that Maester Aemon had forsworn his vows before being burned, Jon would have been tempted to clamp the red woman in irons for his murder. He’d remembered a kindly old man during his stay at the Wall, one he’d gotten along with well, who hadn’t deserved such a terrible death. It was a cruel twist of fate to learn that the maester was a Targaryen and that they had been kin, only to learn in the same breath that Aemon was already dead.

Several other people of import had also survived the trials at the Wall, many of them useful for different reasons. Mance Rayder’s goodsister, a fierce wildling beauty named Val, had been key in seeking out the wildling host camped within the Haunted Forest. Prior to that, she’d been caring for Mance’s unnamed child, who was now a hostage to the traitor’s good behavior. A wildling girl, that Sam seemed particularly protective of, acted as a wet nurse to both Mance’s son and her own infant child, the cries of the two babes being an odd sound in such a fearful place.

At times the two babes seemed intent on finding out who could wail the loudest. When Willem had heard such a bout underway, he’d jested that it appeared Cotter Pyke and Ser Denys were at it again.

Willem was not in a jesting mood now.

“I say we throw a sword between them and let one kill the other and then hang the winner for murdering his sworn brother.” Willem growled before shrugging as Sam gaped at him. “Opens the field for someone else.”

“There are few better options ser…” Sam trailed off and Willem grumbled something about him being right.

“This cannot continue, surely both men see that. Even with the force marching here now, we need the Watch.” Jon turned to return to the winch elevator, the large brother following after. “They must have a leader, if only to rally all those who doubt the wisdom of joining the wild- the free folk, to our cause.”

“Some do see the wisdom ser, myself included, but I fear that neither Cotter Pyke nor Ser Denys supports that decision…”

“Of course they finally agree on something that means arguing with us.” Jon sighed. “We needed the wil-free folk’s strength. For every one of them that died out there, we lost a potential ally and our enemies gained a new one. They must put their doubts aside for the sake of the living...”

“They do more than doubt it Jon, some are saying we betrayed them.” Willem shook his head. “An order of men who just killed their own leader, claiming we betrayed them by taking all the hostages ourselves.”

_We only hold those boys because there is no Lord-Commander to entrust to their care._

_And its growing clear that whichever man wins this contest may not even want them._

“The Night’s Watch has fought the wildlings for most of its history. Cotter Pyke and Ser Denys express a popular view. Lord-Commander Mormont himself may not have accepted your strategy ser.” Sam joined Willem and him in entering the winch lift, which a man set the mules to lowering as soon as the iron door slammed shut. “The common sworn brother might like the idea of more swords to fight the Others but they hate the idea of giving up a meal for the sake of our old enemies. I’ve tried to say it’s for the good of us all-”

“You’d argue for skipping meals?” Willem laughed and he earned a cuff from Jon for doing so.

Samwell lowered his eyes and did not respond to the slight, acting more a sheep than a slayer. Jon had heard stories about the man being poorly treated at the Wall, and that only the intervention of Maester Aemon, Grenn, and Pyp had saved him.

Apparently Sam had repaid that kindness well for he’d gone on to kill an Other with a dragonglass dagger. As he watched the man the black brothers called Slayer stare pointedly at his boots, Jon wondered if Sam was capable of hurting a fly. Yet if what Sam said was true they now knew dragonglass was a weapon they could use against the Others. While he prayed Sansa could find them some he remained skeptical of her chances.

Just as he was skeptical that either Cotter Pyke or Ser Denys was up to the task that the next Lord-Commander would have to fill.

A leader to help throw back the night, to do what needed to be done. To spare the realm of the horrors marching towards it.

_To keep the North safe… to keep Arya and Rickon safe…_

_To save her…_

“A new candidate needs to step forward. A man not previously considered.” Jon admitted in a white mist. “And please Willem, don’t put forward Edd Tollett’s name again.”

“I like his take on things.” Willem shrugged while Sam began to nod enthusiastically.

It was unlikely that Sam agreed with Willem’s words and more so with Jon’s. He’d only begun contemplating a new candidate for Lord-Commander after one of his many discussions with Sam about the state of the Watch. As the lift descended, Sam took up the subject with newfound energy.

“A new candidate would be ideal ser! Had your uncle Benjen lived- I mean to say, if he was not still missing… well, he was popular among the men. He took no part in many of the rivalries here and in truth, there is great distrust among our brothers towards one another.” A rattling of the cage caused Sam to shiver, clutching at his chest in fear before continuing on. “And the First Ranger was a Stark besides, kin to the King in the North, I imagine he would’ve been chosen immediately. The Watch takes no part in matters of the realm but the Iron Throne has shown bitter disinterest in our plight. With the Stark armies coming to our aid, having a leader so close to Winterfell would be ideal-”

“As you’ve said before. I take your meaning.” Jon’s voice must have betrayed his anger as Sam avoided his gaze.

“Well, who among your lot are close to the Starks now?” Willem asked. “I mean, Jon’s been here representing the King in the North and princess-regent for weeks now and I haven’t seen any-”

“There are none.” Jon gazed down at Castle Black. It seemed to get closer at every moment, moving inevitably toward him. “Not yet at least.”

“What are you talking… wait.” Willem’s eyes widened in shock. “No, no you’re not thinking…”

“There is support among the men for a new candidate.” Sam piped up. “I’ve already been discussing such a matter with many of them and they seem open to the possibility. Especially a man who knows the Watch well already, having-”

“You stupid sack of shit!” Willem cursed as he moved on Sam then, only stopping because Jon pulled him back. “You’d think I’d allow that? I wouldn’t wish leading you ungrateful bunch of rapers and backstabbers on my worst enemy let alone my-”

“Willem! Leave him be.” Jon pulled his friend away from the now cowering brother. “Nothing has been decided, no vows sworn.”

_Only because Sansa and I couldn’t do so before I left._

_Few would have accepted our marriage… there are many who don’t accept me at all._

_The Wall takes any man though._

Jon pulled the glove off his burned hand before pressing it against his face. The hand still felt warm sometimes, even now, and it felt good against his wind-burnt cheeks. He moved then to press those burned fingers against the Wall as the winch cage inched near the ice. It felt soothing against his warm hand, and he saw rivulets of thawing frost come off at his touch.

_Mors Umber said I was sent here to keep me away from Sansa and Arya._

_I only came to keep the Others away from them… I have to keep them away._

“I heard a tale once.” Sam found the courage to speak again, his voice sounding steady. “When I had just arrived at the Wall, of a bastard who wished to take the black but his lord father had forbidden it. I believe if that lord knew the threat facing his lands, that his son taking the black could save them…”

Sam’s voice trailed when a mighty gust of wind rattled the cage about them, Willem reaching for the brother once more, cursing. 

_He’s right. No lord could allow such a fate to befall his lands._

_No man would allow these monsters near his family._

As Jon held Willem back from throttling Sam, all of his friend’s arguments sounded distant compared to the truths he knew. The Night’s Watch needed a leader. They could not hold the Wall, divided as they were. Nor could they continue merely holding it, more drastic measures needed to be taken, for Jon had seen with his own eyes what awaited them in the woods.

Well, with Ghost’s eyes in truth.

Every scout they’d tried to send Beyond-the-Wall had failed to return or came back as wights themselves. It had been a risk to allow Ghost to go forth into those lands but it had to be done. He needed to know what kind of threat they faced.

His skinchanging had become easier the closer they came to the Wall, as if the massive structure held some sort of power which fueled it. Ghost also played a role in that he believed, for whenever the direwolf wished Jon to see something, it felt like he was being pulled to join his friend. To share in what the direwolf saw, to share in his fears.

Only two days Beyond-the-Wall, Ghost had reached for him while he slept, interrupting a nightmare that seemed pleasant compared to what the direwolf had found.

Thousands upon thousands of wights were mustering in the forest, a vast host whose entire length Ghost did not attempt to traverse. Undead wolves and giant, pale spiders had done their best to catch the direwolf but Ghost had fled back to the Wall. For now it remained a safe haven against that dread army but with the constant attacks, Jon had begun to fear that their strength was being bled intentionally, to weaken them against a true assault.

He feared that soon that undead host would descend upon them and that there’d be few enough arrows or pitch left to keep the wave from bursting through the gate, crushing Castle Black in its wake and moving south through the lands of the Gift and then out into the North itself.

A wave that could reach as far as Winterfell.

The image of an army of wights converging on Winterfell was bright in his mind then, of Sansa, Arya, and Rickon in their clutches. Of a foul dream he did not wish to think on again, where she called his name and her voice was cold.

_I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen._

These thoughts still troubled him, as did Willem, the entire journey in the lift until they reached the bottom. Castle Black was still under repair with the Lord-Commander’s Tower and several other buildings burned or damaged. Builders were still at work into the night, repairing the staircase that had been burned during Mance Rayder’s initial assault. That was work which desperately needed to be finished, for the staircase was the only way to man the Wall in force.

“Jon Dragonwolf!”

The booming voice that broke into his thoughts belonged to the huge wildling raider called Tormund Giantsbane, who was leading a group towards him. As large as the man was, he seemed tiny compared to the creatures flanking his approach.

The two giants were some of the four score who had been among Tormund’s camp. Apparently they’d only agreed to journey through the Wall with the other wildlings because their mammoths had long since succumbed to the harshness of winter. The one giant, the largest of his people as far as Jon could tell, had a long name that led many to just call him Wun Wun.

Wun Wun and his comrade were the only giants among Tormund’s party and the giant was speaking in its growling version of the Old Tongue. The wilding answered back gruffly before waving away the giant’s response.

“I’ll tell him! Let me talk to the Dragonwolf!”

“Tormund, we’ve discussed this.” Jon tried to sound pleasant as Willem took up a protective stance before him while Sam cowered behind. “If you cannot call me Ser Jon, just Jon would do fine.”

“And King Giantmember would do for me as well but I don’t think you’ll be calling me such!” The man laughed so loudly that it made Jon smile and forget his worries for a moment. “I remember well how you forgot to style me as I wished, when I first met that little howling man and the comely she-bear.”

“You cloak yourself in more titles than fur Tormund, and I know which you’d prefer to have in such weather.”

“Har!” Tormund laughed again.

Jon cursed himself for beginning to like the man. For their dealings with one another had been fair and honest, the wildling a capable and true leader as far as Jon could tell. Still, the wildling had also quickly admitted to slaying many black brothers in his younger days, and as affable and charming as he seemed, Jon had to force himself to remember that he was a killer, through and through.

Though who among their number wasn’t?

When Jon had first seen the wildling host outside the gate, he’d been terrified, forgetting the true threat of the Others for a moment at the sight of an army right at their doorstep. The giants and the rough-clad raiders made for a fearsome sight, one that reminded Jon of stories from Old Nan, about wildlings mating with demons and drinking blood from cups made of skulls. She’d said that wildlings were practically half-animal themselves, so fierce and terrifying in their fury.

Once Jon had actually journeyed through the gate, he realized the folly of that.

Children, old men and women, refugees, injured, starved, and desperate; these were what the wildlings were in truth. It was true that some of them appeared to be savage warriors, covering themselves in leathers, furs and bones, some having feet that turned black as horn from walking barefoot their entire lives. Yet some looked more scared of the Night’s Watch than the black brothers were of them.

“We free folk are the same as you kneelers, ser.” Val had spat at him when Jon remarked on the state of the wildlings. “Save where you all built castles and sought men to lord over you we ran free and every man and woman was his own lord. We’re the same where it matters though. North or south of the Wall, men are men, women are women, all threatened by what comes our way. One true foe between us and I’d rather fight beside you then fall before the Others. ”

Her words had not been wasted on him, for they added some humanity to a people Jon had struggled to think so kindly of. Even the giants had not been as they appeared. Fearsome and ugly and powerful-looking, once Jon saw them walking and speaking with other wildlings, with men, he saw that they were more similar to people than monsters. A little slower it seemed, a little quicker to anger, but capable of kindness and courtesy. Wun Wun even had a wounded gentleness to his nature that made Jon feel oddly sad.

Tormund had been the hardest for him to understand. A raider with years of fighting under his belt, he jested and laughed easily and while he was quick to anger, he was also quick to forgive. When Val had first introduced them to Tormund Giantsbane, he had cursed and threatened Maege, Howland, and himself, in his attempts to gain an escape through the Wall. It had taken a great amount of wine and a tossed tankard or two before Tormund showed good sense and finally agreed to the terms they offered for his people’s surrender.

However much Tormund disliked handing over hostages and being forced to accept the rule of the Night’s Watch, what threatened his people Beyond-the-Wall terrified him more. The army he led through the Wall was made up four thousand starved, freezing, and fearful people that Jon pitied more than anything.

Even amongst the fiercest of their numbers, Jon had found that if they were treated with honor and respect, the free folk kept the faith almost gladly, earnest in their actions to help hold the Wall. He had accepted help from Val and Tormund in learning of their traditions as well as lessons on the Old Tongue. He firmly believed if the North and the free folk could communicate and forge a true peace between them that such an alliance would greatly strengthen their cause at the Wall.

Which made him worry when Tormund’s face darkened as a group of builders marched by, offering the wildling a look back that was just as foul.

“Bleeding crows… listen here DragonJon-”

“DragonJon! Genius!” Willem thumped his forehead, glancing back at him hopefully only to be disappointed at Jon’s quick shake of his head.

“Go on Tormund.”

“Aye, well I did as you said. I asked the giants to help the crows fix those stairs but they don’t seem to be wanting any help.” Tormund patted Wun Wun comfortingly on the hip. “They said it’s the work for men not beasts.”

“Just say they’re your cousins, it’s a likely enough story _._ ” Willem’s jest earned another laugh from Tormund but Jon thought the builders’ reaction was a symptom of a much larger problem.

_How can they not see it? These people are rough and uncultured but they’re living._

_Our true enemy is the dead._

“Those stairs need to be repaired and the giants are the quickest way to see that done. Willem will go and speak with them Tormund.” He held up a hand to cut off Willem’s protests before inquiring about another matter. “Have you seen Lady Maege and Howland?”

“Aye.” Tormund pointed back towards the Shieldhall. “They be yelling at the two top crows over this and that. Oh and some riders came. I heard tell your army is two days south… that Umber lord is among them.”

Tormund almost spat the last part. The ill feeling between House Umber and the wildlings was not a province of the Greatjon alone. Jon understood why many of the free folk feared the coming of the Greatjon’s relief force, even though they desperately needed their strength and supplies. The wildlings were used to northern lords smashing their armies, not saving them, as it had been for thousands of years.

_And before that we were all being killed off by the Others._

_So it’s time to let those old hatreds die to face an even older threat._

“That is good tidings Tormund. Those men will help keep us all alive. I promise it because King Rickon has promised such, now if you would excuse me.” Jon made to take his leave of the wildling leader when Willem grabbed his arm and leaned in to speak to him in confidence.

“Send me away all you want, ignore my words, but for fuck’s sakes Jon, don’t forget that princess. I doubt she’s forgotten you.” Willem spoke quietly but as earnestly as he ever sounded. “Think on that before you do anything stupid son.”

The giants had begun to bellow in impatience and Willem had been forced to leave his side and join Tormund’s group soonafter. Which left Jon free to seek out Maege and Howland, with Sam following on his heels. He found them in the Shieldhall, just like Tormund had said, the hall now lacking most of its shields. They had been taken down by brothers and wildlings in preparation for an assault.

Yet the scene Jon walked in on made him think they would need the shields again, to keep the two combatants within from killing each other.

“Stubborn old fool!”

“Impetuous woman, with no place in a gathering of men!”

Maege and Ser Denys Mallister were both red-faced and raging at each other while Howland, Cotter Pyke, and Melisandre stood watching. This was a new development as Howland and Maege often did their best to stay free of Mallister and Pyke’s squabbles. Just as Jon tried to do, yet this time there was no chance of that.

When Ser Denys saw him approaching, he pointed and began directing his arguments in Jon’s direction.

“Here! Here’s the king’s envoy himself! The man who said we would be free to elect our own leader!”

“I never said you weren’t! I said that one of you had better step aside so the bloody Others don’t choose for you!” Maege fired back, looking as angry as Jon had ever seen her. She understandably had no love for the Night’s Watch ever since its members had fallen upon her brother Jeor.

“You’d suit me fine as a Lord-Commander you stupid shit!”

“No love for the ironborn, eh She-Bear?” Cotter Pyke spat. “If you try and name this pomped-up fool there’ll be blood, I swear it. We choose our leaders, not you.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Come off it Pyke! We both know her brother favored you.” Ser Denys turned his back on her and grabbed a cup of wine from a table. “Which should matter not! Since you’ve no right to interfere! I tolerated your foolish agreement with the wildlings for the nonce but to manipulate the choosing to your liking is too much!”

“Daft, bloody, stupid…” Maege began fumbling at her mace when Jon put a calming hand on her shoulder.

“Please, let’s not forget that we are all allies… and that Ser Denys is right.” He said while shooting Maege a look to show her he meant no disrespect in interrupting. “We have no right to interfere in their choosing. The sworn brothers raise up their own Lord-Commander, not the lords and ladies of the North.”

“Sense!” Ser Denys raised his cup. “Finally someone speaks sense!”

He did not join the old knight in his cheers, instead crossing his arms and giving both men as stern a look as he could muster.

“This lady of the North speaks sense, and the truth as well. We are tasked with defending the Kingdom of the North and aiding the Watch. To do so, we must prepare to take the battle to our enemies. Hiding as we are now will surely lead to a defeat.” Jon repeated something he’d said a thousand times before. “With the brothers so divided, we cannot fulfill our task and it is time that you admit that this contest is deadlocked. One of you needs step aside so the other can be chosen.”

“For the good of us all.” Howland said in a strange tone while both contenders stared at Jon as if he’d grown a third head.

“I won’t follow this whoreson.” Pyke spat glaring at his brother in arms.

“Nor I this iron bastard.” Ser Denys drank deeply of his wine.

_Gods, slap a dress on one and put Needle in the grasp of the other and they could be putting on a mummer’s show about Sansa and Arya._

He was almost baffled at how Lord-Commander Mormont had kept the peace between these two. There was no question as to why they were kept at opposite ends of the Wall and he began to suspect that both had ridden to Castle Black, less to restore order, and more so to deny the other claim of doing so.

_Ned Stark would be able to deal with them._

_Sansa as well._

_Yet I’m at a loss._

“And there is no one that you would both support?” Maege asked, sounding exhausted all of a sudden. “No sworn brother you both trust and hate the less than one another?

“No one who has anywhere near the experience to do so.” Ser Denys answered.

“Or one I’d trust at my back.” Cotter offered and Jon thought them both right.

There were strong suspicions that Ser Alliser Thorne, another candidate, had been among the co-conspirators against the Old Bear but nothing had been proven. Jon feared that if this went on for too long, one of the two might support the sour knight simply out of spite.

“Perhaps we divide the Watch here, two commands for two halves?” Maege put forward.

The two men barked with laughter while Howland shook his head but said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. The lord was acting as silent and distant as he had been for much of their time here. Jon still worried for him and wished that the lord would offer more of his counsel. If only to keep Melisandre from offering hers now.

“The Wall must be kept united or it will breech, I have seen so in my fires. If one castle falls to darkness, the terrors of the night will come for us all. It is why I stayed. I counseled the warring sides to seek the guidance of the Lord of Light.”

Melisandre’s beauty had not diminished in her time at the Wall. In fact she looked somewhat stronger, perhaps more dangerous since he last saw her on Dragonstone. Jon hated to think that he’d ever been fool enough to let her seduce him. He hated even more to admit that she was right but he was saved from doing so by the woman’s madness.

“If I could offer R’hllor a sacrifice, one of king’s blood, I believe he would show us favor in the trials to come.”

Everyone just gaped at her while she, once again, sought out Jon with her eyes. The others probably feared for the infant son of Mance Rayder but he wondered if it was the Targaryen blood in his veins that Melisandre wanted for her flames.

_She’s already burned one Targaryen, I’m sure she’d smile to burn another._

“You’ve already burned enough men here witch.” Ser Denys responded harshly, speaking to Jon’s thoughts. “You burned the old maester and Cregan Karstark, how much blood does your demon god need?”

“As many as is needed to hold back the night. For the night is dark and full of terrors…”

“Why is she even here?” Cotter Pyke interrupted but Sam all of sudden lurched forward into the center of the group.

“What if someone capable was to join the Watch?” Sam was staring at Jon intently and his heart dropped. “Someone who has commanded men in battle? Who has the support of the North? Would you two support such a man? For the good of the Watch?”

While the others considered Sam’s words, some following the brother’s gaze towards him, Jon found himself struggling with the decision before him. He’d first come to the Wall wanting to take the black but had been forbidden from doing so. Now he was at Castle Black once again, wanting nothing more than to return home to Winterfell and Sansa’s embrace yet he was considering foreswearing all of that.

His lordship, his freedom, his home.

The family he loved dearly, the woman he loved with all his heart, even the prospect of having a family of his own with her one day.

Everything in him screamed against doing so but it was a different sound that echoed in his mind then. It was a haunting noise that came to his dreams almost nightly since arriving at Wall.

The dream was always the same. At first he’d think it a pleasant one, for Sansa would be there, standing before him in a field of green. Her hair like fire, her eyes bright, and her smile warm and inviting.

He’d call to her, try and go to her, but his feet wouldn’t move. Jon did all he could yet there was no reaching her, no helping her when the demons came. They appeared as sparks of flame upon the ground, growing to scorch the green lands around them black before taking the forms of men. Wraiths made of fire, men and women, gliding on the smoke their flames created below.

No matter how much he screamed to warn her she wouldn’t flee, she always kept standing there, reaching for him. His pleading with the fire wraiths to leave her be was no use either, for he could hear their whispers of hatred towards him. They hated Jon for his birth, for what he was, for all he’d done.

Instead of harming him like he begged they would come upon Sansa, one holding a flaming blade and driving it through her back and out from her chest. As it pierced Sansa’s heart, her scream would always pierce his own. His love died before him, weeping and covered in blood as the flames engulfed her and then the land itself.

The nightmare never ended there though, for then the blackened field became a snow covered one, blanketed in night. Sansa always returned to him there and somehow he knew they were Beyond-the-Wall.  She called to him, her voice carrying on the cold wind and reaching into his soul. It never felt right though for her voice had not truly been her own. Nor had she been herself, for Sansa’s skin had never been so white and her eyes had never burned with a blue so cold and cruel.

 _‘Come for me Jon… come to us…’_ She’d call to him, the sound of ice cracking, punctuating each pause. _‘They’ll never let you have peace… they’ll never let you have me… your crown… we can be together… come to us… and we can be together forever…’_

As her cries cracked in the wind he could feel eyes watching him in the darkness all around, eyes that glowed like Sansa’s. He could sense they wanted something of him. The ice would crack all around him as Sansa’s pleading filled with urgency, echoing with threat rather than promise. Each night he would awake in a cold sweat around that point, the wind would be howling at his window and all Jon would be able to think of were the wights on the other side of the Wall.

And how he would never let Sansa be one of them.

Even if he had to lose her to spare her that, it was a price he would gladly pay.

“Could you support an outsider taking the black?” Jon asked the group before him, eyeing Cotter Pyke and Ser Denys the hardest. “A man dedicated to seeing the Wall held and with the support of the Watch’s greatest ally?”

“Well… truly it shouldn’t matter who supports him, even if that support is both welcomed and needed.” Ser Denys said and eyed at Jon appraisingly. “Surely it would depend upon the man…”

“I would support such a man.” Pyke added then but he was not looking to Jon, eyeing instead his rival. “I have the sense to put the Watch first.”

“As would I!” Ser Denys scowled. “I just wished to know who it was Tarly had in mind.”

“A man who knows that if the Wall falls then those it protects will suffer.” Sam said solemnly, having the decency to look ashamed then. “A leader willing to step forward when he is called upon…”

Sam’s words urged him to take a step forward.

And then another.

_Sansa I’m sorry… oh gods I’m sorry…_

At that moment, a commotion went up from above them. A wild flapping of wings and a loud cawing. Jon instinctively moved to protect himself for he recognized the bird swooping down at them from the rafters. The bloody thing had had it out for him for days, pestering and pecking all the while. It had calmed lately yet he prepared for an attack all the same.

The attack he expected never came though, for the raven flew right by him, passing the others to land upon the shoulder of a man who welcomed its coming. One who’d moved to the center of the room while all the others were distracted.

“It must be me.” Howland spoke with clenched fists and a resigned face. “I will take the black. I will submit myself as Lord-Commander.”

The wind outside howled and the fire crackled within and for a few moments, there was only stunned silence. Even Melisandre looked surprised, perhaps a touch worried, but he cared little for that. Maege and him began to protest soon after.

“Howland no!”

“My lord don’t be-”

“ _Lord!”_ The raven called out then. _“Lord! Lord!”_

“That’s Mormont’s raven.” Ser Denys gazed at Howland with a mix of surprise and consideration.

“So it is.” Cotter nodded, offering Howland a wink. “Appears he’s casting his vote for the lord here.”

“He would be wise to do so.” Howland continued, his eyes sweeping across the room with a ferocity that Jon had only seen once before, when they’d fought in crypts. “I have held lordship over a castle and the lands of the Neck. I have fought in two wars and led armies for the princess-regent in Winterfell. I will foreswear my title and marriage. I will foreswear my family… to take the black. I would… I-”

“You’d suit me fine.” Pyke said shrugging.

Ser Denys was still eyeing Howland carefully and had a thoughtful expression on his face. He caught Pyke sneering at him and drank his wine before nodding as well.

“Howland please, think of your family…” Maege stepped forward and moved to grab Howland’s hand, but he avoided it.

“I do this for them Maege. Let what family remains to me see another spring…” Howland said before looking at Jon.

He had never felt such guilt.

For deep within himself, despite the protests on his lips, Jon had been relieved to hear Howland volunteer. It was a shameful thing, a selfish want to harbor. Here he was, terrified of losing a wife and family that he didn’t even have yet Howland was giving up his very real life and home.

“Howland, it should be me.” He choked out. “I can’t let you… I can’t…”

“No Jon. I spoke to you of such before, at the keep. You know my reasons.” The lord walked forward and gripped his shoulders harshly. “Once I swore a vow, to give you a life that gave you little pleasure… now I swear one that might see you live, to have the life your mother would’ve wanted for you. I fulfill another vow beyond that but that’s not for you to worry on.”

_This is wrong, you have to stop him._

_After all he’s done for you, stop him… do what’s right…_

Howland had turned away from him then, offering a hand to both of the rival brothers, who each shook his hand in turn. He moved to protest again but Jon’s mouth felt dry and his voice fell away as he pictured Sansa’s blue eyes and smile. The thought of her before the weirwood with him. Of a child in her arms.

He wanted that.

_This is my shame… that I want that more than I want to spare Howland…_

“I made this choice Jon.” Howland spoke as if Jon’s thoughts were spoken aloud. “Truly, I knew it could come to this a long time ago. I knowingly committed treason against my king, now I suffer the fate such an act deserves. Blame yourself not.”

Maege cleared her throat then, calling attention to herself.

“Howland, if you insist upon this, then I would gift you something.” Maege turned towards the table behind her where there laid a damaged sword. Grenn and Sam had hand-delivered the blade to her when their party first arrived. It had been her brother’s, the ancestral sword of House Mormont.

A blade she now handed to the crannogman.

“Jeor could have returned it to Bear Island when Jorah ran. It appears that he wanted to keep it here, in the Watch. I’d honor his wishes and have you wield it as he did, as Lord-Commander… it is called Longclaw.”

Howland drew the blade and it appeared that only the pommel had been damaged. The blade was too long to be a longsword, yet too short to be a greatsword. Jon realized with a start that it was a bastard sword and he didn’t want to think of what omen or sign they were ignoring then.

The Valyrian steel gleamed in the fire like the blade was aflame itself. The raven leapt off Howland’s shoulder then and began to circle above them, cawing once more.

“ _Safe! Safe! Safe!”_

“She is safe now.” Howland whispered so quietly that Jon almost missed it. “It’s worth it…”

“Did you say something my lord?” Sam asked but Howland shook his head before sheathing Longclaw once more and staring into Jon’s eyes.

“It’s what I must say now that matters. I must present myself before a weirwood quickly. Have another vote called.” The lord’s words were met by nods from Pyke and Mallister.

“There is no time to waste. Our enemies are not wasting theirs. We shall do as Ser Jon says, we shall prepare for battle…”

“For the true war starts now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Cold Wind blows through my work, editing it quiet well.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silent killers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to A Cold Wind

**DAVOS**

The fire burning weakly in the hearth was no match for the chill within the king’s solar. His grace had little use for tapestries, so the stone walls around them were bare. The cold gray of the room matched the oppressive atmosphere that Davos had found throughout the Nightfort.

_Even Dragonstone, as dark and damp as it could be, held more charm than this place._

_No matter where he holds it, my king’s court is never a welcoming one._

“You are telling me that I have been summoned… that that dragonspawn has summoned me...”

Stannis’s words came out as mist in the air, looking far warmer than they sounded. The knight Stannis was addressing certainly did not look as though he felt welcomed. The sworn brother of the Night’s Watch grimaced at the king’s words, and Ser Godry and Lyn Corbray’s glowering at him certainly didn’t help, yet Davos was too drained to feel much sympathy for the man.

“I did not say summoned.” Ser Alliser Thorne retorted a tad too sharply. “I only spoke the message our new Lord-Commander bid me to. He invites you to join in the defense of Castle Black against the Others. Right now our men and the ones House Stark sent are preparing-”

“Your men?” Ser Lyn guffawed. “After raising up that swamp lord as your leader, you’re going to pretend the men of the Night’s Watch are not simply the Starks’ puppets now? That craven was attached to the wolf-bitch’s hip the last I saw.”

“Him and that Snow Dragon.” Godry added, sneering. “Tell me, what kind of knight takes orders from a bastard?”

“I took no orders from that bastard! My Lord-Commander bid me to bring word-”

“Words.” Stannis didn’t face them as he spoke, choosing instead to stare out into the darkness from his window. “More  _words_. The Starks are to help me retake my throne and I am to take their  _word_  on it for they offer no hostages. The new Lord-Commander says the Watch takes no sides, according to his  _word_. The pretender at Castle Black, a dragon in wolf’s skin, he calls me king and gives his  _word_  that he wants no part in my crown yet the  _word_ ofa man whose entire life is a lie means nothing to me. That pretender leads the fight to save the realm while I sit here…”

“For the good of the realm.” Davos spoke up. “You act as a true king should and safeguard the wellbeing of all. Keeping us isolated at the Nightfort does the Wall, and the realm, more good than our men would in this fight your grace.”

_For the enemy we face here moves far quicker than the Others do._

_That it hasn’t already laid waste to the other castles of the Wall is a credit to my king’s resolve._

Their arrival at the Nightfort was supposed to be the end of a long, arduous journey. A respite before they went forth to a grander battle. Yet in the weeks since arriving at the Nightfort, they’d been under constant siege, his king having buried more men at this dread castle than he had at Castle Black, Deepwood Motte, and the battle against the Freys combined.

Hundreds lost to the grey plague.

It was a fearsome enemy that offered no quarter for rank or station. The king’s court had been struck as hard as the ranks of spearmen and archers encamped throughout the fortress. In addition to the hundreds of common men to fall was the Queen’s own uncle, Ser Axell Florent, who had passed not two days after their arrival. Ser Corliss Penny, who had ridden into the castle with Stannis, fell ill around that time and died a week later. Ser Narbert Grandison fell after him, and on the list went. The grey plague cared naught for title, eagerly causing the lowliest man-at-arms to die from choking on his own blood as much as any knight or lord.

_Or queen._

Queen Selyse’s death, when it had come, had been no true surprise. What healers they had among them had proclaimed her one of the worst afflicted from the beginning. That she survived so long in spite of her dire state was a testament to the one quality that Selyse shared with her husband, a resolute stubbornness.

He was told that she had died in the night, in the midst of moaning for more wood to be put on the fire in her rooms. At least that’s what some of the men attending the queen had said. Davos had also heard that the fire Selyse had been begging for was actually the kind where men burned along with wood. It was a foul thing that he did not miss his queen, but she’d never seemed a good or wise person in his opinion, let alone a good ruler.

Yet the prospect of breaking the news to the princess had been hard to stomach, especially with the girl so ill herself. Davos had even proposed keeping it away from Shireen, until she showed some improvement.

Stannis had rejected that notion out of hand.

“I will not lie to my daughter.” The king had said as they climbed the tower to where the princess’s chambers were kept. The ones Selyse herself had confined the child to out of some twisted belief that Shireen had caused the plague.

“If she is to be queen one day, she cannot be coddled.” Stannis had continued, his teeth clenching as they had been since hearing the news of his wife. “Her mother’s death was not her fault, she will know that. My wife sealed her own fate with her rashness. To isolate Shireen rather than the afflicted, to think that faith would protect them rather than separating the sick from those not afflicted… idiocy! All said that Shireen was not the first to become sick!”

“Ser Dorden the Dour…” He’d answered the question Stannis had not asked. “Ser Axell and Queen Selyse spoke to it. Not long after they tried to gain the red god’s favor-”

“Were he not already dead, I’d have killed Axell myself for such foolishness!” Stannis’s fists had clenched as they spoke. “Were Selyse not my wife I would have… to treat my girl- my heir, in such a manner… I cannot say that their fates did not match their crimes.”

“Your grace… they were misled by foolishness, by Melisandre’s strange god and ways.” Even though Davos had never cared for the queen and had grown to hate Ser Axell more, old habits of defending Stannis’s family were hard to be rid of.

“Speak honestly as I would have of you, my Lord Hand.” Stannis answered. “You have nothing to fear from those fools now so don’t bother coddling your words anymore. They deserved to die.”

Davos was hard pressed to disagree, for he too cared dearly for Shireen.

When Selyse and her court had fled Castle Black for the Nightfort, before the sickness had come, they’d found a castle barely habitable for hardened men let alone a southron court complete with a queen and princess. Without Melisandre, the queen and Ser Axell had tried to work their own sorcery to hasten their salvation. Lacking enough men to justify sacrifices, they’d turned to a less lethal variety of blood magic.

They had turned to that poor innocent girl, leeching Shireen for her kingsblood to give to the flames.

“We begged R’hllor to bring… to bring order back to the Wall.” Selyse had spoken between coughing fits. “For the true king to have speed in his travels and victory over his foes… for justice to be done… but Shireen had no faith… she fought and scratched, at her own mother! R’hllor was displeased… she brought this upon us.”

Apparently the princess’s unwillingness to be leeched, combined with Ser Dorden’s sickness, had been enough to convince the queen into confining the poor girl to the tower, where none save Patchface had been able to see her.

Until Stannis had returned and ordered that he be allowed to see his daughter. Davos had been with him as they climbed the tower then, the king almost throwing the guards down the stairs in his haste. While his face had stayed hard and stern as always, Davos could see a panic and care in his manner too. The same kind of panic that Davos would have every time he saw his sons ride a horse or go out to sea alone for the first time. In truth, he had been in a hurry to see the princess as well, for he cared for her almost like a daughter at times, though he knew that was not proper.

To find the girl sweaty with fever and enduring such pain had not been how Davos envisioned their reunion for all those weeks of riding. While Stannis’s face remained unchanged, Davos could feel his own grimacing in pain and terror at such a sight. It had taken all the strength within him not to dash from the room to hide his anguish at the princess’s state.

_She appeared half-dead already._

_Like the Stranger is lying in the bed next to her._

So he had been in no hurry to return to her when it came time to inform Shireen of her mother’s passing. That task Stannis performed by himself, Davos waiting without the room, feeling a great shame at the relief he felt for being spared the sight of the sickly child.

Stannis’s face had twisted into something resembling sorrow before he entered. Some might have even called it weakness. The look had quickly wiped away however when Stannis noticed his looking at him and the king’s face became stone once more. He quickly stepped into the room then and shut the door behind him.

The wail that had come through a few moments later haunted Davos’s dreams that night. Every gust of wind against his chamber had reminded him of the child’s mourning. Even now, as Stannis continued to stare out the window, he wondered how his king had reacted to that cry. If he heard the same sound in the wind that blew now.

Ser Alliser clearly preferred the king hear him than the wind.

“If I’m to report back your refusal to join in the defense of Castle Black, I’d do so as soon as possible.” The knight shot a foul look to Godry and Lyn. “I would not overstay my welcome.”

“No.” Stannis finally turned back to gaze upon the sworn brother. “Your stay here has only just begun.”

“I’m not free to stay wherever I wish-”

“You’re not free to go either. For the same reason that my men and I cannot march to join your cause, you now cannot leave this castle.” Stannis nodded to the guards at the far end of the solar, who began to march towards Ser Alliser. “Food, lodgings, and protection shall be offered to you. Every possible courtesy given, so long as you heed that you are my  _guest_  until I say otherwise.”

As the guards tried to lay hands on Ser Alliser, the man jerked away causing all, including Davos, to bare steel. The knight made to grasp at his sword when he caught the icy gaze Stannis had affixed upon him. Whether it was the sheer numbers against him or the king’s glower that forced Ser Alliser to stay his hand, Davos could not say for certain. All he knew for sure was that the knight was not leaving, and Ser Alliser must have realized it too as he allowed the guards to take hold of him.

“I’m only here because you sent no reply to our ravens!” The ser rasped. “Why not just tell us to stay away?”

“And inform my enemies that my army and seat are afflicted with a plague?” Stannis scowled. “I would not lay bare weakness to my rivals… to my enemies. Nor do I have to answer to that pretender or his crannog puppet. I am the king and I will keep order in the face of chaos, no matter who it inconveniences.”

“What of the other two your grace?” Ser Lyn asked. “The two he rode in with?”

Stannis looked to him for an answer and Davos saw a chance to salvage some good out of the Night Watch’s ill-fated visit to the Nightfort.

“Those men did not journey beyond the sentry camp. Ser Richard guards them now and I believe we can permit them to return to Castle Black with no risk of spreading the plague.”

The king nodded at that, grinding his teeth as he did so. Stannis still cursed the fact their attempts at containing the plague from spreading throughout the castle grounds had proved fruitless. The sheer amount of sick needing to be managed and cared for, as well as the repairs still needed to the castle, had demanded more men than they had sadly. Some of the buildings had not been put to use by the sick, with repairs being almost finished to those parts of the castle, so it was those parts of the Nightfort the king and some of his knights sheltered in, while trying to keep the sick away in the finished buildings the queen had sheltered in. It seemed less than half of the castle was hospitable to any though, sick or healthy.

So the rest of the men had set up camp near the castle grounds, save for the sentry outposts Ser Richard had set up on the castle approaches. The Nightfort had no southward walls and those outposts were as much about protection against attack as they were about preventing desertion among the men.

For it was sapping their forces, almost as much as the grey plague was. While Stannis had had Ser Richard take a strict line against deserting, Davos could not find it in himself to blame those men for their fear, as the grey plague spread rapidly, no matter their attempts to try and stop it. In his years of smuggling, Davos had seen diseases and poxes close ports, cities burning ships and men to alike keep them from infecting the populace within, but he had never seen anything like this.

The disease moved in a manner that was both confusing and terrifying, for it appeared in the camps before many of the castle garrisons, despite those men never making contact with the queen’s party. Not even restricting movement between the different camps, only allowing those who seemed immune freedom of the grounds, had done any good. Tower after tower, tent after tent, the grey plague reached far to choke the life out of their men.

_We can’t allow it to break free from the Nightfort._

_From here it could bring death throughout the North, perhaps even the realm._

_And it would find its way to Castle Black sooner than that._

While Davos feared for his boy remaining with Melisandre at Castle Black, he was also thankful that Devan was far from this plague-ridden fortress. He was reminded strongly of why he held such faith in his king as well. For throughout all of this, Stannis did all he could to keep the rest of the lands of the Gift and the North free of the plague, even as its people frustrated him at every turn.

“I will allow your fellow sworn brothers to return to Castle Black.” Stannis waved at the guards then, who began to pull Ser Alliser away. “When all is settled you will be free to go but not before.”

“You’re holding a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch against his will! In a castle owned by the Watch itself!” The knight scowled as he was led away. “You have no right to do so! I must be free to fulfill my duties!”

“And so you will.” Stannis ground his teeth. “You have my word.”

As soon as the knight was gone from the king’s sight, Ser Lyn stepped forward, followed soon after by Godry.

“King Stannis, Jon Snow is gathering an army at Castle Black. We heard it from that man’s mouth himself. Not just Northmen, but wildlings! Thousands of them!”

“Now he has the Night’s Watch too!” Godry added. “A pretender with an army at his back!”

“Which he intends to use against the Others.” Davos felt the need to point that out. “Just as we would be doing, were we at Castle Black. If Ser Jon meant us harm, surely he would not think to warn us beforehand-”

“Need I pull my sword for you to feel threatened by me?” Lyn did not bother to look at him as he spoke. “The bastard is attempting to intimidate us. Just as he was when he sent word of that other pretender and your loss of Storm’s End.”

The tale of a mummer’s Aegon Targaryen, declaring himself the rightful king and taking Stannis’s birthplace, had been a heavy blow in a dark time. There was no doubt in Davos’s mind that Stannis hearing of that loss from Ser Jon’s own sealed parchment had only served to incense the king more against the supposed Targaryen son.

Storm’s End had been their last bastion of support in the Stormlands and the king had heard little from his supposed bannermen in the Riverlands and the Vale. The king was like to remind Davos that those flimsy vows of fealty were driven more by loyalty to the Starks than belief in Stannis’s cause, House Tully even sharing blood with the Starks. Even Davos, who seemed the only man that supported the alliance with House Stark, believed that those lands remained far more inclined towards the direwolf than the flaming stag.

Despite all that though, he could not see it in Ser Jon to plot a betrayal. The young knight did not seem the type.

Not like the knights who stood before him, trying to tear that same alliance to pieces.

“My king, think for a moment.” Davos tried to reason. “This feigned Aegon would usurp any claim that Ser Jon has to the Iron Throne as well. That he appeared after Ser Jon told us of his origins is most likely a-”

“Coincidence?” He could almost hear Stannis’s teeth grinding. “Cersei Lannister and the Kingslayer acting so close while Robert’s children looked nothing like him seemed a coincidence as well. I trust not coincidences. Nor usurpers to my crown…the Starks… a King in the North… princesses besides mine own daughter… that I thought to let them call themselves such…”

“It gave us powerful allies in gaining the Iron Throne.” Davos countered. “And Princess Shireen a possible husband.”

Lyn snorted at that and Godry sneered at his words. There were few highborn men in service to Stannis who supported the Stark proposal. Their own selfish wants, the chance to be a royal consort, drove them to deny the solid reasoning behind accepting the match. Stannis’s own reluctance was bolstered by their constant protests, and with his king’s darkening expression, Davos thought it wise to try a different approach to calm the mood in the room.

“Your grace, whatever force Ser Jon and Lord Commander Reed have cobbled together, no matter its intent, cannot stand against the force that will soon be joining your cause. Twenty thousand seasoned, fearsome warriors with no allegiance but to you…”

“A true army.” Stannis nodded, his eyes suddenly far away. “As I’ve needed all along. None could stop me with such a force. Not the Lannisters, the Tyrells… even the Starks…”

“We cannot trust that bastard and we cannot wait to act!” Godry almost yelled. “He has to be shown his place!”

“Shall I remind you of yours ser?” Stannis’s admonishment was like a hammer against an anvil, so powerful that Godry took a step back. The king grunted before shaking his head and crossing his arms.

“You are right though, the pretender must not be permitted to act as the savior of the Wall while I remain here. He wants to parade about as the heroic knight so let a trueborn knight carrying my standard show all how foolish their half-breed mummer is.”

“I will prepare to leave at once!”

“I am ready when you have need of me!”

Lyn and Godry's cries were for naught as Stannis turned from them and went to the window once more.

“None here can do so. Not with the plague about us. No, this duty shall fall to Ser Richard.” As the king spoke, Davos did his best not to smile at the pair of knights, whose disappointment was borne clear across their faces. “Have word sent to the ser. He is to take as many untouched men from the sentry posts as he can and join the pretender’s army at Castle Black. Let them have a true knight to rally around.”

“My king, those men know me as the Giantslayer! Surely I can-”

“You can leave me, you as well Ser Lyn. See that my orders are seen to and the men of the Night’s Watch be made ready to join Ser Richard for their journey to Castle Black.”

Davos wanted nothing better than to turn his back on the two knights as they left the room frustrated, but he could not do so in good sense. Turning your back to Lyn Corbray was as likely to get you killed as the plague itself. Nor had he forgotten how Godry had gotten his Giantslayer moniker, by riding down one of those beasts and impaling it through its back. Even Davos, who had little battle-experience, knew it was a foul thing to attack a fleeing and broken enemy before cutting its head off for all to see. So he kept a wary eye on both as they watched him with open hostility.

_If looks could kill I’d be dead already._

_Finer men have tried harder and yet here I stand._

He had not been dismissed by his king but Davos was not heartened by what he saw now. For Stannis’s eyes were gazing out his darkened window, focused once more upon the Wall. Once his king had sought the flames, but these days he sought the ice, that dark endless ice that towered above them. Sometimes Davos passed the castle windows facing the Wall and he found himself believing the whole world covered in ice. A world that was as hard as it was cold and unforgiving.

Davos hated those moments and found that he hated that view as much as he had grown to hate the Nightfort. Which is why he was so bothered by Stannis’s fascination with it. He could not think of a day in the last few weeks where he had not found the king gazing at the Wall at least once.

Even in the darkness, Stannis stared out at the ice, scorning sleep to do so long into the night.

_I can forgive him that I suppose, for the nights here offer little rest to me._

_Not with those bloody dreams waiting for me._  
  
Davos tried to count the number of times he’d shot awake in his bed here at the Nightfort, filled with terror and feeling under attack. He’d been perfectly safe of course, a fire burning in the hearth, the window and door to his chamber firmly secured. There were never much of his dreams he could remember, save glimpses of bright blue eyes and the feeling that someone had been calling his name.

He believed it was his wife, that Marya called for him in his dreams but something about her cries didn’t feel right. Like someone was forcing her to beckon him, or that it was at best, a cruel imitation of his love’s sweet voice. A voice he remembered as loving and full of warmth as she sang to their boys. In his dreams there was no warmth, only coldness.

And the sounds of cracking ice.

That part unnerved him greatly, for he wasn’t sure that part was a dream. Davos could swear, some nights when he awoke from his terror, he would hear the sounds of ice cracking in the wind outside his window. It always died away as he came to his senses, like he wasn’t meant to hear it.

 _Don’t be a fool_ , he chided himself,  _it’s the Wall settling, just like a ship does._

_You only think it sounds different than it usually does… you’re the Hand of a King, not a scared child._

“I would visit my daughter.” Stannis spoke suddenly, pulling himself away from the window and blinking like he’d just awoken from a dream himself. “She asks after you my Onion Knight. Can you find the time to join me?”

“Of course, I wish the princess only the best-”

“Wishes and words.” Stannis grumbled as he strode by him. “My daughter needs a proper castle and proper care to see her through this. Had the Starks bent the knee, I would have made Winterfell my seat and my daughter would be warm and healthy right now.”

“I’m sure they would’ve welcomed her.” Davos followed behind as they left the solar and began to journey down the darkened passages of the Nightfort. “They may still be able to convince one of the northern houses to send a maester skilled in such blights to help us…”

“Twenty thousand swords would’ve convinced them. If I had that army now the North would be mine. Shireen would be well and my path to the Iron Throne would be assured.” Stannis’s words and footsteps echoed down the corridors of this ancient castle. “Instead my shambles of an army falls apart around me, my realm is in chaos, with pretenders rising up every week to fight over my throne like carrion crows over a corpse… and my daughter suffers...”

Davos had nothing to say to that. His king was a man of blunt words and harsh truths, usually willing to accept such in return, yet it was not in him to agree that Shireen was suffering. She surely was, and none had recovered from the plague so far. All who became sick eventually fell to it. He was suffering along with the poor child, being only a knight in service to her family.

So Davos could only imagine how Stannis was feeling.  
_  
I lost four sons on the Blackwater, yet they were gone in a flash of fire._

_All I saw was the flames and I was spared watching them suffer._

_I fear it to be a far crueler fate to watch a child be slowly torn away from you…_  
  
“Selyse was a fool to bring her here.” Stannis continued on as they began climbing the stairs to Shireen’s tower rooms. “Yet I was the bigger fool for bringing her to the Wall to begin with. Even Eastwatch was too dark a place for a child…”

“The princess brings light to wherever she goes, she always has.” Davos spoke with his heart in this. “Maester Cressen always said, no matter the hardships she endured, her spirit always found a way through. That she was strong and determined, a princess who takes after her father.”

Stannis paused then on the steps ahead, turning back to eye him closely. The man’s brow furrowed the king seemed to be working through his own thoughts in a way that made Davos feel a fool for his words.

“Strength and determination.” Stannis nodded. “I held Storm’s End for the entire rebellion with those two qualities. The might of the Tyrells, the threat of the Targaryens beating down upon my shoulders, the possibility of my entire garrison being starved to death… I held my family’s castle against all of that. The decision was not wise and the suffering of my men had many naming me cruel, but it was right. For I was set to a task and saw it done, for the good of my family…”

“You are a great man and leader…”

Stannis waved away the praise and put a hand to his head then, seeming to tire all of a sudden.

“I sometimes wonder what I would have done if that had happened after Shireen was born. What I would have done, if I’d had to watch my own daughter starve and cry out in hunger… how long would I have held out then?”

Before Davos could answer, the sounds of jingling bells and footsteps began to come from above them. Sure enough, the plump motley fool Patchface was making his way down the stairs. Davos marveled at how little all the trials of this war had touched the fool. Stannis and he both moved and looked older than they rightly should and then there was Theon Greyjoy but few could match his grisly tale. Yet Patchface endured, the same distant expression on his face that he always had, like the man had not a care in the world.

It bothered Davos that Patchface could look so at ease, even as he carried down a basin full of blood and filth covered clothes. They had surely come from the princess’s room as the fool had been acting as a steward to her during her sickness. He’d spotted Patchface running about the castle with the bloody rags from Shireen’s frequent bleedings and coughing spells several times. The fool sometimes forgot where he was supposed to run with them. Davos had caught him running about the kitchens and near the well, rather than the building that held the boiling pots.

Somehow Patchface had been one of the fortunate few left untouched by the plague, which seemed strange as the man was supposed to be half dead already.

_If ignorance is some sort of shield against the sickness, what does that make you?_

_For you too are untouched while that poor child suffers._

The fool even found a way to sing despite all mood of the castle, sounding almost happy to do so as he ran by the pair.

“In the dark the living sleep while the dead walk the snow, and in the ice we all will sleep, I know, I know, I know…”

Stannis scowled to watch him pass and the rest of their march was not hampered by anyone else. Until they came upon the healer, waiting at the door to Shireen’s chambers, the man pale and upset as he leaned against a wall. One of the guards was patting his back while the other shook his head darkly.

None of this was lost on Stannis.

“My daughter’s condition?” He barked, caused all three men to jump. When the healer struggled to speak as Stannis came within a hair of him, the king clutching his arms and repeating himself, slower this time. “What is my daughter’s condition?”

“My k-k-king.” The man stammered, wringing his hands in fear. “I have d-done all I c-could. She is at the final stage… her body fails her…”

“We were about to send word to you.” A Corbray man added but Davos found that to be of little relief.

Stannis calmly released the healer and pressed on toward the door, opening it and going within. A part of Davos wanted the king to tell him to wait without, yet when Stannis left the door open in his wake, he knew to follow. He did so quickly, shutting the door behind him before turning to take in the sight he so feared.

“Father…” A weak voice gurgled from the bed at the far side of the room.

Upon it lay the small figure of Shireen Baratheon, the girl was on her side, watching their arrival. Davos clutched at his missing bag of finger bones when he saw the bloodstains leading down the side of bed where her head rest. The side of Shireen’s face that was untouched by greyscale was laid bare to them, although the plague had turned most of her skin from its healthy pink to a dullish grey. Her blue eyes were glassy but wide as they gazed up at Stannis, who had come to stand at her side.

“Father… is it bed time?” She reached up for Stannis before coughing horribly. Her arm began to fall away but the king took hold of it, grasping her small hand in his powerful hold as he knelt beside her.

“No it is not, Shireen.” Stannis spoke evenly, Davos marveling how stiff his posture was. “You must stay awake some time more. I have brought you the Onion Knight, like you asked.”

It broke his heart when the girl smiled at him, for her teeth were stained red. Her arm was trembling in her father’s hold but neither tried to end their touch.

“Lord Seaworth, can you tell Devan to come soon?” The princess asked dreamily. “He was kind… very kind… like Edric… I miss them…”

“I will make sure Devan knows he is missed your grace.” He knelt then, if only to hide his face from betraying his fear. “Edric Storm always enjoyed playing with you. All knew that, all liked to hear you all laughing and-”

A fit of coughing interrupted him as the princess hacked and shook horribly. Stannis held her throughout it, one hand steadying her shoulder, the other cradling her arm to his chest. His face was as stern as ever, as if he disapproved of how long the coughing spell lasted.

“Be strong, Shireen.” Stannis spoke firmly as the coughing died away. She wiped the blood away weakly with her free hand. “You are my heir. You are to be queen one day. Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms. To do so you must be strong and brave.”

“Will I have-” Shireen gurgled and her eyes were half-closed as she met Stannis’s gaze. “Will I have a crown?”

Stannis nodded. “I will set the finest blacksmith to fashioning one. If you are well behaved, I will allow you to select the fine stones he places in it.”

“A king?” She asked sleepily. “Papa… will I have a king?”

The father shifted some then, his hand sliding from the daughter’s shoulder to cup beneath her chin. He would not bend to meet her; Stannis did not bend for any.

“I am your king by rights, by all the laws of gods and men.” Stannis lifted his daughter’s chin so they saw each other fully. “And I will not give you away until someone forces me to.”

“No one… forces you…” Shireen almost smiled as her eyes fluttered. “Papa… may I sleep… it’s hard to stay awake…”

“No, Shireen.”

“I’m tired…”

“No, listen to your father. Your king. I am telling you-”

Whatever Shireen said next, Davos couldn’t make out. Soon after, he realized he could not hear the rasps of her breathing anymore. He watched as the girl began wilting in her father’s arms, her eyelids shut as if in a peaceful slumber. The king showed no sign of recognizing any of this, still stiffly holding her limp body in his arms. His daughter’s frail body looked like a sad puppet in his grasp.

“Shireen, listen to me.” Stannis commanded. “I am your king, princesses listen to their king or else… Shireen. Open your eyes.”

“Your grace.” Davos rose to his feet.

“Shireen.” Stannis repeated, shaking her some. “You are my heir. You are my princess. This is not your time.”

“My king…”

Stannis shook girl’s limp form again, commanding her to wake and rise. The sight of the sweet girl’s body jerking so violently did something to Davos, causing him to march forward and put a hand on his king’s arm.

“Stannis.” He urged softly. “She is gone. She is gone.”

The man stilled at that, frozen in mid-movement, with Shireen half-raised from the bed. Slowly, stiffly, he lowered her back down, his hands taking a moment or two longer to release their hold. When they did, one hand reached back to pull Davos’s grip from his arm. He took the hint and backed away from his king.

Stannis stood up soon after, his back to Davos, his posture stiff and precise. His king tugged at his tunic and belt, to set any wrinkles that being at his daughter’s side had set in them. The whole time, the man did not seem to spare a glance to the dead child beside him. Davos himself was struggling not to weep at the sight of her.

The king began to take his leave without a word.

He did not go far.

Stannis took one normal stride, then a second shakier one.

On the third his leg buckle beneath him and the king fell to his knees. Davos was struck by the sight, in shock at seeing such a thing of the man he’d served faithfully for years.

For Stannis Baratheon’s perfect posture was no more. His shoulders were slumped and shaking. The proud way he held his chin and head high was lost as he faced the ground. His hands, which Davos was so used to seeing clenched into fists, were pulling and tearing at his clothing.

“My girl…” Stannis Baratheon sobbed in a tone of grief that Davos had never heard from any man before. “My girl… my girl…”

As this man wept and tore at himself, Davos did not know who he was watching. For this was not his king.

Only some broken man.

**BRIENNE**

“We will need more wood, m’lady.” The man’s voice was muffled by his coverings. “Much more and more time and men too…”

Brienne shivered beneath her own furs, wishing she had more of them to fend off the night’s chill.

_More and more and more… winter always demands more._

_If you can’t offer enough, it’ll take some lives instead._

They were at the farthest edge of the Winter Town, a long ways from where even the most desperate of huts had been set up. The fires and torches were being lit throughout the town while a man ran forth to light the brazier nearest to the work party. Brienne doubted it would do much to drive away the cold that these men worked in, just as their foreman appeared doubtful that the work could even be completed at all.

“I will inform the princess-regent of your needs.” She tried to ease the man’s worries. “As we speak, Ser Gendry is organizing more of the newcomers to head for the lumber camps and bring you more wood, but her grace was clear. These watchtowers must be built before the next moon with the palisade well under way.”

The man turned to gaze at the tall wooden structure she spoke of that was being raised nearby, frowning the whole time. These simple watchtowers were Princess Sansa’s idea, meant to help the town’s protectors in their duties, as well as provide a sense of security to its residents. Apparently when House Lake had closed its gates to those fleeing the troubles near the Wall, word had spread of the Stark hospitality farther south.

Those people had surely come and spread terrible tales themselves, of the Others and thousands of savage wildlings south of the Wall. Both Gendry and Lord Manderly had reported fear, bordering on panic arriving with the newcomers and it had taken the Starks coming to the town themselves to calm their peoples’ fears. The scared smallfolk had looked to Sansa, Arya, and Rickon with a worship and fervor that startled Brienne a bit. For the huddled masses stared up at the children seeking an answer to all their woes.

The answer that came down was a proper defense around the borders of the town.

Ideally, in addition to having a knight and guards watching over these people, there would soon be a ring of towers and a palisade wall going up as well. Hearing young King Rickon proclaim these things from atop his horse, with the princess-regent’s gentle urging, had done much to calm the townsfolk’s worries. Unfortunately they did little for Brienne’s own.

For she was privy to the word that Ser Jon had sent from the Wall, of the foes they faced and the undead strength they had amassed. The more warnings the knight sent, the more Brienne feared how little their efforts around the town truly mattered.

_If the Wall itself cannot hold back the Others or the wights, what can a simple perimeter of sharpened logs do?_

“It will keep the town penned in for one.” Lord Manderly had said while he waddled the streets alongside Princess Sansa and her entourage of young ladies, including his granddaughter. “Unless we lay out its boundaries ourselves, the smallfolk will continue to build outwards in every direction until the town will be indefensible… and quite uncontrollable at that.”

There was no point arguing that the growth of the Winter Town had not added to their problems. More smallfolk came from the furthest areas of Starks lands, seeking food and shelter, and the town had tripled in size since she’d been made a Sworn Guard. That meant a lot of new buildings, most of which had not been constructed well enough to keep away the drafts and chills.

Those conditions had let sickness spread among the poorer folk.

_Truly we have been fortunate. Under other rulers, those illnesses surely would have taken a higher toll._

_And more bodies is not what we need in these lands._

Scores had died from a variety of conditions that struck the people. Maester Medrick had suggested, to prevent the deaths of hundreds, to drive away the sick to a far away camp where they could suffer and die off harmlessly.

Sansa had done differently, heeding Lord Manderly’s advice in the matter. She’d ordered one of the stone trade shops to be emptied and used as housing for the sick, the warmth and dryness hopefully helping them recover. She had even sent the maesters there several times, to aid the other healers in tending to the people. After a few weeks, things had improved and Medrick was heard stating that he was surprised at how much fewer were lost to illness.

 _Glad tidings in foul times indeed._ _So why is it so hard to take solace in them?_

_Is it because I fear what other horrors I could be ignorant of?_

_What other failures of mine can I add to my growing list?_

Those thoughts came unbidden as she watched Gendry riding towards her from the opposite side of the town. It was far too cold for his armor so the knight was as bundled up in furs as she was, something many of the northmen ridiculed them for. Lord Edric got it worse than all of them though. She’d heard Rodwell and Ulroy mocking the poor shivering Dornishman as the “Woolen Star,” for all the layers he would pile on whenever he journeyed outside the castle walls.

Brienne herself had never felt as cold as the moment Edric and Gendry shared the secret of Lady Stoneheart with her. That had happened not long after she’d returned to Winterfell with Mya Stone in tow. The whole ride back to the castle, the secrecy with which Anguy and the lord had travelled to the North had bothered her. For surely one of the Tully bannermen could have arranged for the crown to be returned to House Stark in the Blackfish’s stead.

The mystery surrounding the Tully knight’s disappearance had also bothered her and the pair’s excuses had not convinced her of their innocence in that matter.

Such was why she’d sought to speak with each alone, to try and trip them up in a lie. When Gendry joined her in questioning Lord Edric she assumed it was to help gain the truth from him.

Instead he’d come to admit to a truth she wished she’d never learned.

“We have to tell her m’lord.” Gendry had shaken his head. “We both know who had that crown last.”

“Gendry, this is not her burden to carry.” The lord had argued, looking uneasily towards her. “We swore we would never-”

“Don’t hide behind that! What happened to the Blackfish? What did you have to do to get that crown back from her? Was his head the price? His neck?”

“Of course not! We tried to warn him about Stoneheart!”

“You hated that he kept you from her side! That he took her away from you!” Gendry had advanced on Lord Edric, whose own ire was being stoked by the large youth’s actions. Though the lord was much shorter than the knight, he had stood strong against Gendry’s approach. “If she sent you for Arya-”

“I stayed in the Riverlands  _for_  Arya! You don’t know what I’ve done for her! To keep her safe, I’d take her away from this place-”

“You can’t have her!” Gendry had roared, causing Edric to push at him, both raising fists until she intervened.

“Enough!”

Brienne had stopped the two from coming to blows by stepping between them and throwing the men back to opposite sides of the room. His turn to violence had been surprising for Brienne, as ever since being appointed the Knight of the Winter Town, Gendry’s anger and mistrust had seemed to melt away, to be replaced with a chivalric patience that had made Brienne proud.

_Now he throws that all away for what? Petty jealousy?_

Once, when she was still a young maiden, Brienne had dreamed of her ugliness falling away and of fine men like these who would fight for her favor. Watching Ned and Gendry now, with their need to pummel each other out of claims of love no less, seemed as idiotic as it did unhelpful. She doubted Arya would’ve stopped at merely shoving the pair. Her princess would have opted for beating them bloody with the practice sword her great-uncle had gifted her.

_They’d only get Thimble if they were lucky. The Needle if they were not._

“Explain all this nonsense to me.” Brienne had commanded of them, not in the least bit abashed to speak so to the Lord of Starfall after this display. “I am sworn to protect the Starks, and from what I’m gathering, a threat has come to their home, either from you or this Lady Stoneheart…”

“I am no threat, my lady.” The young lord had protested. “Please, we rode together! We both sought to do well by the Starks.”

“Speak to it then.” Gendry had broken in, his face red and his arms crossed. “In this castle of all bloody places, in her home, would you continue to lie about the lady? I can’t let you Ned, not with the Ser gone missing, not with you having that crown. I cannot wear this armor, cannot continue calling myself fit to be a knight in service to House Stark so long as-”

“She’s dead.” Ned had interrupted softly, gazing at Gendry with something like pity. “Stoneheart’s dead. Truly dead and gone this time… Tom saw it happen. He said the Blackfish did it himself…”

“Ser Brynden killed the Lady Stoneheart?” Brienne had asked, horribly naïve as to why Gendry had looked so stricken at the news. “The man swore to see his family’s lands set to rights, executing an outlaw is surely within that task. What does that have to do with him going missing?”

“Tom said it put the ser in a bad way, my lady. He didn’t wait to see more and neither did we, for he didn’t kill just an outlaw…”

The tale they told her then was far darker than the night Gendry rode through now. For at least fires and the stars above broke through the blackness. To Brienne, there was no bright spot to be found in the tale of Lady Stoneheart. No comfort in the knowledge that Brienne’s failure as a sworn sword had continued long after she’d thought her lady lost.

Even less in the ser’s report now.

“I’ve sorted out at least eight and thirty more for the tree cutting.” Gendry pulled down the scarf from his mouth. “They’ve also raised up a full watchtower to the south side of the town and staked out a decent route for the palisade. The head man there asked for more wood though…”

“Here as well. We will tell her grace.” She said as her words disappeared in a mist, willing that her harsh feelings toward Gendry would drift away as well. “We could ring the town in a palisade as tall as Winterfell’s inner wall, but I cannot foresee us holding back an undead army long with only timber.”

“If they come, they’ll have a long march from the Wall to here m’lady. Not that Arya would hear talk of it. She says Ser Jon will throw them back.” Gendry moved his horse next to hers and stared out into the blackness of the night. “Many of them that came today, they spoke of the ser. Some are saying that if there was any with enough fire to throw back the White Walkers, it be a dragon.”

“Do not let Arya catch you calling him that.” She warned as she struggled to offer a smile to the knight she now shared a terrible secret with. “To her, Ser Jon will always be a direwolf, no matter who his father is…”

“She didn’t welcome the truth of him that’s for sure.” Gendry added, trying to grin back but failing when he saw her own darkening expression.

“Not all truths are welcome ones.”

_The truth we hide from her now would be far more than unwelcome. It nearly tore my heart out to learn._

_That poor child has endured so much already. So have Sansa and Rickon. Losing their father, their brothers, their mother…_

_I cannot let them lose the memory of Lady Catelyn as she was._

_I cannot._

There was little time to share such tidings with Arya anyways, for their moments together outside the practice yard had become rare. Brienne had duties in the castle, patrols to lead, and her own skills to hone against warriors worthy of her blade. Arya was just as busy it seemed. Besides her archery and the maester’s lessons she attended along with all the other highborns, her princess was constantly on the move. The arrival of young Lyanna Mormont had only added to Arya’s unpredictable actions of late. Podrick reported that Arya had taken to her needlework with a passion, scorning others visiting her chambers as she did so, save brief visits from Lady Lyanna.

It was hard to remember a time when it had just been Arya, Gendry, Podrick and herself.

That had made the short time the group shared together a few days ago all the more precious to Brienne. After their morning practice, she had gathered all her charges within the forge while Gendry ushered all the aspiring blacksmiths out. Besides Arya, Jeyne, and Podrick, Lady Lyanna had joined them as well. Brienne had not thought it possible for another girl in the North to be as fierce as her princess, yet the youngest daughter of Maege Mormont had proven her wrong. The two girls were of an age and very similar in appearance, save that Lyanna wore her hair far longer than Arya and her eyes were brown with a touch of amber instead of grey.

The princess had taken to the lady so quickly that Lyanna joined them in the practice yard the very day she’d arrived at Winterfell. Quiet Lady Jeyne still only watched the others, offering soft words of encouragement, while the other lady had been the opposite. Lyanna quickly dispelled any reluctance Brienne had felt to take on another youth to train. The young lady was already quite advanced in her abilities with a shortsword, and had even arrived with her own bit of leather armor. Despite her obvious training under a different master, Lady Lyanna proved eager and respectful of any lessons Brienne could offer.

“Are we to select new weapons today?” Lyanna had asked, gazing up at the rows of blades and spears and mauls. “Is it time to use real blades?”

“I’ll fight Pod with real swords!” Arya had piped up as Podrick bumped his head off a hanging morningstar.

“Why does that excite you?” The squire had grumbled, rubbing his head. “I’d rather not bare true steel against a princess… ow!”

Arya’s swat to the squire’s head would have likely been followed by another, had Lady Jeyne not moved to save him.

“Tis a noble thing to say Arya.”

“It’s a simple thing to say, we batter each other with practice swords, why not real blades?”

“We will not be using real blades.” Brienne had sighed, shaking her head. “Yet real battle is precisely why I’ve brought you all here. Lady Lyanna and Ser Gendry are properly protected for true battle, unlike you Arya.”

She’d signaled Gendry then to reveal the project she’d set him to working on well over a moon ago. From a locked crate, he produced a chainmail hauberk of the Northern style, far slimmer and shorter than the average piece. One fit for a warrior slimmer and lither than an average northman, as it had been specially forged for Arya. Gendry and she had offered it to the princess together and it had fallen to Brienne to nod at Arya’s questioning look when she saw it.

The smile on Arya’s face had stayed alive in her memory for days after, reminding her of better times, of the happiness that she needed to protect along with the secret of Lady Stoneheart.

For no armor could ease the pain such a tale would cause.

“I don’t believe it! Brienne! It’s like yours!” Arya had cried out happily when she’d lifted the shirt from Gendry’s grasp.

“It is more similar to the northern style, lighter than the average mail, which means it will take less to penetrate it.” She’d corrected the girl as she helped her pull it on. “Yet now you are offered some protection whereas before you had none.”

Gendry had put obvious care into it, the weave of the chain and the weight itself were perfect for a wearer such as Arya. A well-aimed bodkin point arrow or sword thrust could do for her but a cut or spear thrust would glance off the weave.

“It doesn’t feel light.” Arya said as she went to one leg, attempting to balance and stumbling sideways. “I can’t do the water dancing style…”

“Perhaps you can in time. From now on you’ll wear it whenever we are in the practice yard, to grow accustomed to the new weight. You’ll be slower and clumsier for a while but I trust you’ll improve.” Brienne thought of her first suit of armor and how strong she’d felt in it. She had little doubt that Arya’s vigor would overcome any discomfort.

“My sisters wear mail and they fight well.” Lyanna had offered, slapping a hand against Arya’s chest as if test its strength, smiling when Arya shoved her back. “I wanted some of my own but they told me I was too young. The stupid, lying-”

“You’re older now than when they told you.” Arya had replied. “Gendry can make you your own. Then we can both pummel Pod.”

The young squire had burned in embarrassment then and she almost chided Arya for her lack of grace. Arya was now better equipped for battle than Pod himself who had no such armor. He’d had a rusty shirt of mail when they’d first met but he’d been growing like a weed during their journeys and had abandoned it recently due to the poor fit.

_He’s suffered worse than that for this quest… the least he deserves is respect._

_For he keeps watch on her even now when I cannot. He acts as her true protector._

She was spared having to scold Arya on that when her princess acted first.

“I’m sorry, Pod. I didn’t mean-”

“Oh yes, a princess apologizing to him will make him feel better. Royal apologies are always better than common born ones, Pod.” Gendry had shaken his head and smiled yet Arya had not taken kindly to his jest.

“I’m his friend you aurochs! I can apologize to whomever I want!”

“I-I was just jesting.” Gendry sighed, seeming a little hurt. “I wasn’t told you’d issued a royal decree against it my princess…”

“I can if you want! I’ll have it stapled to your fat head!”

“I took no offense.” Pod had tried to break in.

“Shutup!” Arya and Gendry had yelled in unison. Their bickering was a rare thing now, and the knight had appeared to be doing all he could to keep this bout from going too far.

“If I knew how to make armor, I’d make mail for Pod, like a true friend!” Arya had handed her mail off to Lyanna to cross her arms, as if in victory over Gendry.

“I surrender Arya.” Gendry had held up his hands. “You don’t have to worry about becoming a blacksmith though. Your sister has already given me the means to armor, as she put it, the finest squire in the North.”

That was how Gendry revealed that he had been far busier than even Brienne knew.

The knight waved Pod forward and the squire had no words when he was presented a long mail hauberk of his own. It was longer than she thought necessary yet it was of excellent quality, if Brienne was any judge.

“The princess-regent herself funded this, in payment for another bit of work I’m doing for her.” Gendry had smiled as he ran a hand over his work. “I made it longer so if you keep growing it will still suit you. I wouldn’t recommend getting any taller than me though. The Starks may hold it against you if you start battering down the archways with your head.”

Jeyne and Lyanna had laughed openly at the turn of events and even Brienne had smiled. Her charges were armored and safe, and when Arya and Gendry finished a second round of more playful bickering, all had been in good spirits. She had just taken it in, letting the weight upon her heart lifted for a time, just watching these three the fates had seen fit to bring into her care.

Arya had thanked Gendry in a quiet, polite manner while everyone else was focused on Pod, yet ignored all propriety when she wrapped herself about Brienne’s middle. Brienne had worsened the breech of protocol by hugging her princess back. She’d felt her cheeks ache from smiling so widely when Pod began to try on his new chainmail, marveling at the young man he had grown into from the boy she once knew.

_I told Ser Jon that I am no septa. I said that I’d be a warrior, rather than one who cares for children._

_Now that I am finally handed warrior’s tasks, I lament the time I lose with these two._

_I hold them so dear… I pray I never know the pain Lady Catelyn knew before she passed._

_I pray whatever pain she endured after… that Arya remain ignorant of it._

Brienne shivered as the wind whipped around them then, growing angry at how it swept away the good memories she’d been desperately trying to hold onto. She could not truly blame the wind though. Her thoughts turned to the truth of Lady Catelyn often these days, whether she willed it or not.

Gendry reached down and pulled a wineskin from his saddle. He took a quick drink before offering it over but she shook her head, doubting wine could cure the hurt in her heart.

“It warms you for a second.” Gendry persisted. “You need not drink your fill. I haven’t. Have to keep my head clear for it to be filled with the townsfolk’s worries.”

She relented, and indeed the spirit burned down her throat and warmed her some. But she would take no more than two swigs. Brienne would have some wits about her for their return to the castle.

“It is time we reported back to Winterfell. Lord Manderly will want to hear what we’ve learned, and you have a patrol at first light.” She reminded Gendry as she handed back the skin. She was also eager to perhaps catch a glimpse of Arya in the Great Hall before she retired for the night.

Gendry nodded before riding his horse towards the three men laboring before them.

“You there.” He hailed and all three turned. An older man with a windburnt, lined face was closest, and it was he Gendry tossed the skin to. “Stay warm tonight.”

“The good ser would share?” The man smiled. He lacked a few teeth and she thought he would likely bed in one of the drafty huts tonight.

“As you should with your friends.” Gendry called over his shoulder before they both rode through the town and towards the gates of the castle.

They did so in silence for a time, allowing Brienne the chance to spot a dark shape moving through the darkness towards the town. There was no threat in it though, for she recognized Nymeria even from this distance. She did mark it as strange however, as the direwolf largely avoided the Winter Town in favor of hunting grounds beyond. The townsfolk were cautious of Nymeria yet feared her less than that of Shaggydog, who Brienne spotted no sign of.

That worried her some, for both wolves had been acting queerly throughout the day.

_Ever since that new Manderly convoy arrived. The one that brought some traders straight to the town._

_Perhaps they smelt some exotic meat they wish to try. More than likely that is what Nymeria seeks now._

She was denied pondering the direwolf’s motivations when Gendry chose to try and break their silence then.

“I heard some from the convoy… they heard tell of Tarth, from sailors come to White Harbor from the Stormlands… perhaps they’ve…”

“I already sought them out.” She cut him off, not wanting to discuss this much further. “They offered little more than what the ravens brought word of.”

_Of invasion… of defeats… a false prince… the unknown fate of a loving lord…_

“So it’s true then? What was said of your home? Of your father’s castle?”

“Both captured by sellswords.” She nodded, trying to keep the worry from her voice. “Plenty of talk of my home being ravaged by the army of a dragon prince returned from the dead. And no word of my father in all of it.”

This supposed Aegon Targaryen now claimed dominion over her father’s seat, as well as many others throughout the Stormlands. Sansa had sworn she would inquire for word of Lord Selwyn from her allies in the south, which was kind of her.

She wondered if the princess-regent had gotten any news since then but it wasn’t Brienne’s place to pry.

“I’ll pray for him my lady.” Gendry said softly. “I know Pod lit a candle for him in the sept.”

“As have, and I thank you both.” She spoke curtly, feeling ashamed at having to be comforted.

_It is no shame to worry so for father… to fear for him. To light a candle for him._

_Yet you dare not speak of the second candle you lit. For there is surely shame in fearing for Jaime._

Jaime’s fate had haunted her since word had come from Castle Darry, of how he had been imprisoned in the capital by his own mad sister. He lived, as far as any knew, but from what tales the Starks and Podrick told her of Queen Cersei, Brienne feared for his life. To think of him in a dungeon, filthy and in need of help, wrenched at her heart terribly.

Part of her ached to ride south and free her father from captivity.

Then to free Jaime himself… to see him again… to hear his voice…

_I could save him, like the knights do in the songs, and in return he might-_

_Enough,_ she thought, _those are the thoughts of a foolish girl._

_Not a Sworn Guard of House Stark._

They rode by a group of young girls who were returning from the direction of the castle then, some older men dragging a sleigh thought to call out lewdly to them. Those men quieted soon after taking notice of Gendry and her nearing.

The sight of these girls moving to and from the castle was common enough these days. With so many men lost to the war or on the march, there was an excess of young, unwed girls in the Winter Town. Only so many could be married off, and some had been forced into what Lord Manderly called ‘the trade.’ When Gendry had brought word of this to Sansa’s ears, she’d done all she could to find decent work for such girls within Winterfell. Jeyne had stated that the corridors had never been so well swept. That the clothes had never come out of the washer rooms so quickly.

Some of the young women gazed up to smile and giggle, even wave at Gendry as they rode by. Except for a polite nod, the knight seemed intent on ignoring the young women. Brienne ignored them too, especially the ones who gaped at her face. She thought to escort the girls back to the town for their safety but that was before she saw a group of young lads following along after.

These ones, who had also been brought into service to House Stark, wore the simple dark brown cloak of the town reserves, a force of youths that Rodwell had taken to training with spears and bows. They offered more comfort than security in truth, yet the captain and Gendry swore that it made the townsfolk feel all the more safe. The bigger benefit, Sansa had explained one night to her, was that it kept the boys themselves from getting up to any mischief.

Most of the boys kept their eyes away from her face. Save for a few bolder ones, some with looks of awe, while a particularly daring one deigned to nod at her. A straggler running to catch up to the others stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of them. He was a slim boy with a bow slung over his back, his hood pulled tight about his face so that only some of his mangy dark hair hung out.

Whatever start they gave him, he recovered quickly, lowering his head before hurrying on by them.

_May they all bed in warmth and safety tonight._

_As I intend all the Starks to for tonight, and a great many nights after._

“Good timing my lady!” Rodwell called out to them as they passed through the gate, which began to clank down behind them. “Had word that you and the ser were still expected, else I would’ve had the gates down as soon as the last of my boys were out.”

“All the gates are secured then?”

“Every one.” Rodwell nodded, clearly proud in his promptness locking the castle down. He jerked a thumb towards the way they had just come. “Only way in or out of the castle is that one postern gate with my men watching it. Hundreds more are on the walls, just as many walking the grounds. The large gates are all sealed, as safe as we can make it. No spies or traitors will be trying anything tonight, that’s for sure.”

Brienne did not care for the captain tempting fate like that, yet she did agree with the sentiment. Considering the fate that had befallen the men who’d stolen Maester Henley’s maps, and the precautions Rodwell and Rossett Locke had made since, she figured it highly unlikely that any man would be missed leaving or entering the castle. Rodwell joined her and Gendry on their way to the stables, chatting idly as they dismounted and some stableboys began seeing to their horses.

“Figured your squire would be seeing to that.” Rodwell clapped a hand warmly on the shoulder of the boy helping her steed.

“Podrick had other duties to see to.” She did not lie to the man, yet she would not admit that the squire was keeping watch on Arya as they spoke. “He did not know when we’d be returning, so these lads will do well enough for the time being.”

“Eh?” Rodwell asked, scratching his head in confusion. “Isn’t he the one who told you to hurry along into the castle?”

“No, why would you think Podrick had?”

“Because I just saw him leaving the castle.” The captain of the guards looked between Gendry and her then, as if they were jesting with him. “Spoke to him and everything… told him to let you lot know that I was closing the gates soon. Truly, he didn’t seek you out?”

“We just rode up the way from the town to the gate, we didn’t see him.” Gendry countered, clearly as off-put by this news as she was. It was not like Pod to spurn the duties she bid him to do, especially those regarding the safety of the royal family.

“Well he left through the postern gate.” Rodwell replied. “In a hurry too… he wasn’t dressed well come to think of it. His cloak didn’t even have a hood and I swear he was wearing mail, which in this weather-”

“His hauberk?” She was truly worried now.

For Podrick suffered this weather as poorly as she did and knew to cover up well. Wearing his mail while guarding Arya was one thing, wearing it outside the walls would only add to the cold’s burden upon him. That they hadn’t spotted him in their coming meant he’d likely taken one of the less trodden routes to the town. All this pointed to her squire shirking his duty but she could not bring herself to believe it.

_If he left the castle in a hurry and in such poor dress, then perhaps something is amiss…_

Rodwell and Gendry clearly shared that thought and she was about to propose seeking him out when a commotion rose from back towards the gate they’d just entered. Men were shouting and it sounded as if a monster had been loosed against the castle. The three joined many other guardsmen and men-at-arms in rushing across the yard back towards the gate.

What they found only added to her confusion at what was happening.

“Its’ gone mad!” Ulroy shouted back from his place safely behind the gate, pointing at the shape snarling and snapping at the bars and the men guarding them. “Bloody thing just rushed the gate and started losing its mind!”

“Shaggydog?” She asked in disbelief as she joined the crowd clustered behind the metal bars.

Without the castle, King Rickon’s direwolf was acting exactly as the guardsman described. The black beast was running back and forth along the gate, snarling and growling, leaping up against the iron bars and even pawing at the ground beneath. The wolf’s eyes were wild and its teeth were bared in a fierce threat, froth beginning to form at its mouth.

“I’m not letting that thing in here acting like that.” Rodwell waved his men back. “For its safety and ours.”

“Is it rabid?” Gendry asked as Brienne knelt down to get a closer look.

As she watched Shaggydog’s frantic actions she noticed something far more odd in his behavior. For the wolf wasn’t sparing a glance to any of them, not locking its eyes onto a man here as a target. Instead the wolf seemed fixated on the something behind them yet she saw nothing there. She heard Shaggydog’s deep sniffing of the air though, his breathing labored, the wolf’s exhales coming out in something that almost sounded like a whine.

When the wolf paused for a moment, with the hairs on its back standing straight up, and its eyes still staring off at something that wasn’t there, Brienne was struck by a memory from many moons ago. From a time when Gendry, Podrick, and herself were escorting Arya back to Winterfell. Just before the attack by the Bolton hounds upon their camp. The night those monsters had come for Arya and left with Pod.

Nymeria had acted just the same way before that attack had come. Rising to her feet, snarling off into the dark, attempting to warn them all of what was to come.

For she had smelt the threat in the air.

Just as Shaggydog did now.

From somewhere within the castle. Like there was some threat in Winterfell itself.

 

 **YOREN**  

The eldest of the boys jabbed at her with the end of his bow.

“Coming to the inn, Yoren?” Rolf asked while his younger brother in front of them laughed.

“Quit it ya stupid arse!” Wat yelled back. He was the smallest of them but acted bold enough as he smirked back through the group of guard boys towards his target. “And Yoren ain’t really coming, he has to go clean his nan’s arse first!”

The collection of boys heading towards the Winter Town took to laughing then. They never saw Yoren about town like they saw each other, for his nan was sickly and in need of constant care. Whenever the lot finished training under Rodwell, Yoren was usually already gone, run off back to his nan’s hovel, or lingering behind to beg for more scraps of the castle’s kitchens. Having their friend among them was a treat, so obviously they’d been teasing and insulting him the entire way.

Yoren didn’t care though, they could mock him all they wanted.

_I’ve had worse and besides, I’m not even a him._

_I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing._

“You’re all idiots.” Yoren smiled, reaching up to pull his hood tighter about his face. “Bloody fools.”

The disguise had taken a month to get right. Grinding a root into a darkish paste for the ugly birthmark upon Yoren’s face only looked right after a few tries, appearing more a stain, and less than some smeared paste on his cheek. The cloak, the peasant bow, and the boy’s garb had been the easiest. Pod probably didn’t even miss his old breeches and shirts since he’d grown so much recently.

Getting horsehair for Yoren’s hair had not taken long at all yet fashioning it into a wig had been more difficult than expected. Arya Stark hated needlework for a reason. As nimble as she felt with Needle, her fingers moved like stiff wood with a sewing needle in her hands. In the end, it took some help from Jeyne to get Yoren’s hair just right.

“It’s for the stories I tell Rickon.” She’d lied to Jeyne. “I want to do a mummer’s show for him… for his nameday! I’m going to play Nymeria, the Rhoynish warrior-queen, and show him the story of how she came to Dorne with her ten thousand ships.”

“That’s a splendid idea! I’m sure he’ll love it.” Jeyne had smiled, eagerly taking up the task of readying the wig for her. “Do you need it soon? I can work on it after my morning prayers in the godswood, perhaps even after my evening ones if you need…”

“Fine, fine, just don’t let anyone see you doing it. It’s got to stay a secret Jeyne. I want to surprise Rickon, and Sansa too. So no one can know.”

“I understand.” Jeyne had smiled. “I’ll keep it a secret, but can you tell me who will play Nymeria’s future husband, Mors Martell? Be it Lord Edric? Ser Gendry?”

“No... that’s a secret too.” Arya hadn’t liked that question, for both would’ve made fine Martells in such a story and she didn’t want to choose. Besides, it was a lie anyway so she brushed it off.

“They’re going to play some mules. Stupid, thick mules.”

Jeyne had accepted that easily enough, for she’d had to battle off her cat in its efforts to make off with the horsehair.

_With what Jeyne named the thing, there’s no wonder it’s trying to steal from the Starks…_

_Bloody Turncat._

Her friend had made good on her word some days later, presenting Arya with a proper wig that could pass for a woman’s hair. Of course she’d had to mangle it afterwards. Yoren was a peasant boy, not a Rhoynish princess. She’d felt bad lying to Jeyne, but Arya needed this disguise to remain secret.

Getting Lyanna’s help had been different. There’d been no need to lie to the Mormont girl. The first time they’d met, Lyanna had shocked Arya by acting angry and sullen to be at Winterfell. Later she’d learn that the girl, while excited to meet the Starks, was furious that her mother had ordered her south while the rest of her family went north to fight. Arya knew the feeling, a part of her still wishing that she’d been allowed to go to the Wall with Jon.

Welcoming yet another lady to add to Sansa’s court had not been her idea of fun. Then something strange had happened. She caught Lyanna doing what she usually did to newcomers, the lady giving Arya a once over with her eyes. Not to scrutinize her gown or her hair, but sizing her up for whatever threat she might be.

Arya had been doing much the same and when they both realized what the other was doing, things had improved. It was safe to say that Arya took an instant liking to Lyanna Mormont.

She actually became annoyed that it had taken the lady so long to arrive at Winterfell. Had they met sooner, Arya wouldn’t have grown up thinking herself awkward and strange. Lyanna liked to fight too. She rode horses better than most boys and mocked Myranda’s dresses along with Arya, which never looked quite finished with all the skin they showed.

Lyanna was bold too. She insisted on calling Arya princess, if only to infuriate her before their matches. Arya often found some choice names for the lady as well, yet had taken to calling her Lya most often, just like the Mormont guardsmen did.

The idea had come to her one day when she had heard Rodwell hail Lyanna as princess, for in a cloak and a hood, they apparently they looked quite alike. The same had happened to Arya as well, people mistaking her for Lya. After they’d played at switching cloaks and confusing folks for most of an afternoon, Arya had been convinced.

Showing Lya the disguise had amused her. Speaking to the plan she’d concocted however had confused the lady.

“You want me to be you?” Lya had made a face. “To pretend to be you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being me!” Arya had had to calm herself from taking insult. “You liked my Yoren disguise, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t even recognize you.” Lya had laughed, pulling at Yoren’s wig and picking at Yoren’s ugly clothes. “Almost clobbered you like Mother would do for wildlings, coming across the bay to steal into our castle.”

“Great! So you’ll do it!”

“I didn’t say that, I mean, I think it’s funny and all, you going out and playing a lad. If you get away with doing so it’ll be a tale to tell for sure. Getting caught though, that be bad…”

Lya’s hesitation put everything at risk so she’d sought to do what the Turncat had done with Jeyne, quickly moving to distract the lady from her worries.

“You liked the gowns Sansa sent me? The stupid- the bright green ones?”

Arya had moved quickly to her trunk of dresses. She hated that there was a whole trunk of the things. Lya was different though. She liked to wear gowns as well as breeches and sometimes annoyed Arya with requests to try on some of the many dresses she had stashed away.

“Just because we fight, doesn’t mean we can’t look beautiful!” Lya had followed quickly behind to marvel at the gown Arya spoke of. “And your gowns are better than any we have back on Bear Island. Mine are all old ones that my sisters no longer fit into…”

“Well you can try them on all you want, and can even keep a couple if you help me with this.” Arya had smiled to see Lya’s eyes widen. “It’s only fair. Anyone who pretends to be a Stark should be allowed to dress as one.”

She wished that she could have tried her disguises weeks ago, before Ned and Anguy came back and everyone suddenly wanted to be her best friend. For as long as she could remember growing up, all the people who visited Winterfell always flocked to see Sansa while Arya was left playing with the stewards and the stable boys. Now with Sansa busy all the time, she was the one getting all the attention, though it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Arya wanted privacy to work on her disguises and switching places with Lya but no one would leave her alone.

It was good to have Ned back though. He wasn’t as quiet with her as he once was and took every chance she offered to show him around her home. He told her such stories of Starfall too, which made it sound like a place she’d very much like to see some day. He told her that in Dorne, women fought as well as men, and how sisters inherited castles before brothers if they were older, and Arya had liked the idea.

Then there was Gendry, who didn’t come around Ned much but was always inviting her to tour the town with him or showing her views of the new buildings from the castle walls. The aurochs had become much happier since they made him Knight of the Winter Town, and she was glad herself. Seeing him smile so often sometimes made her suspect he was up to something but she tried not to question it. Gendry smiled so rarely, and Arya thought that made it all the more special, like Jon’s.

Pod was the bloody worst though. Ever since the traitors’ bodies had been found, Pod had become her stupid shadow. Whenever Arya wasn’t at lessons or sound asleep, the bloody fool was there, even watching her doorway while she worked away on Yoren’s garb. She couldn’t sneak about the castle without that fool following her, and no matter how she threatened him, Pod would always be back.

Lya wasn’t guarded like her though, so that had been the key. Having the lady visit her chambers to switch cloaks had allowed Arya to leave her friend behind in her stead, while she passed right by Pod without him knowing. Doing so gave her hours of freedom, time Lya spent either trying on Arya’s gowns or, to her annoyance, putting on a direwolf cloak and leading Pod all about the castle for fun.

The whole thing worked brilliantly and only cost Arya two gowns she never wore.

It meant far more than Arya merely having some freedom from her suffocating role as a princess. Acting as Yoren, she could protect her home. She could keep her family safe.

_Just like Brienne does… just like Jon does._

_Like I’m going to do tonight and then everyone will see I can take care of myself._

Hago’s swat upside her head broke into her thoughts and almost sent Arya stumbling into the snow.

“Bloody fool, am I? Well at least my hair don’t look like a nag’s.” Hago threw back idly, clearly distracted by the group of girls moving behind them.

“You spend enough time washing it.” Fenris spoke softly from just behind her. He was the quietest of the group, yet the brightest as well, so Yoren was wary of him. If any of them could figure out his secret, it would be Fenris.

“A man’s got to look good.” Hago pointed at the girls then, who were just now entering the outskirts of the town. “Speaking of good looks, let’s hurry up. Might be them lot is heading to the inn too…”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.” Yoren agreed in his gruff voice. “Sooner we get to town, the sooner I can get home.”

He wasn’t lying either. Hurrying their pace meant Arya Stark could get this deed done all the sooner and be back in Winterfell before anyone noticed. Joining the crowd of town boys seeking training in Winterfell’s yard was easy enough; Arya Stark had practice at being a boy before after all. Doing mock patrols along the walls and archery lessons was fun. The difficult part came in not shooting as well as Arya Stark could, so they didn’t learn Yoren’s secret.

Tonight was different though. This was not about fun, not like the other boys thought.

“Like any of them will talk to you.” Rolf laughed at Hago, who was always going on about girls. Hago was the taller of the two and acted it often enough.

“Your sister likes me well enough.”

“Hey! Leave off sisters!”

“Yeah stay off our sisters!”

Their fighting was entertaining usually, but it annoyed her now. The town was where she needed to be and their pace had not quickened enough. Nymeria was already there; tracking the scent she’d caught wind of when the new caravan had arrived. Rickon and Arya had been ready for them this time, both direwolves moving all about the men and wagons when they’d come within the castle.

How was she supposed to know another group had headed straight to the town?

If she had, the wolves would’ve stopped them from even reaching the Winter Town. For when she’d heard about the other wagons, Rickon and she had slipped their skins to check for traitors there as well. Yet there were thousands of smells in the town, and when they got too close, the fear in the townsfolk became too powerful to track anything thoroughly.

Hours had passed when Arya had felt Nymeria catching wind of something foul at the edge of town, Shaggydog joining her in growling. For a threat had arrived with the newcomers and was hidden somewhere among their people.

A threat Arya would find herself.

Or rather, Yoren would.

She hadn’t been able to find Rickon before she left, and Shaggydog had been off searching the other side of the sprawling town when the threat had drifted to Nymeria in the wind. It was faint but there, and with darkness coming, she’d chanced letting the wolf enter the town through its darker areas and back alleys.

That’s where Nymeria was now; hiding within a dark alley near to where she’d tracked her prey. Eyeing the building she could not enter, for it was full of men, and there was only one she sought. If they all came to panic at the sight of the wolf, she could lose the scent of their prey.

If Arya couldn’t get the traitor by being the wolf she would do so by being Yoren.

_A guard boy entering the Smoking Log wouldn’t be out of place._

_I might even be able to figure out who it is and deal with them myself. If I can’t, Nymeria will be outside waiting and will get the deed done anyways._

_And Sansa will never know._

Arya was proud of what the direwolves had done. Of how Nymeria and Shaggydog had kept evil away from their home. Of how Rickon and she had killed those men.

That didn’t mean she was stupid enough to go around bragging about it, she knew better than that. Rickon was still a little boy though, and doing a good deed and not being able to talk about it was a hard thing for him to understand. He needed his big sister to help him.

“Why can’t we tell them where those bad men are?” Rickon had asked after Sansa’s trial for the rapers and murderers, having tracked her down sharpening Needle at the heart tree.

“Marlen and Brienne and everyone is going looking for them but we know where they are-”

“Ssssh, come here.” She’d waved him over to sit beside her on the rocks, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and whispering in his ear. “We talked about this. Remember what Osha told us? About people hating skinchangers?”

“Marlen and Brienne wouldn’t hate us. They keep bad men away and so do we! If we just tell them they could stay in Winterfell and be warm and help us with swords.”

Deep down, Arya wanted to agree with her little brother, for she liked Marlen a lot and loved Brienne even more. Sharing that part of herself with Brienne would have a weight off her shoulders yet she couldn’t forget what tales southrons told of skinchangers and wargs.

It wasn’t just Osha who’d warned against speaking about their powers, Howland Reed had told them to keep quiet as well. Those two accepted what Jon, Rickon, and she could do, and even they feared what others would think. Besides that danger there was also the risk as well, that Brienne wouldn’t understand. Arya didn’t think she could stand it if Brienne looked at her like she was a monster.

_Brienne is one of the few who loves me for who I am._

_I can’t lose that… I can’t lose her too._

“They won’t understand Rickon… people will call us wargs, or monsters, like they did Robb.” She’d hated making Rickon feel bad about their powers, but she wouldn’t be a very good big sister if she didn’t protect him. “And besides, Brienne and all the rest were going out to look for those White Harbor wagons anyways. I tried to get them to let Nymeria lead them to the bodies but they’re afraid of her… like they’d be afraid of us.”

“Why? Shaggy and Nymeria keep Winterfell safe. We keep them all safe.” Rickon had pouted. “You said a good king does that. Father and mother would be proud of me for what we’d done…”

“They would be and so would Robb and Jon.” She’d kissed the top of his head before ruffling his hair some. “You’re a good king Rickon, I’m proud of you too.”

“I want to tell Sansa.” He’d mumbled, his eyes lowering because they’d had this argument before. “Lying to her is wrong. She says lying to her is wrong.”

Arya had fought the urge to snap at him then, for being foolish enough to believe everything Sansa said. She had no doubt their sister kept secrets from them. Nymeria had been nearby when Sansa shared what word had come from Jon. Sansa had talked about how he was holding the Wall, how their armies were fortifying Castle Black and all was well.

Whatever Sansa’s words were, the direwolf had smelt the lies on her, and the fear.

_Things are bad at the Wall. Everyone knows that but she thinks I’m stupid._

_Men wouldn’t be digging up the crypts for dragonglass if everything was fine._

Her anger at Sansa’s lies was only half of why Arya hid their skinchanging. She still remembered how horrified Sansa had seemed to hear of Jon and her wolf dreams, back before Rickon had come home. At that moment, Sansa had proved just how ignorant she was, and why Arya couldn’t trust her to accept what Rickon and her were trying to do.

“Sansa lies sometimes, trust me on that.” She had said firmly, resting her cheek on Rickon’s head. “Trust me that she wouldn’t understand either. She’d be scared of us. She might even try and stop us from becoming the wolves. No one can stop us from being what we are Rickon. Not unless we let them.”

_Or we decide to be something else._

“Come on you sots!” Hago yelled, shoving at Rolf. “Last one to the inn has to give away their free ale!”

With that, he took off running down the well-trodden streets of the Winter Town, with Yoren and the boys quickly following behind. They moved quickly by the homes and market stalls that became more common place further into the town. Once, these buildings would’ve been the farthest limit of the town and far fewer in number. Now the town was so large, they were almost winded by the time they found its center where the Smoking Log loomed large and noisy before them.

The inn was made of stone and smaller than the Great Hall at the castle yet at two floors high, it was the biggest building in the town. According to the boys, it also had a fine reputation too. The innkeeper had promised one free tankard of ale to all the young lads who joined Rodwell’s guard and tonight was the night this group wished to collect. Yoren had decided to join them in their revelry for once, to make sure that Arya could better track her prey.

Earlier her luck had almost gone to shit. When Yoren almost run smack into Gendry and Brienne riding up to the gate. The urge to turn back or drop to his knees begging forgiveness had been powerful but Yoren found his nerve. He merely lowered his head and ran on.

A quick glance across the square showed a darkened alley between two buildings where Nymeria was hiding within the blackness. Arya could see herself and the group of boys through the wolf’s eyes and when she returned to her own skin, Yoren swore he could see the yellow glow of Nymeria’s in the dark.

“So you’re actually coming with us idiots then?” Hago made to poke at him with his spear butt, an attack Yoren avoided.

“Of course I’m going to the inn, my nan has no free ale!” Yoren kicked Hago in the shin and ran ahead as he swore.

The boys raced to the inn door, Rolf laughing in victory as he reached it first. The inside was warm and well lit. There were all manner of men both seated and standing around. Laborers, woodcutters, foragers; all men drank with the guards and men-at-arms from Winterfell. Serving women with poorly made dresses, as revealing as Lady Myranda’s, teased and yelled at the patrons. The whole place smelt of smoke and ale, ringing with so much laughter that it was easy to forget it was winter outside.

Even though someone in here was a traitor, Yoren knew he liked the Smoking Log almost immediately.

Rolf found a table even quicker, one close to the entrance that Yoren approved of, for he could see all who came and went. The breeze that whipped within whenever the door opened was probably why the table was left empty. As they sat, a large woman with a missing tooth came about to see what they wanted.

“Big fearless guards come for a free ale tonight?” She asked with her hand on Hago’s shoulder. Hago was only three and ten but he could pass for older sometimes so he smiled boldly at her.

“Just one?” He earned a snicker from the woman as she walked off.

The boys started bothering Hago about the size of the women’s stupid breasts but Yoren was more interested in trying to spot the prey. His eyes scanned the room for any person that looked out of place, like someone who had come from White Harbor and didn’t belong.

_Look with your eyes, like Syrio Forel taught Arya Stark._

To his dismay, there were a good many of people who seemed new to the town and none stood out anymore than the other. So he tried to use his ears instead, and found a table next to them that was talking loudly, the men large and bearded.

“…only time before they come. Ask them guards, they hear it spoken of at the castle.”

“They sent their whole army there!” A man with an eye-path laughed and slapped the other on the shoulder. “With the all them southron knights! The Wall will hold like it always did. I’d be fearing the bloody snows more than the Others Hek!”

“No more squids, no more flayed men, the kingsroad is safe again for our women and children. Things are always better when there’s a Stark in that castle.” Another man said proudly and Yoren felt his chest puff up.

“Aye there’s Starks in Winterfell but no men in those walls left to fight.” The man named Hek grumbled and two others sounded agreement. “We got two she-wolves and a little pup. Them against the lions and krakens... the Others… you remember that when the white walkers come! What will our little king and his princesses do when demons come knocking at their walls!”

 _They fear the Others,_ she realized,  _they don’t think we can protect them._

_Fools, there’s a Stark here now protecting you and you don’t even know it._

“I’ll tell you this, I’m happy to have them princesses up there.” Another man with a tankard walked over to the table now. “Don’t be telling me no Bolton would’ve brought us food, sharing a maester with our sick. And there’s a good number of girls not taking men’s coin right now, all cuz’ of them princesses behind those walls.”

“Don’t forget Ser Gendry!” The man with the eye-patch shouted. “He comes into the town every day, sharing his wine, telling the king of our women’s troubles, stopping them food thieves, he even sat and talked with me about my horse’s shoes! Show me a knight like that!”

The group he was with clattered their tankards and Yoren found himself nodding in agreement. Only the man named Hek hadn’t joined in.

“It wasn’t just Starks behind them walls Morris, a dragon too they say. Stark’s bastard turns out to be a dragon this whole time?” Hek said, shaking his head and drinking the whole of his tankard before he stumbled up to walk after a girl to ask for more. “Bad omens all.”

“He’s right on that.” The man with the eye-patch, apparently named Morris, admitted. “The Bolton Bastard was bad enough. Imagine what a dragon’s bastard be like. I heard he’s even trying to become King in the North himself…”

 _Stupid bloody fools!_  
  
_Jon’s up at the Wall fighting for all of you! You bunch of filthy, fucking-_

“Yoren? What’s the matter?” Fenris asked, making him start in his chair. The boy was looking at Yoren queerly for he’d let his fists clench without meaning to. “Didn’t you know about the dragon knight?”

_He’s my brother._

_Not a dragon._

“What do you care what the cutters be saying Yoren?” Rolf pushed his shoulder. He pushed back harder.

“What do you care what I care?”

“It be good luck, having a dragon and all. He was the one who came and told my family it was safe to come here.” Fenris shrugged. “If he’s at the Wall, it’s good luck for them there too.”

The large wench had returned in time to hear that, with ales in hand. While the boys welcomed the drink, she clearly disapproved of what they’d been saying.

“Listen here you lot, dragons aren’t good luck and the one that was up in Winterfell likely ain’t any different. I heard he’s scarred everywhere but his face, from bathing in blood and flames where normal men would use bathwater.” The woman whispered the last part as if to scare them.

“I heard stories of the dragon and how he was with the princess.” The boys were rapt at attention while Yoren gripped his knees to keep from raging.  “That he was pushing himself at her, trying to make her marry him against her will, like his father did to Lord Stark’s sister. They say dragons are full of lies and foulness, mating with their sisters and wyverns alike, that their cocks are all scaled like a dragon’s tail. It’s good that our dear princess sent him away from her or-”

“Wait, which princess?” Wat asked, reaching up for his ale. “There’s two…”

“Which princess he says!” The wench laughed, slapping the boy’s cheek lightly while Rolf scowled at his brother.

“Princess Sansa, stupid. The beautiful one, not the other one- ow!”

Yoren hadn’t been able to resist kicking the larger boy. Arya Stark being called the ‘other’ princess didn’t bother him near as much as what they were saying about Ser Jon. Or that he still hadn’t found what he’d come here looking for. Rolf had looked ready to fight him over the kick until Yoren pushed his ale towards Rolf in apology. Yoren returned once more to the search, letting the lads talk amongst themselves.  
  
They let him do so easily enough, apparently getting to know one another came second to drinking ale. Each of their families had come from different villages and from what Yoren could tell smallfolk didn’t seem keen on getting too attached to each other. Two years of war and losing fathers, brothers, and friends had turned them cold to such.

That was when he spotted someone who looked anything but cold.

A thin, mangy looking man sat off to one corner of the inn, pressed against the shadows like Nymeria hid outside. He was clutching a tankard tightly in his hands, glaring across the room at a handsome couple sitting nearer to Yoren and the others. The young woman was laughing and smiling at the square jawed man, who looked like a trader of sorts. He had a golden coin he was flicking between his fingers, making it appear and disappear before finally laying it flat in the girl’s hand, causing her to blush.

The shadowy, mangy man didn’t care for that one bit, lurching to his feet before eye-patched Morris was beside him, shoving him back down into his seat and taking the chair next to him.

“Damn Morris.” Stupid Hek grumbled. “That would’ve been a good fight to see, simple Gerry fighting that whoremaster over there.”

“The girl’s no whore, she’s got good family and she works up at Winterfell.” Another man protested but Hek and his friends laughed.

“Oh? And I guess he’s just giving her coin for having a good family then?” Hek laughed before slapping his hand on the table loudly and calling at the couple. “Wren! Wren girl, get over here!”

The girl at the table hesitated to do so, clearly angry that the drunks were interrupting her time with the handsome man. Yet Hek and the others’ drunken urging finally had the girl shuffling over to them red-faced.

“That’s a good girl… a fine woman you’ve become.” Hek smiled as his friends chuckled. “Now tell me, how much coin is it going to cost that man to find out just how fine you are?”

Even the boys at Yoren’s table had heard that and many were hooting and laughing while Yoren saw some of the better ones stand in shock.

“I’m no whore! I ain’t!” Wren protested meekly. “I’m just talking is all!”

“Men pay for girls to talk now? Me, I’d pay for most to be quiet!”

Yoren ignored the jesting as his eyes kept moving back to Morris and Gerry. For a moment he’d thought perhaps the mangy man was the threat. Yet Yoren saw now that Gerry was clearly drunk, now weeping into the shoulder of Morris who frowned and patted the man’s back.

“Wren.” The girl’s defender had stood up to put an arm on her back. “Girl, your father would not be happy to hear you acting so. He’s always going on about you doing good work up at the castle…”

“I do good work, Ben!” Wren said teary eyed. “I work hard! You know I do! I’m not whoring I swear… it’s just talkin’. Never had a man pay me to talk before. See, he’s not from around here…”

“Trying to show him your sights?” Hek laughed but this time Ben wasn’t having it, pointing down at his friend in warning.

Wren dabbed at her eyes and looked sheepishly back at her companion over her shoulder, who looked to be quite unhappy with all the attention he’d garnered. With all their eyes on him, the man began to toss down some coin and stood to leave. Wren made to go to him but Ben held her firm.

“Men don’t pay for just talk Wren, and Gerry over there is taken with you, you know that. You don’t have to be with him or anythin’ but don’t be so cruel as to do this in front of him. I think maybe I should be taking you home.”

“No! You don’t understand. I think he likes me… a trader! Well off! Liking me, of all girls! He says he’s looking for a wife to take to White Harbor!” Wren said even as her supposed suitor was making his way to the door. “See, he hasn’t been to the town before or ever seen Winterfell. Lord Manderly doesn’t care for him, so him and his friend couldn’t go into the castle with all the others…”

“So?” Hek asked. “What’s that got to do with you taking his coin?”

“He just wanted to know about the castle. About all my work there and serving in the Great Hall and all that. Him and his friend both, they liked my stories so much and we talked for a long time.”

As Yoren realized just what he was hearing, he jumped up in his seat. The others cried out in protest, for his movements had caused a tankard to fall over and spill. He didn’t care about that, for he couldn’t even see the table now, for Nymeria had pulled Arya’s eyes away in her urgency.

The wolf was now watching the trader flee from the Smoking Log, scorning the open streets and the main square for the darkened stretch of lodges and huts behind. She smelt the fear on him, and the stink of threat as well. Yet before Nymeria could chase after him, a collection of wagons drew up in front of her alley, blocking her way.

While the direwolf doubled back, Arya returned to her own skin, finding all staring at Yoren but they didn’t get to for long.

 _It’s my turn to hunt._  
  
With that he was off and on his way out of the inn, ignoring the calls of the boys behind. Once Yoren was out into the cold night air, shooting a quick glare to the folk with the stalled wagon across the square, the chase was on. Nymeria had at least spotted which dark alley between the buildings the trader had gone, so it was that one he ran down.

 _Nymeria will probably find him first_ , Arya thought as her feet splashed in mud and snow,  _but I’ll be there for it._

_With Needle at the ready._

Yoren put a hand down within his cloak to steady Arya Stark’s sword from thumping against his legs as he ran. There were barely any lights in these buildings and the alley twisted in different directions. It broke off at parts but most of those became dead-ends at huts or hovels. The way the trader fled stayed open, his shadowy form becoming clear to Yoren as the trader passed by some lit windows.

 _He isn’t running_ , Arya thought,  _he should be running._

 _It won’t matter but it would be smart to._  
  
She almost wished Jon and Brienne could see her now. They would be proud of her for sure. Just like them, she was about to protect House Stark from another of its enemies. As the man rounded a corner ahead, she quickened her pace, her fist closing around Needle. He might not be Ramsay Bolton or a white walker but in her head, Arya was about to score a great victory for her family.

_As a warrior, not as a stupid princess._

All of a sudden, she felt Nymeria’s frustration. The wolf knew where they were but could not find a way through the maze of buildings to them. That brief moment of distraction went away suddenly as Arya felt a flash of pain.

As she’d rounded the corner of the alley, a cudgel had slammed into Arya’s gut, driving all the air out of her and causing her to buckle.

“Little fuck!” A voice spat at her as she was wrenched up and a knee was thrown into her groin. Her cry of pain almost drowned out the man’s own gasp of surprise. “Shit! You’re a cunt!”

Before Arya could even grasp at Needle, the trader threw her through the darkened doorway of a hut. She landed hard on the frozen ground. The shack was so dark, the light coming from the town seemed so bright, making the trader’s shadow look gigantic over her. The lights were suddenly in her head then as he backhanded her, cursing again when Needle was laid bare at her side.

“Girls.” He spat at her, reaching down to pull Needle free and toss it away. Then her bow was torn from her back and snapped across his knee. After that dropped down upon her, clamping a hand over her mouth and pressing his weight down on her gut. “The girls in the castle had girls serving them and girls protecting them. No wonder this was so bloody easy. That stupid bitch in the inn almost screwed me tonight, told us all I need to be knowing for that eastern fuck but she kept on blabbing to those fools- fuck!”

Arya’s biting at his hand did not dig near as deep as she wanted, nor could she reach his eyes to claw them out. He smacked her again before flipping her over and clamping a hand over her mouth again, so firmly she couldn’t bite. If she had a dagger, she might have had a chance, but she thought a bow and Needle would be good enough. Beating her wasn’t good enough for the trader though.

His free hand began to pull at her breeches.

“I was going to fuck that bitch tonight. Before we got out of here.” He rasped in her ear as she screamed and struggled against him, baring her naked below the waist. “I bet you’ve not been popped…”

His hand grabbed roughly at her mound then, cupping it and moaning horribly, his fingers slick with his spit. Arya screamed again, her tears streaming down her face as her hands dug into the dirt, trying to pull herself away.

_No… no, please… Nymeria help…_

Over top her gasping screams, a howl drifted into the hut, sounding somewhere too far away. The trader began licking her ear as he pulled his hand away and began unlacing his own pants. Arya wasn’t Yoren then or a princess. She wasn’t Nan or Mordane or Weasel or anyone else. She was just herself and she’d never felt so weak or frightened, not even in all her time at Harrenhal.

She couldn’t do anything, slapping back at him did nothing, and he held her too powerfully to escape. She screamed in her mind for anything, for a maul, for a knife, for some way to kill him. Then she didn’t care about killing him anymore, she just wanted her mother to hold her and take her away. Father and his strong arms picking her up, making her feel safe.

When she felt something warm and hard against her thighs she almost retched.

She remembered Pretty Pia when Roose Bolton locked her up in stocks to be used by any man in his garrison, how she cried and became nothing after that, no one daring to look at her. She wasn’t anything to them after that. Not even a woman.

Arya wasn’t going to be Arya Stark anymore. This man was going to make her no one.

Arya wanted to escape that fate, and since her body couldn't she did so with her mind.

_So she was the wolf all of sudden, strong and free, not held down and helpless. Yet she was lost among a darkened collection of man dens. She needed to be somewhere, she could smell the fear and threat in the air but she couldn’t get to where she needed to be._

_The whine burst forth from her, her whole body trembling in fear as she darted up another alleyway, trying to find a way to stop the bad thing that was happening._

_She needed to stop it-_

His teeth biting into Arya’s ear pulled her back, his foul tongue licking at her ear causing her to fill with such terror she couldn’t seek Nymeria again.

She needed to be somewhere else. Nymeria had to save her.

“This is going to be good.” He bit her ear hard again, lining himself up against her. “This hole first.”

 _No! No! Never! Please!_  
  
_Brienne! Jon! Sansa!_

“Arya.”

She thought she was dreaming when she heard that voice. The trader had heard it too, for he lifted up from her quickly. He was barely off of her before she was scrambling away, tripping and falling because of the breeches collected about her feet. Arya only turned back when she heard the man’s scream.

He had fallen backwards, grasping at his groin as he howled in agony and shock. In the light that came through the doorway, she saw his hands coated in blood and a lump of mangled flesh resting at the foot of her rescuer. His blade was bloody and while she couldn’t see his face in the dark, she knew from his stance that he was holding back from delivering the killing stroke.

Instead Podrick came to her, ripping off his thin cloak and throwing it over her front, helping her hide her nakedness as she wept and pulled her breeches back up. She still felt the raper on her, touching her down there. Even though he was on the ground away from her, his hands were still all over her.

“I’m sorry.” Pod rasped, eyeing the screaming, bleeding man the whole time. “I’m so sorry. I got turned around in the huts and couldn’t find you…”

“Thank you.” She sobbed, finally having covered herself yet clutching his cloak tight. “It’s my fault… I was stupid… I wasn’t watching…”

“No Arya.” The squire held up his hand to stop her, not deigning to touch her in any way. When he looked at her, she saw his face was pale and his teeth were chattering in the cold, yet she’d never seen Pod so filled with rage. “Never your fault. That is never your fault.”

With that he rose up and she grabbed his boot in a panic, fearful that he meant to leave her. Pod offered a hand instead and helped pull her up to her feet. As she did so, aching all over, she began to search for Needle. For the man who’d done this to her still lived and needed to be punished.

He needed to suffer for what he’d tried to do. For what he’d done to her.

By the time she found Needle, a strange sound was coming from behind her. For Pod had acted without her, kicking the man until he rolled onto his side, gurgling in pain.

“Mercy… my cock… mercy…”

“Mercy.” Pod rasped in a white mist as he brought his sword up and then down into the man’s neck. The first cut made the air a bloody mess and the trader jerked some.

The second killed him.

The third saw his head off.

Why Pod cut down a fourth time she didn’t know, for the man’s head had already rolled away. The fifth cut was more frantic. The six left Pod grunting. His blows against the body were weaker as they came on quicker and quicker. He just kept cutting and cutting and Arya heard his sword scraping against the ground under the raper’s body. Pod was scaring her a little but she couldn’t find her voice.

So instead Arya came over and clutched the freezing cold squire against her. Needing him to stop as much as she needed to feel safe.

She needed her friend now. 

  
**SANSA**  

“It’s always good to have friends.” Myranda squeezed her shoulders gently. “Surely this arrangement is as welcome as the lord is comely.”

Tristifer Botley’s cheeks reddened as some of the ladies present giggled at Myranda’s boldness. Her ironborn hostage, or advisor as she was starting to see him, was the only man present among this gathering. Sansa was holding court in the sewing room where Septa Mordane had once guided all the young ladies of Winterfell through their needlework. Myranda stood behind her while Mya, Wylla and Jeyne sat in a small circle, like Sansa and the others had as children.

 _I have so many good memories of this place_ , she thought,  _it feels right to fill it with young ladies one again._

 _This room was left to the ghosts for too long…_  
  
Myranda had surprised her by having the room properly furnished, with comfortable seats made ready for the ladies and colorful tapestries adorning the walls. Gifts Mya had brought with her from the Gates of the Moon, taken from Myranda’s own chambers as well as gifts from her future husband, Ser Harry Hardyng. The surprise had been a welcome one, for the room was a bright and warm sanctuary from Winterfell’s cold drabness.

There was no place Sansa could escape her role as regent though. Such was why Tristifer had sought her out among her circle of friends, to speak to a matter he’d obviously put much thought into.

“The ironmen are no friends of the North.” She spoke firmly. “Your people are not a trustworthy sort Tristifer. Theon Greyjoy proved the truth of that.”

Jeyne flinched some at that but she forgave her friend for it. If Jeyne wished to love a doomed man Sansa would not stand in her way, she just hoped all the lady’s prayers before the heart tree wouldn’t lead to her catching a chill.

Tristifer’s demeanor noticeably chilled at her words.

“My people have honor your grace, just our own kind. That’s why there is opposition to Euron Crowseye in the first place, for many see him as a godless man. One who lives by the old ways only as long as he benefits from them, ready to change course as soon as the winds change. Others like Lord Rodrik Harlaw think him a madman… so mad he could lead to the ruin of the whole of our islands.”

Mya made a sound at that, rolling up the map in her hand and placing it on the table beside her, filled with several others. Her friend did not like to sew, yet she was curious and enjoyed learning all she could of the North.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Mya asked, her eyes meeting Tristifer’s in a challenge. “If the Iron Islands fell, it would be all the better for Sansa and her family.”

“For all the North.” Wylla added. “You said the Iron Fleet could be preparing an attack on White Harbor itself. My home, and the lifeline for the North during winter.”

Sansa smiled at the strength the two women showed. In larger company Mya may have felt her bastard status made her unworthy of speaking so freely. Yet in this room, with Sansa and Myranda with her, Mya’s tenacity was laid bare.

Wylla, the newest addition to her circle, fit in quite well with the others. When the lady had arrived with her garish green hair it had sent Myranda and Arya into gossipy tittering. Yet Sansa had come to think the lady’s over the top style matched her dedication to House Stark. Wylla had regaled all of them with the tale of the promise made by the Manderlys to Sansa’s ancestors well over a thousands year ago with a passion that had left her breathless.

While she appreciated Mya and Wylla’s points of view Tristifer was clearly growing frustrated.

“I would remind the ladies that I am now acting in service to House Stark.” He looked to Wylla then. “The threat to White Harbor is only one of many tasks the Iron Fleet could’ve been set to… one I warned you all about even though I could’ve stayed silent. On my honor.”

Wylla did not meet his eyes after that so Tristifer turned to Mya, finding the young woman resolute, with her chin held high.

“Trust me, if Euron leads the Iron Islands to destruction, he’ll do a lot of damage along the way. My people are wreaking havoc in the Reach for now but how long will the Crowseye tolerate a resurgent Kingdom of the North? How long before he turns that foul gaze here again?”

“Sansa and the Starks have endured more than foul looks and survived.” Mya snapped back.

“And I’d spare the Starks facing a thousand longships alone and chancing that continued survival my lady...”

“I’m no lady and you know it.” Mya shook her head. “Flattery won’t change what I’d say to keep Sansa…”

“I would show courtesy to any friend of the princess’s.” Tristifer shook his head and gestured towards Mya’s face. “If I wished to flatter you there are other truths I could speak to but I’m trying to do my duty to the Starks now.”

“Alright Tristifer.” Sansa interrupted the exchange, fascinated by how fiery Mya’s eyes seemed as she glared at the lordling. “Your counsel to me has been honest and sage so far yet you must understand, what you want me to task Lord Ronnel with will be met with suspicion and likely anger.”

 _And for good reason,_ she thought,  _we only just took back Torrhen’s Square from the ironmen._

_Now they want it opened to them in friendship, it be madness to accept such for my people never would._

That Lord Harlaw had anchored his longship, the  _Sea Song_ , just beyond Torrhen’s Square’s small harbor was not news to them, nor that he had young Gawen and Erena Glover with him. Yet Ronnel’s last letter announced some surprising developments.

First, while the iron lord was well within his rights to keep both Glover children at his side, he had allowed the Tallharts to take Erena into their care. Apparently out of consideration for the babe’s health.

That had been a welcome gesture compared to what came next. For three more ships had joined Lord Harlaw’s in the lake, raising fears of possible betrayal. Two had been longships, House Drumm’s  _Thunderer_  and House Goodbrother’s  _Hammerhead,_  and the third a southron cog. No attack had come from the longships, instead a rowboat from the cog had carried a delegation forth to Torrhen’s Square. Lord Harlaw headed the party, with the Lords Gormund Goodbrother and Dunstan Drumm joining him.

When Ronnel allowed them into the Tallhart keep there was no talk of Asha Greyjoy or hostages, only of trade and ships. During the battle for the square the Stark forces had captured almost a score of longships along the lakeside. Ships the iron lords now wished to purchase back from them with the wealth the cog brought from their plundering the Reach. If that did not suffice Lord Harlaw spoke of more cogs awaiting them at the mouth of the Saltspear inlet, under guard by the ships of Lord Drumm’s sons.

Ronnel hadn’t given in to Lady Berena and Brandon Tallhart’s demands for their own longships to go forth and seize the enemy ships then and there. Nor was he inclined to sell away what amounted to the only fleet the North had on its western shores. Instead Ronnel sent the men back to their ships while he sought her decision on whether to take the offer or not.

When she’d summoned Tristifer to speak of all this he’d gone through a range of expressions. From surprised to troubled, then from thoughtful to something akin to confident.

“Reject it.” Tristifer had said. “It’s a false offer. A test I believe.”

  
“A temptation truly.” Sansa admitted. “Your people ravaged the coast and Stoney Shore terribly and with the threat of the reavers many of the fisherfolk fear to take to the sea. Most keeps and villages can last throughout the year, after that the food those cogs carry would be sorely needed.”

“I think Lord Rodrik is trying to find out just how desperate the North is.” Tristifer grinned some at that. “My father would speak of it at Lordsport. How the Reader was so clever, he’d seek a bargain on one item to see how just how cheap a price he could get for what he truly wanted.”

“We have nothing more but those ships and his niece, who is already being delivered to him, what else could he want?”

“Reject it and we will know.”

She found that sound enough and instructed Ronnel to do that very thing. The reply which came quickly after had affirmed Tristifer’s theory, for as soon as the lords were denied those longships they asked for a deal of another sort.

The one Tristifer was now urging her to accept. A deal that would see the iron lords entering into a trading agreement with the North. In exchange for ships full of food and other supplies Torrhen’s Square would assist the ironmen in building new longships. A fleet to be built with timber from the Wolfswood and hidden along the lakeshore, for the iron lords to use at their will.

“I just denied Lord Harlaw and his allies a score of longships, now you’d have me furnish him with the means to build a hundred of them?” She asked, taking Myranda’s hand and having the lady retake the seat beside her own. “To trust your people to keep their word?”

Tristifer shook his head and took a knee before her and such actions reminded Sansa why Myranda had taken to calling the lord charming. She had to admit, she’d developed a fond respect for Tristifer herself. Perhaps if she was not already in love Sansa might have seen him in different light, yet that was far from the case.

 _And my love for Jon endures no matter how far he is from me._  
  
_I hope he remembers that, I pray his heart still beats for me._

“Do not trust their word, trust that they are desperate.” Tristifer lowered his head. “I would not suggest this to you if I was not certain they are. For I believe the lords are in dire straits. If they have need of your timber, and even your people to build the ships for them it means they have not the strength to take either... like my people usually would.”

“They have the strength to plunder the Reach. To defeat the royal fleet. I’ve heard nothing to say Euron Greyjoy has grown any weaker…”

“He likely hasn’t, but his opponents obviously have.” Tristifer raised his eyes and beseeched her with his kind eyes. “Lord Harlaw, House Drumm, House Goodbrother, all have opposed Euron at one point or another. The Crowseye would not send them here to represent him and if they’re coming to the North to try and rebuild their strength… something must have happened. Something that drove them to this act of rebellion for none are ambitious men, in truth they are all quite cautious.”

 _As am I,_ she thought,  _the others surely would’ve counseled me to be._

_All those who helped me take back the kingdom… all those who have left my side._

_The man who is never coming back._  
  
Howland wasn’t dead but she had felt hurt and betrayed after learning he’d joined the Night’s Watch. Jon had written of why it had to be done, asking her to respect Howland’s decision and to send on the lord’s letter to his wife, whom he'd now forsaken.

_What kind of a man can abandon his home? The woman he loves?_

_How could Howland do such a thing to her? How could he abandon me?_  
  
These were childish feelings, she knew that, yet she couldn’t help herself. Howland was always meant to be her Hand of the Queen, then Hand of the King after Rickon’s return. He was meant to help the Starks rule the kingdom they’d retaken together, to act as the wise counsel and strength she needed in the darkest moments. Instead he had become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, to pull it from its own decline.

The loss of Howland to the Wall had dealt a blow against her dreams themselves. It was Howland she wanted to lead her into the godswood, to bring her to the heart tree where Jon would be waiting. Sansa wanted no other to play that role on her wedding day. Howland had even said Jon and her would be wed when they both returned from the Wall.

_Now he’s never coming back… and Jon hasn’t sent word in so long…_

She pushed those worries aside, for his raven could’ve just gotten lost in a storm, or merely been delayed. They’d sent two shipments of dragonglass north already, along with almost a hundred more men meant to take the black. A mix of criminals and volunteers, mostly greybeards unwilling to burden their families with sharing their rations. Sansa wanted to send more, even the entirety of the small army still gathered at Winterfell, yet that would be foolish. They needed those men here just in case any other threats developed to the south.

Roger Ryswell and Ser Gendry believed it likely a second reserve could be raised from the people of Winter Town, yet it would leave them sorely lacking for laborers. She kept the option in mind though and with the coming of Bronze Yohn from the Dreadfort she saw him as a potential leader of such a force. The lord’s announcement of his journey to Winterfell had come as a surprise, a welcome one in truth, for it would be good to have his strong presence at her side again.

Sansa had considered offering the role of Hand to Lord Yohn when she’d heard of his coming but that was not to be. The only true option she had was to name Lord Wyman as Rickon’s Hand. Although a great burden on their rationing system the lord had proven himself loyal, incredibly wise and useful. Beyond that he was Rickon’s most powerful bannerman and with Manderly backing her brother’s crown was secure.

_Now I must see that his kingdom remains so._

_From threats both north and south. From land or by sea._

Sansa waved for Tristifer to rise from where he knelt, impressed at how well he’d argued his case. She decided then and there to have him address the council on this matter. If he could convince them as well then she’d feel more comfortable accepting the agreement with Lord Harlaw.

 “Thank you Tristifer.” She said as he stood before her. “That’s enough for now, I promise to take all you’ve said to mind and leave us knowing I have found your service as honorable as it has been helpful. You are a credit to your islands.”

Tristifer bowed and spoke a soft thanks to her praise before turning to take his leave of the room. Myranda was not quite done with him though.

“Dear Tristifer! My lord!” Myranda held up a hand as if to question him. “I have to inquire about something you spoke of…”

“Randa he has spoken to much already.” She sighed but Myranda shot her a devilish grin and winked.

“Oh but not to what I want to hear. He mentioned flattering Mya and of speaking more truths of her, I for one would love to hear them.”

“He was lying Myranda!” Mya snapped so that Jeyne jumped. “Proving a point! He meant nothing by it!”

“I would not lie and I have not lied.” Tristifer looked between the two women in a curious manner, only stopping when he caught Sansa staring at him as well. “The lady Mya is…”

“I am not a lady!”

“Whatever she wishes to call herself, if she would hear a truth from me it would be that she is a fierce young woman. Kind and full of mirth when in good company.” Tristifer shifted uncomfortably then. “And that her eyes are as deep a blue as the open sea on a summer’s day.”

All the ladies were stunned at that, including Sansa. Myranda was smiling widely while Jeyne was doing all she could to appear enthralled by her needlework. Wylla’s eyebrow was cocked and poor Mya was just standing there, at a loss. She for one didn’t detect an ounce of falsehood in Tristifer’s words, nor did he appear to be trying to seduce Mya, for his eyes were on the ground and he looked eager to leave the room.

“I speak the truth, as I swore to for Asha’s release.” He added, his voice barely above a whisper. “If that is all…”

“Go on Tristifer.” She nodded, if only for the sake of Mya who appeared horribly embarrassed. “If you could, have a steward send word to Podrick Payne. He should summon my sister for the evening meal. She’s missed the last few and I’d rather not have her miss another…”

“I will your grace.”

As soon as the lordling was out the door Mya grabbed at spools of thread and tossed them at Myranda, who was laughing loudly as she deflected the attack.

“Why!” Mya asked. “Why did you do that?”

“Me? You’re the one that called him a liar! You with your eyes like a deep blue sea…”

“Stop!”

“I think he’s right.” Wylla whispered to Sansa behind her hand. “About her eyes. I’ve been sailing out of White Harbor and I’d say they are-”

“They’re not!” Mya protested, seeking help from Sansa but she could not hold back a smile of her own.

“It was a kind thing to say.” She said as she stood herself and cocked an eyebrow at Myranda. “And an improper way of getting him to say so.”

Myranda feigned offense, eyes wide with her hands to her chest.

“My queen! To accuse me of being improper! You may as well call Jeyne pious and say Wylla has her eye on a certain young bull moose…”

 “Randa…”

“What’s wrong with seeking the heart tree? It’s calming and I was told to…”

“I’m not eyeing Larence! I mean he is gallant and kind but grandfather says I shouldn’t…”

Now that all the ladies were bickering Sansa decided it was time for her court to retire to the hall for their evening meal. Jeyne, Wylla and Mya went on ahead as a group of their own, enthusiastically discussing Myranda’s faults loudly. Myranda and her would be going to collect Rickon beforehand as Osha had spent most of the day with the maesters and would likely not have time to join them.

“Finally.” Myranda grinned as they left the room together, smiling at Ser Evan who waited without. “Now those three have something to talk about, I was getting tired of you being the only thing they had in common.”

“It’s not kind to manipulate them like that.” She chastised her friend. “Nor to make them think you so disinterested in their feelings, we both know better Randa.”

“Oh I’ll make amends in time. For now let’s just bask in the knowledge that somehow Mya has pierced that heart broken haze Tristifer lives in. The harlot she is.”

“He’s still in love with the Greyjoy lady.” She countered. “But that was a beautiful thing to say about Mya… and she does argue with him quite often…”

“Oh she’s taken with him alright, the two are just a pair of broken hearted fools. I just hope I get to set them to rights before Bronze Yohn orders me south.” Myranda said sadly, for her fear was that Lord Yohn came to order her back to the Vale to wed Harry the heir. Something Sansa doubted very much herself.

“If your father wished you to leave surely he would’ve said so in his last letter and not sent Bronze Yohn across half the North.”

“When?” Her friend scoffed as they began climbing the stairs towards Rickon’s rooms. “Between the parts about the clansmen ravaging our lands or dragons returning to Westeros?”

“Hush!” She snapped. “You know better!”

Myranda actually acted abashed to have spoken so freely with Ser Evan in hearing and once more, Sansa cursed the word from the Vale. Lord Nestor had sent distressing news indeed, for if she’d expected another thousand or more men to come from those lands those hopes were dashed. For the Vale needed what swords were left to them to throw back the coming of mountain clans. Those savages now ravaged the Vale as war bands, raiding parties and even as armies. Apparently some clans towards the lands of House Belmore had united into a force of thousands and had laid siege to the castle Strongsong.

The coming of the clans had been as shocking to the Gates of the Moon as the pronouncement that came from the island of Dragonstone. One Lord Nestor had sent along for Sansa to read herself.

_Harken,_

_Let this be the day all know that Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess of Dragonstone and Mother of Dragons, has returned to the realm of her forefathers.  
Dragonstone is hers, through fire and blood this castle built by the Targaryens is theirs once more. As the Iron Throne will be hers as well and all the Seven Kingdoms after. Do not wait until you see the wings of her dragons to do what is right; send forth your word of fealty to Dragonstone._

_Bend your knees to Queen Daenerys and House Targaryen._

_For the sake of us all._

_Ser Barristan Selmy,_

_Lord Commander of the Queensguard._

Sansa still felt the same dizzy feeling just thinking about that letter. Whether or not any of it was true was hard to say. Lord Wyllis reported from White Harbor of sailors speaking about a great fleet spotted near the Gullet and Cracklaw Point. Ser Morton had thought perhaps this was the Iron Fleet they’d been wondering of while Lord Wyman considered it possible the Golden Company now had a fleet of its own.

Whatever it all meant Sansa had decided to keep it quiet. For as far as they could tell the North had not been sent any of these ravens and delaying Stannis Baratheon from hearing of another supposed Targaryen arriving in the realm seemed wise. Especially since Jon wrote the king was not responding to any of their ravens and she had no way of knowing if any of this was true.

 _Why work Stannis up over a possible farce? Why give him another reason to look at Jon with distrust?_  
  
_Jon has enough problems… we all do…_

“Sansa I’m sorry.” Myranda grasped her arm then, her eyes full of earnestness. “That was foolish. I just get so upset thinking of leaving here. I admit when I first arrived Winterfell somewhat disappointed but I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than here at your side. Especially after what that witch threatened…”

“Cersei is a madwoman.” Sansa tried to sound strong. “Just like her son and she’s no way of doing any of what she wishes to.”

“Still.” Myranda squeezed her arm while shaking her head and whispering as softly as she could. “To publicly threaten such horrible things, to threaten to do so against children no less…”

“She will never get a chance to do so.”

Sansa swallowed her own bile then, just as she had when Lord Jason had reported of the proclamation from King’s Landing. The Queen, who was apparently once again sitting the Iron Throne, had been declaring Arya and Rickon’s lives forfeit for some time now. She demanded all loyal lords and men to deliver their bodies, either butchered or quartered, to the foot of the Iron Throne itself.

Lord Jason had remarked that the proclamation made no mention of Sansa and it was not hard to understand why.

_She wants me to be afraid. Cersei wants me to think she could do such a thing._

_That I was the one to kill Joffrey and somehow she can get to Arya and Rickon._

_But she can’t. I won’t let her._

_  
_ The sight of Marlen and Rossett outside Rickon’s chambers made her feel confident in that. Sansa had done everything she could to keep word of much of this from Arya and Rickon’s ears. There was no need to burden them with the evilness that haunted Sansa’s thoughts each night before bed.

No need to give them nightmares as well.

“Sansa!” Rickon’s voice called happily when he ran from his chambers into her arms. “Shaggy’s out hunting! He’s keeping us safe!”

“Of course he is.” She kissed his head, for he wasn’t wearing his crown now. Rossett had the honor of carrying it in his hands as it lay upon a pelt of fur. “I hope he finds a meal for it is time for us to see to our own. Would you be willing to escort the lady and I to the hall?”

“Yes! I’ll take you both.” Rickon grabbed at both their hands, giggling when Myranda pretended to struggle with him. “Where’s Osha? I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Remember I told you, we found a lot of strange things in the crypts. Much of it adorned with the runes of the First Men. Osha is trying to help the maester learn what they mean…”

“Oh right!” Rickon nodded, already onto his next thought. “I practiced with my sword today! Rodwell says I’m getting really good and that soon I’ll be able to ride a pony and try the quintain…”

“Oh don’t make me worry so.” She squeezed Rickon’s hand, a tad displeased to think of Rodwell putting such thoughts in her brother’s head. He was still far too young for that. Her concerns were ignored by Rickon though, for he continued rambling on about his sword and being a warrior one day.

“When winter is done can we have a tourney?” Rickon asked, his face full of childish glee. “Ser Evan told me the North doesn’t have them but we should! Everyone from the castle and town could come. I would ride in it!”

“I’m sure the king would perform admirably.” Ser Evan spoke up from behind them as Rossett followed stone-faced and Marlen rolled his eyes. “If he was too young I would gladly ride in his stead and beg the favor of a beautiful woman to do so.”

Sansa almost rolled her eyes herself; for once she would have been all atwitter at the thought of a handsome night hinting at doing such for her.

“No I want to ride!” Rickon said firmly. “I’ll be the best!”

“Would you take my favour, my king?” Myranda asked in a desperate way. “You’d make me so happy if you would.”

“Yes.” Rickon decided with his little chin raised high. “When we have a tourney I will ride for Myranda.”

“My hero.” Myranda gushed as she bent down to peck Rickon’s cheek, which he followed by making a disgusted sound and trying to wipe his face on his sleeve.

Sansa witnessed all this with a sort of numb feeling, for she doubted such a tourney would ever come to pass. Spring was likely years away and by then she expected there would be few in shape for a tourney. Yet she held her tongue on all that.

_I can keep Rickon safe from the evils of this world but I can’t take away his dreams._

_Everyone deserves to have that chance, to dream a dream…_  
  
Her own dream seemed as far away as ever. Of Winterfell green and warm, with the summer sun bringing light to all its corners. Rickon grown into his crown, a wise and good king with a happy people around him. Arya married to a fine man, one who could temper her wild ways, with a great many children running about her feet with wooden swords. Jon and Sansa’s children would, of course, be far better behaved. Her daughters would be doing needlework alongside Myranda’s while they planned a feast together.

A grand feast, where they wouldn’t have to worry about rations.

Not like they did now.

As lively as the Great Hall was when they arrived it masked how little fare was afforded each of its diners. All the tables were filled with men while serving girls ran to and fro with pitchers of wine and ale, which was a rare treat. The arrival of the Manderly wagons had allowed the council to relax how much drink could be offered tonight and the good mood was evident when a round of cheers went up at the coming of Rickon and her group.

Mya and Jeyne were nowhere to be seen yet she spotted Wylla at the high table. Lord Wyman was doing his best to keep her from talking Larence’s ear off while Lord Edric sat several seats over, all by himself. She thought he perked up when the royal family was announced yet became disappointed again a moment later.

 _He looks for Arya_ , she thought,  _I will have to speak to him soon about his intentions._

_My sister cannot be betrothed to just any and Starfall offers little to us._

_As far as I know at least._

“Your grace.” Edric rose and bowed to Rickon and herself, moving to pull out her chair before Ser Evan could. “I’d hoped your family would join us tonight…”

“How kind of you.” Her smile quickly turned into a frown as Rickon leapt up into his chair in a most undignified manner. “Act a king Rickon.”

“I am.” He said absently as he wiggled down into his seat, eagerly taking food off of the plate a serving girl offered him. She sighed at his poor manners as Edric showed himself quite the opposite, pushing her chair in for her before doing the same for Myranda beside her.

“Is Princess Arya to come as well?” Edric asked as he sat once more.

“I expect her to.” She did her best not to grin like Myranda was doing, for her friend suspected the young lord to be a suitor as well. “I’m sure Podrick will have her down soon enough.”

“Pod?” Edric asked in a strange tone. “I saw him heading towards the gates not long ago…”

 _That’s odd_ , she thought,  _it’s usually Podrick Brienne has watching over Arya._  
  
“Arya’s probably on her way with that Mormont lady.” Myranda huffed, clearly not an admirer of the youngest daughter of Maege. The girl had made some comment about Myranda’s dress being cut so low she could see the Mountains of the Moon and had earned the lady’s ire ever since

At times Sansa found Lady Lyanna to be as frustrating as Arya but if the lady distracted her sister it was for the better. Arya had a nose like a direwolf for learning of things best kept from her for her own good. If an energetic Mormont lady let Arya stay blissfully ignorant of the harsher realities of the realm Sansa was happy for it.

“I saw Lady Lyanna as well.” Edric added, beginning to look concerned. “She was heading to the godswood. She looked to have been quite upset.”

“Somebody probably remarked on her manners.” Myranda shrugged it off as another serving girl approached with a pitcher of wine.

Sansa tried to wave it away but Myranda urged the girl on, who was quite at a loss at what to do. In truth she had no idea who this girl was, nor the majority of the others now moving about the hall. Once Sansa would have been able to name every serving girl in Winterfell by sight but there were too many new faces from the town for her to keep track now.

“Perhaps I shall have some wine.” She said to spare the poor girl her torment. “Everyone else is partaking, I might as well.”

“Yes princess.” The girl shakily filled her goblet before glancing to Rickon. “For the young king?”

“No, I think not.” She said, immediately expecting a protest from Rickon.

Yet none came.

For Rickon appeared to be in a different world altogether. His hand had paused in the midst of cutting some meat and his face had a blank expression to it. She followed his gaze out in the crowd but saw nothing to warrant his condition.

“Rickon?” She asked quietly. “Is something the matter with your food?”

“There’s not enough of it for me.” Wyman chuckled from the other side of Rickon before taking notice of his state as well. “My my, your grace, you look deep in thought. Perhaps it’s time I let my secret slip, for some lemons were brought special from the harbor and I believe the cooks had some made into lemon cakes…”

“What a pleasant treat, I’m sure my brother and I could share a few-”

“NO!”

Rickon’s scream caused half the hall to quiet immediately. Her brother’s face was twisted into an expression of rage and fear as he climbed up to stand into his seat.

“No! No! Not here!” Rickon yelled stamping on his foot. “Get out! Get out!”

“Rickon!” Sansa reached for him but he jerked out of her grasp.

“Let him in! We need to hunt! Hunt the bad man!”

She was at a loss to understand and Rickon did not give her a chance to. He quickly grabbed his meat knife and began jabbing in the air in front of him causing Sansa and Myranda to cry out as he did so.

“Stop this! Stop this at once!” She was as worried as she was horrified that Rickon was acting this way where all could see. Already she saw whispering among their men and such could not be tolerated. “Marlen! Evan!”

At once the two Sworn Guards appeared to either side of their king, Marlen quickly plucking the knife from his grasp as Evan scooped the boy up into his arms. Rickon began to scratch and bite at the knight, like a beast backed into a corner.

“Sansa! Listen! We have to let him in!”

“Take the king to my chambers.” She said firmly, thoroughly disappointed in Rickon’s outburst. For he reminded her more of the wild boy who’d been returned to her moons ago rather than the little king she took such pride in. “Perhaps some time to reflect on his manners are needed.”  
  
“A wise decision.” Wyman agreed, smiling in an attempt to soften the situation as he faced the tables. “We’ve all been boys once! And what fine men we’ve all become since!”

The smattering of laughter that followed did little to hide Rickon’s continued protests as Evan and Marlen saw him from the hall, Rossett following behind with the crown. Rickon managed to climb up to look over Evan’s shoulders just before they left, making to scream at her once more, his face red and tear streaked.

“Sansa! Listen! No! I have to save you! Sansa please!”

“Oh Rickon.” She placed her face in her hands as he was taken away, hating to see him so worked up.

_What just happened here? He was fine only moments before._

“Boys will be boys.” Wyman patted the table in front of her. “My own would throw food at each other during nameday feasts, to my wife’s horror.”

“Father wasted food?” Wylla asked wide-eyed which allowed Myranda and Larence a small laugh. When Sansa didn’t join them Myranda took notice.

“You fret so.” Myranda said quietly, sidling up next to her and putting a hand on hers. Her brown eyes full of sympathy and worry. “Listen to Lord Wyman, Rickon will be fine, he just had a tantrum over the wine is all.”

“I’m not sure it was. I don’t even think he heard me say he couldn’t have any.” She shook her head and began to push away from the table. “I should go to him.”

“No you should not.” Myranda pressed down upon her shoulders and spoke firmly. “I am your friend and I am sick to death of watching you worry yourself into an early grave. So you will sit here, enjoy a cup of wine or ten with me, then together we shall both go tend to my future champion.”

“I shouldn’t…”

“You should listen to your friend.” Myranda gulped down a good bit of her wine. “While I am still speaking sensibly at least.”

Sansa laughed then and patted Myranda’s hand on her shoulder. She was not truly in any rush to deal with Rickon, thinking time alone would likely calm his rage. That their sewing circle had also been tainted by matters of state made her realize she had not had a break all day. So, somewhat reluctantly, she reached for her wine and clanked her cup against her friend’s. Then Wyman’s and Wylla’s, then even Edric’s who still watched earnestly at the door for Arya.

 _She’s always late_ , she sipped of her wine,  _likely getting into some trouble._

_No, no. I will do as Myranda says and worry about that later._

_I can enjoy this moment at least._

Or at least she thought so, for the moment she put her cup down it was knocked over and spilled across the table by another serving girl.

“I’m sorry!” The girl said gruffly, quickly reaching to right the cup and making apologetic sounds.

“It’s alright.” Sansa said, shaking her head at Lord Wyman who looked ready to scold the girl. The poor thing looked like she had enough problems already, for she was noticeably homely, with haggard hair and broad features. To her shame Sansa thought of Brienne and scolded herself for that unkindness to the dear lady.

“Our dresses are untouched!” Myranda announced, raising her cup. “And there is always more wine so all is well!”

The serving girl was still shaking her head in apologies as she refilled Sansa’s cup with a sense of urgency.

“I’m so sorry.” The girl whispered before finally moving on, wending her way quickly down the table.

“Poor thing.” Sansa said reaching for her cup. “It’s not like we’d whip her for such. I’m not Cersei Lannister.”

As soon as she spoke the name she cursed herself for doing so. For it just reminded her of what Cersei wanted to do to Arya and Rickon. Which reminded her that Rickon would be awaiting her in her chambers, angry and wild. Just like he’d been the night he’d returned to her. When he’d battled to leave her chambers and she remembered how he’d been peaceful and then full of rage that night as well.

_Because he heard Bran through the weirwood._

_He was having one of those warging wolf dreams._

“I might have her whipped.” Myranda broke into her realization, draining the last of her cup and looking around in mock anger. “She didn’t even bother to refill mine.”

“Take mine. You share in my burdens you can share in my wine.” Sansa said absently, trying to remember what Rickon had been saying.

_Something about needing to hunt._

_And a bad man._

Myranda made a delighted sound as she drank of Sansa’s wine, evidently quite pleased with it.

“Lord Wyman what vintages did you have sent here?” Myranda asked. “Sansa’s was far finer than my last cup.”

“Vintages?” Wyman’s word sounded distant to her as she saw activity at the other end of the hall. Brienne and Ser Gendry both appeared red-faced from the cold and moving quickly towards them. “It’s all the same as far as I know. Just normal castle stock…”

Her friend took another long sip before passing it back to her, gently urging it towards her lips. Sansa couldn’t drink now, for her skin was crawling and she felt something was wrong.

Very wrong.

“Lady Brienne?” Edric called out before she could, rising from his seat. “What’s wrong?”

Brienne was half running towards them, Gendry close behind and both seemed stricken as their eyes swept across the table.

“Rickon and Arya?” Brienne asked quickly. “Your grace where are your siblings?”

“Rickon’s in my chambers and Arya…” Sansa glanced to the empty seat next to Myranda as her friend began to cough. “She was supposed to be here.”

Brienne immediately took off running, Gendry looking to do the same before she cried out.

“Ser what is it?” She asked as she pushed a cup of water to Myranda, who was still coughing.

“The direwolf!” Gendry appeared to be struggling to stay put as Brienne tore from the hall. “Shaggydog! He’s acting like Nymeria did before the Boltons attacked us! He’s outside the castle trying to get in and he’s acting terrified!”

 _Let him in. Rickon said to let him in. That there was a bad man._  
  
“My lady?” Wyman asked then, pushing by Sansa to gently thump at Myranda’s back, who coughing terribly. “Have some water…”

Her eyes went to Myranda’s face then and a dark dread took hold of her. For Myranda was clearly in distress, her coughing now turned to a violent hacking. Worse still, Myranda’s face was changing color and between her hacking came forth a strangled type of gasping.

All things Sansa found far too familiar.

“Myranda?” She moved to begin slapping her friend’s back as well. “Myranda! Breathe!”

Myranda didn’t do as she commanded. Instead her friend shot straight up to her feet, beginning to clutch at Wyman and Sansa as she gasped desperately for air. Just as Sansa remembered Joffrey had during his wedding feast. Myranda’s face was turning the same choked purple color Joffrey’s had as well, her eyes bulging with fear just as his did.

All after he’d been poisoned.

_The wine… she drank my wine…_

“Help!” She screamed moving to clutch Myranda to her as she struggled and choked. “Help her! Poison! Poison!”

“Traitors!” Wyman roared and the entire hall erupted in rage and shock. It all seemed distant to her for she was trying to stop Myranda from collapsing in a heap upon the ground.

“No! Randa please!” She was weeping as she fell to her knees, cradling the choking lady who was tearing her own throat bloody.

“By the Seven…” Edric said as Larence and he tried to pry Myranda’s hands away while others screamed for a maester.

“Murder!” Wyman yelled. “Murderer in the castle!”

_No, there’s no murder. She’s not dead. We can save her._

_I can save her._

Myranda’s eyes found hers then, the liveliness of her brown eyes lost to a bloodshot haze as her trembling slowly began to cease. One of her hands broke free of Edric, but not to claw at her throat, instead moving to the side of Sansa’s face.

“Randa… breathe…” She sobbed, running her hand over her friend’s head. “Just breathe please… our daughters…”

She grabbed hold of Myranda’s hand and pressed it to her face before it could fall away. Myranda’s gurgling offered none of the jests or comforting words Sansa had come to expect of her. Nor did the lady act in a way that set her mind at ease as she often would. For her friend had become still all of a sudden, her struggles all coming to an end.

“Is she…?” Wylla’s voice broke as Larence backed away and went to her side, Wyman trying to do the same to Sansa.

“Your grace, you need not see this.”

“Randa… no you’re going to get married…” She wept, rocking back and forth as the world around her fell away. All Sansa could see was the still form of her friend and the dream she'd had for them both.

“You’re going to get married… our daughters will play together… they’ll be the best of friends…”

“They’ll take care of each other... they’ll love each other…”

 _Like I love you._  
  
_Please..._

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter all about our heroes accepting the roles they are meant to play and the people they truly are.
> 
> Oh and dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to A Cold Wind

**JON**

 

“My husband is not pleased with you.” Alys held her chin up proudly as she addressed him. “Not in the least my lord.”

While her expression was grim, the lady offered Jon a quick wink as if to signal this was all just for appearances. For Sigorn of Thenn, Alys’s fierce wildling husband was just across the yard watching them as they spoke. The man glowered at Jon a moment longer before his eyes drifted to Alys and Sigorn’s features softened, a smile coming to his chiseled face.

“Well I’m sure he finds some solace in having such a fine lady as his wife.” Jon replied while Alys gave her husband a small wave. Soon after the lord turned back to offer gruff instructions to the two scores of Thenn warriors gathered about their sleighs and horses.

Alys smiled now that Sigorn’s attention was diverted.

“You’re far more charming than I remember Jon. When we danced at Winterfell all those years ago, I could barely get a word out of you let alone a smile. Now you give me flattery worthy of courtship.”

“It is not flattery. The two of you did well here.” He gestured about the structures of Castle Black. “How much of this would still be standing without the help House Thenn gave Samwell Tarly? Would perhaps the Wall itself have fallen?”

He was not speaking idly or without a sense of surprise. Sigorn was not a man Jon would have thought to be a savior of any sort to look at him. The man was not an easy person to be around either, though he was one of the most powerful leaders of the free folk. The man had proven that he was both able and brave, commanding a great number of the most disciplined men from Beyond-the-Wall.

_A man who should have been a great threat to us._

_Now a lord on whom I must rest many of our hopes._

“He is a good man.” Alys looked to Jon for what she said next. “I’ve told Sigorn the same about you, I don’t know if he believes it though. Not with you denying him the glory of joining in your great battle… which I thank you for.”

Jon grunted, wondering how many more cursed him for including them in his plans. Sigorn had a place in the strategy Howland and he had developed, but it was not on the front.

“Sigorn commands great respect among the free folk and even some of the sworn brothers have spoken to his worth. More importantly, he has proven himself capable of holding this castle after it has suffered horrific losses. Should the battle we face Beyond-the-Wall end in defeat, I’d not leave it defenseless.”

“No, you’d leave my husband at the mercy of an enemy you failed to defeat.” Alys’s eyes burned into his then. “For that I curse you.”

“My lady…”

“Jon, you credit us with holding this place during chaos, yes? Well we did that together, my husband and me. Had Sigorn been permitted to go forth and fight those monsters with the rest of you, I would’ve hated every moment of it but would have accepted it, for I’d be here, waiting for his return. Instead you’re forcing me to leave this place… without my husband. Without the father of my child.”

Alys’s hands went about her middle protectively but wearing so many furs, he saw no sign of the bump she protected. A child he was very much trying to protect himself by sending her away from this place of cold and death. Gilly and the other women at the castle guessed she was perhaps a moon or two along, well enough to make the journey south.

“The Wall is no place for children, or a woman with child, a woman with the future of her house at stake.” He glanced around at the great many armed men and workers dragging wood and kindling about the grounds. “Your brother Harrion is missing and your traitorous uncle and cousins are slain, which leaves you as the last heir to Karhold my lady. That castle is in need of a ruler and your child will want a proper home when it comes into this world.”

Alys made to protest before he held out his hand and inclined his head to the party her husband was organizing. Half of his Thenn warriors, as well as the hundreds of his non-martial people who had made it through the Wall, were now preparing to leave for their new home. Had it been up to Sigorn, all his warriors would be going with his wife, save for a small personal guard who always joined him in battle. That Howland and he had denied him even that, likely added to the lord’s distaste for Jon.

“Sigorn agreed with us that you should be going as well. He works even now to see off his people and you to safety-”

“And he should be coming with us!” Alys surprised him by grabbing at his hand. “Please Jon, I pray for Harry still but I’m no fool. Every man close to me that rode off to war has never come back. Don’t make me lose Sig too…”

She pulled his hand to her stomach and Jon prayed that Sigorn saw none of this. Jon could only imagine how he’d react to see someone touching Sansa in such a way. Alys plainly didn’t care who saw as her own blue-grey eyes welled with tears.

“He’s kind to me... gentler than I ever expected him to be. He’s never been forceful, not even on our first night when I was scared… he spoke to me in the Old Tongue. Before anything else, he taught me the words for husband and wife… for love.” Glistening tears started slipping down her cheeks. “I want him to teach our babe too. For I love him Jon. I love him with all my heart and I beg you, I plead to you my lord, send him away from here. Let my husband take me home…”

There was no part of Jon’s heart that was untouched by Alys’s plea. He thought the lady was a fine woman, brave beyond her years, and if any were worthy of happiness amidst all this sorrow, it was Alys Karstark. With his hand upon her pregnant stomach and her cheeks wet with tears, he remembered the coltish girl who’d come to Winterfell all those years ago. The boy who’d danced with her then would have done anything she asked in a heartbeat, to allow Alys a family and to end her torment.

Another memory came back as well. A far more unpleasant one where Mance Rayder and Val had been wroth with the lords who’d summoned them to Howland’s new solar.

“That’s my son!” Mance had yelled while pounding the table with his manacled fists. “You’ve no right-”

“Bah! We’ve every right to take your fucking head if we wish to!” The Greatjon hadbarked back as Willem and Aldred yanked Mance away from the table.

“Do what you will with Mance.” Val stepped forward then, her head down and her fist over her chest, playing the part of a cultured lady, despite being anything but that. “He’s made his choices and my sister Dalla paid for them, but that boy is all the kin I have left in this world. I kindly ask that I be allowed to go with him.”

The Lord-Commander had stood up from his chair then as Jon still struggled to accept Howland being dressed in the blacks of the Night’s Watch. Far smaller than Jeor Mormont, the new Lord-Commander still made an impressive sight. The heavy black cloak made him a sworn brother and Longclaw strapped to his back marked him dangerous. Yet it was the raven perched upon his shoulder that called the most attention.

To Jon, its eyes felt like they could pierce deep within a person and lay bare their soul.

Val had not cowered before it though. As far as he could tell, little scared the woman.

_Save for the horrors her people fled from, the monsters that march here as we speak._

_The cold heralds their coming and it grows colder each night._

The solar itself had been warm but Howland’s demeanor was icy and unyielding.

“That child may be kin to you both but he is only a hostage to me.” The Lord-Commander took a bit of corn and handfed it to his raven, which cawed happily. “A hostage that will be better off travelling to Karhold under the care of Lady Thenn.  He will still have value to the Night’s Watch there and will be far from the reach of both allies and enemies… and family. My decision stands. Neither of you may join the child on this journey. Just as Mance still has uses to us, so do you Val-”

“Mance and Tormund are helping you.” Val hissed, the courteous tone gone from her voice, replaced with a cold fury. “They’re the true leaders remember? You’ve got hundreds of our people right here, to fight for you. Soren Shieldbreaker, Gerrick Kingsblood, Devyn Sealskinner, all of them! Keep the lot of bastards and let me tend to my sister’s son.”

“I am not keeping you here to fight Val. I am keeping you here for the sake of my men-”

Val did not take that well. All of her attempts at manners had disappeared and she became like a wraith, the woman lunging at Howland with murder in her eyes. After spending weeks getting to know her Jon had spotted the warning signs and was able to throw an arm out to block Val’s attack. He was rewarded for his efforts with an elbow to his ribs that left him breathless before Val’s hand wrapped around his throat, pinning his back against the wall.

“I won’t be your whore.” She’d spat in his face before tightening her grip. “If you think you crows can come for me without losing your cocks, I’ll show you-”

Before Willem could come to his aid, he’d moved to free himself. Using the very move that Howland had used on him in the crypts, Jon swiped at Val’s wrists and broke her hold on him. He followed that by kicking at the back of her knees to throw off the woman’s stance before spinning her around and pressing her against the wall. He pressed his right forearm against Val’s chest while his left hand swept under her fur cloak and across her middle. Such was how he managed to stop her from pulling the bone-knife she had hidden under her clothes.

“Don’t be a fool.” He whispered even as those light-grey eyes of hers tried to bore holes into his skull. “We would not allow you to be treated in such a way, you should know that. I would never allow it!”

“Is this how you hold your southron ladies Jon?” Val almost bit at him, pulling at his hold while pressing a knee against his groin in threat. Or at least what he thought was a threat. “I choose what men come to my bed. The last one who tried to force me was a kneeler, just like you. I left him smiling. A big bright red smile across his throat. Are you going to test me next lord dragon?”

“That is not something either of us wants.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her knee had pressed against him a touch harder then, which had made Jon feel strangely flush, for he had not been touched by a woman there in months. The feel of Val’s warm body and hot breath against his cheek had excited him yet distracted him even more. For his thoughts turned to Sansa and of how desperately he missed her touch, the feel of her and the ache he had for his love, one that tore at his heart itself.

When Howland had finally came over to separate them Jon was relieved for several reasons. Not only did it break him free of his lament but he truly did not want to fight Val.

Over the past few weeks, he’d come to respect the woman greatly, more than many of the other wildling leaders. While Jon had come to expect strength from the free folk, Val had a deal more than that to offer. She was sharp, a fine tracker, a better rider, and with skills at arms that matched his own and many other knights he could think of.  She even had a talent for courtesies and often demonstrated more patience than some northmen Jon knew, let alone a wildling. Though she sneered and called them all kneelers in private, she smiled and curtsied when it was needed of her and knew how to keep her temper.

Except when it came to matters regarding her nephew.

That aside, Val could charm people as easily as she could cut their throats and Jon did not want to make such a person his enemy.

He already feared one deadly beauty at Castle Black, there was no need to add another to that list.

“Val, you are a princess.” Howland began, holding up a hand when she protested. “Yes, yes, I understand. The free folk do not have such titles but my men, and indeed many of the northern ‘kneelers’ as you call them, have begun to see you as royalty of sorts. You are a symbol of the wildling power to them, one that we have control over. I want them to remain confident in that control.”

 _Do we really have control over her?_ Jon had thought at that, _over any of them?_

Val’s eyes had turned away from Howland then, staring into Jon’s own, challenging him as if she had read his thoughts. Yet he could tell that the fight was out of her after Howland’s words. She hadn’t nodded or bowed or bent in anyway but she’d stayed silent, with a look at Jon that promised something he didn’t like.

“Will you be with us in this? For the sake of all living men, will you do your part, even if you find that part distasteful?”

“I will.” Val had spat at Howland, though her eyes had not broken from Jon’s.

“Good. Now you will be staying at Castle Black, and leaving this room. For I am finished with this matter. Grenn!”

Mance had been pulled away cursing, clearly less than grateful that Howland was having him brought to his son’s side for a farewell. Val had been taken from the room, not resisting, but shaking off Grenn’s hand on her arm. All the while still staring at Jon, flicking down and up his body before settling on his eyes once more. The ferocity they showed made him wonder if she knew whose idea it had been to include her nephew in Lady Alys’s party.

The anger in Val’s eyes hadn’t dissuaded him from the wisdom of their decision to send the babe to Karhold.

So he couldn’t allow the mix of hope and hurt in Alys’s eyes to change his mind now. The last thing Jon wanted to do was break apart a family or drive two people in love away from each other. He understood the pain of being far from your loved ones well. Yet just then, a group of wildling boys, looking to be the same age Bran would be now, walked by with armloads of arrow shafts, reminding him of the threat they faced and hardening his resolve.

“I am sorry Alys.” Jon pulled his hands away from the lady’s stomach and she swallowed at his words. “We need Sigorn more than you do. Let the men he sends as protection watch over you. Let the healer at Karhold bring your child forth into this world. A world your husband will aid us in keeping free of the Others.”

Alys’s face hardened as well and she took a step back, her hands returning to her middle as she did so. He wanted her to keep walking until she was well on her way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, so she could be off with the Thenns and sailing south to her new home at Karhold. Some Vale ships would be waiting for them there, with supplies meant for the lengthy siege of the Dreadfort that had not come to pass.

“I thought better of you Jon.” Alys said sadly, shaking her head. “I truly did. You were a kind boy once, I thought maybe-”

“Do you see a boy before you now?” He asked, his frustration finally showing. “You have a long journey ahead of you my lady and if you are so desperate for time with your husband, I suggest you go and enjoy the moments you have left with him before you depart.”

_Gods, do you hear yourself?_

_You sound like Stannis._

“My apologies.” Alys raised her hood over her head. “You are a boy no longer indeed. I see a lord now, a cold, hard man… one I pity. You should have been there for our wedding my lord. Perhaps it would’ve warmed that bit of ice you call a heart.”

She said no more and left him there, striding out into the yard towards Sigorn and his men. He did not wait around to watch their farewells. He wanted them to have that time without his inference. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to face the hurt he was causing Alys.

_She’s not wrong that I’ve hardened my heart. How else could I have left Sansa’s side to come here?_

_Yet watching Alys and Sigorn wed would have softened it little, for it would have only reminded me of the wedding I am denied still._

Throughout Castle Black, preparations were being made for the battle ahead. The wooden stairs leading to the top of the Wall had been repaired and a constant stream of men moved up and down them, carrying arrows and scorpion bolts to designated positions. The winch lift was rattling its way towards the top as well, likely filled with the heavy weapons and armor, or perhaps even giants.

He saw many men dragging sleighs of materials through the gate and into the tunnel. Others were coming out from having done work in the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall, with some being covered in soot and ash. These men had been part of the burning parties, whose job was to dig up and set aflame any wights they found.

_Every day we clear them away and every night more fill their place._

_Always in greater numbers… the more we push back, the more they press on._

_Which means our plan is working._

“Jon!” Willem’s shout heralded his friend’s return through the Wall alongside Ghost, both blackened with soot. “I hate to tell you this, but you no longer hold a special esteem in my eyes.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” He asked.

“After dealing with the stench of burning corpses all day, I can safely say that you are only the second worst thing I’ve ever smelt.”

Jon grunted while Willem laughed at his own jest, gladly allowing his friend whatever humor he could find from such a foul task. Ghost came to him then and Jon knelt down to begin wiping the blackness from the direwolf’s snowy white pelt with his cloak. The beast rewarded his efforts with a gentle lick to his cheek.

“I feel for that one though.” Willem climbed from his horse and pulled out a cloth to begin cleaning his own face. “With a nose as good as his, I can’t even imagine how bad some of those corpses must have smelled.”

“He helped though? His tracking quickened the work?”

Willem nodded and Jon was glad that Ghost had been of use. After snows like they had the night before, finding the buried weights became near impossible without the direwolf’s help. It made Jon feel badly for the other task he would need to ask of his dearest friend. He stroked Ghost’s head and scratched behind his ears some in apology.

“I’m sorry Ghost, I would’ve allowed you some rest before tonight, but you know what’s at stake.” He said as Willem gave him a strange look. “You need to find the horde again when night falls. You’re the only who can.”

Ghost didn’t reply of course, save to run off towards the kitchens. He had little doubt that the beast would be able to charm or threaten a meal from the cooks there. After that, Ghost would likely travel through the gate and do as Jon asked, for he could sense now that the wolf understood.

_Likely because I understand and our wills are becoming one of late._

“Risky business sending him out there again Jon.” Willem raised an eyebrow. “How many of our scouts have returned lately?”

“Only those who found nothing… the rest were likely lost because of what they did find.”

 _Which is exactly why Ghost must go, he’s the only one who can mark their army’s progress and give us the warning we need._  
  
He couldn’t share that part with Willem though. His bond with Ghost would remain a secret between a small group. Enough hated Jon that he didn’t need to add to their reasons.

“How goes the work?” He changed the subject then. “Will we be ready if it we must march out the day after next?”

Willem shrugged, whistling at some northern lads to come and take his horse.

“I think we’ll never be ready, if what the wildlings and you say is true. Since no one really asked me though, yes, I think the work could be done by then. That being said, I’ve no faith in that army of yours being ready…” Willem made a face as he pointed over Jon’s shoulder. “Especially with the looks of them two.”

When Jon turned, a part of him almost wanted to flee at the sight of the two great men stomping towards him. The Greatjon was fearsome enough on his own but with Tormund Giantsbane joining him Jon doubted a herd of mammoths could have startled him so much.

The pair led a herd of their own sort behind them. The Greatjon was followed a good many of his Umber men while Tormund lead his own wildling band, including his son Toregg the Tall. To say the men were together was overselling their closeness though, for each group kept a distance from one another. They shared little in common, beyond Jon as a destination, and how angry both men looked.

“Dragonwolf!” Tormund bellowed.

“It’s Ser Jon you wildling fuck!” The Greatjon corrected just as loudly, before Willem added his own bit.

“Fairly certain it’s Lord Jon now…”

“Bah!” Both men bellowed.

“It won’t work!” The Greatjon slapped a fist into his palm forcefully. “You see that! That is what will happen to our flanks if we let these savages hold the left! Have you watched them try to form ranks? I wouldn’t trust them to march on a southron tea party!”

“I’ve no desire to join you in your frilly parties!” Tormund slammed a fist against his chest. “The man’s a fool! They’re practicing with blades and axes when I’ve bloody well told all you kneeling sods that flames are what’ll do for wights! Dragonglass for the white walkers! Steel is about as useful as an Umber with a woman!”

“Umbers don’t steal women from their homes!”

“No, they only rape the ones who come to their lands!”

“Stop!” Jon could not shout as loud as the two men but figured throwing himself between them was the best bet for preventing anyone from coming to blows. Willem cursed as he leapt forward as well, pushing back on the Greatjon while Jon attempted the same with Tormund.

They might as well have been trying to move boulders yet neither man made any move to attack the other with Jon and Willem in the way.

“The enemy is out there.” Jon tried to remind them, pointing at the Wall. “An enemy we all shared long before Umber and free folk fought one another.”

“Hate him plenty right now.” Tormund growled, yet he did them all a favor by waving back his men, who seemed far too eager to pounce upon the Umber men-at-arms. “Back. We don’t shed blood as long as they have my kin, remember?”

“There!” He looked to the Greatjon then. “Tormund commands and his men listen.”

“A score of them, yes! But you’ve got thousands of the savages holding the left-”

“Men Tormund kept together and alive for weeks while enduring attack after attack by the Others and their wights. Give credit where credit’s due my lord, I can think of few men among our army who could’ve done the same.” Jon thumped Tormund on the chest as the man began to look triumphant. “Lord Umber, can you repeat what you were telling me last night? About the torches?”

“A torch for every man in my front ranks, some as long as spears. One for every other man in the second and third ranks.” The Greatjon crossed his arms. “We don’t have enough to be wasting, so the rest I have will stay unlit and I won’t be asking my men to practice for battle with bits of wood until then!”

Tormund glowered at the Umber lord but offered no harsh rebuttal to that, which Jon took as a hopeful sign. He didn’t need these two men to like each other, but with Tormund commanding the left and the Greatjon the right, they could not go into battle at each other’s throats.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t have volunteered to command the center if I didn’t think I could depend on both of you to hold the flanks.” He managed to get a small grunt of approval from the Greatjon on that. “And should any of us falter, that’s why Lord-Commander Reed will lead the reserve, to reinforce whoever needs it. Whether they are northerner or free folk, we stand together.”

“Aye.” Willem added, jerking a thumb at Jon. “You two miserable fucks are so awful, you’ll have the Others shitting their chilly breeches.”

That actually got a laugh from both the Umbers and Tormund’s men, although their leaders still eyed each other darkly. Jon began to fear that they had other grievances to air when his squire mercifully came to the rescue. Coll was sprinting towards him, his cloak flapping in the wind behind him.

Jon was a little annoyed to see his squire here and not at his post. Coll had been tasked with keeping an eye on the person that Jon believed posed the greatest threat to their safety on this side of the Wall. While the Greatjon’s reinforcements and Howland’s ascension to Lord-Commander should have let Jon feeling somewhat secure at Castle Black, Melisandre’s continued presence unnerved him.

Almost as much as the lack of word coming from Stannis at the Nightfort.

Howland had manned as many of the Night’s Watch’s castles with mixed forces of sworn brothers, northmen, and free folk, to secure the Wall as best they could. Eastwatch-by-the-sea and the Shadow Tower had seen to the castles closest to them, now that their forces were fortified by the Vale and the North, while Castle Black had sent men west to Queensgate and Deep Lake. Meanwhile the Nightfort continued to be a barrier to them.

What men Howland had sent to check on Stannis had come across sentry posts that would not allow them any closer and Ser Alliser Thorne had not returned at all from his visit to the Nightfort. Apparently Stannis had decided to keep him as an envoy.

_An envoy to a king who sends no messages and answers none in return._

Their request for help in holding the gate had resulted in the arrival of Ser Richard Horpe with a paltry force of a few score men. The knight offered no explanation for his king’s behavior and answered none of their questions. In truth the man said little, save that he was ordered to join them in battle and meant to do so. Whether Ser Richard said anything more to Melisandre Jon wasn’t sure of, yet the pair were often together and frequently met behind closed doors.

Just as Howland, Willem, and he had met over their concerns towards the king.

“It was always a possibility that Stannis would react this way to my appointment as Lord-Commander.” Howland had spoken grimly. “The king probably would have preferred that I lose my head for the treason I committed with Ned. Your presence here likely does not help matters…”

“I don’t trust it Jon, neither all this secrecy nor Ser Richard.” Willem put his hands on his blades. “I’ll never die for a lack of swords nor will I give a man the chance to stab me in the back when I can face him head on beforehand.”

“I’ve no reason to think he means me harm and we need all the help we can get.” He’d argued against his friend’s worries. “The ser and I have fought side by side before and he’s a great warrior, perhaps the best of Stannis’s knights. To send him here might be a peace offering of sorts.”

Willem had scowled while Howland nodded some in consideration, although the lord’s face betrayed no confidence in Jon’s words.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part but I am not ignorant to how my predecessor’s fate came to pass. I shall be wary of men whom I perceive as my enemies, and of those allies who could quickly turn into ones… I’d advise you to do the same Jon.”

He’d been shocked at all the politics at play in the room while a horde of the dead itself threatened the survival of the realm. Yet he was not as prideful as to ignore his friend’s advice. To that end, Jon had ordered Aldred to keep an eye on Ser Richard as much as Coll watched for Melisandre for treachery. So far the knight had done nothing but help them prepare for the fight ahead.

Melisandre on the other hand, simply walked the Wall’s battlements and stared into her flames as far as Coll reported.

_So what’s got him running here full tilt?_

“My lord!” Coll spoke breathlessly as he came to an abrupt stop before him.

“Is there a problem?”

“Problem?” The lad asked wheezing. “Well… I’m not… sure.”

“How fast would you have run if you were sure?” Willem nudged Coll, who jerked to attention as he found the eyes of so many men on him.

“Much faster of course!” Coll nodded. “Lord Jon, you told me to watch the Lady Melisandre and report to you any strange goings ons…”

“Bloody mad witch.”

“Fucking red sorceress.”

Tormund and the Greatjon both cursed in unison, the two men starting some in shock at their shared thought. Willem appeared intrigued by it and began holding up seven fingers but Jon ignored him and returned his attention to Coll, waving his squire on.

“I take it she did something then.”

“Yes! She talked to me!”

He waited for Coll to add that Melisandre had threatened to burn him or had enticed the lad into taking up the red god or had even tried to enlist the squire in some sort of plot. Yet the boy just stood there, as if waiting for Jon to respond to that empty pronouncement. Coll finally took the hint after a few more moments of strained silence and Tormund clearing his throat.

“Oh, well, um… she said that, of the two of us, she is the one that truly sees and that my lord should visit her soon so that he can learn the truth of Rullor.”

“R’hllor.” Jon sighed, shaking his head. Melisandre had sent Devan Seaworth with dozens of such requests and he’d scorned every one of them.

_Just as I will this one. I’ve better things to tend to than that woman’s madness._

_If she has something to say, let her come to me. If Sansa were here, I would never shame her by seeking out the woman I once dishonored myself with._

“Thank you Coll.” He patted the squire’s shoulder. “Next time, unless it’s a threat or a message or something of the sort, just wait to tell me. Go on back to your post.”

“Yes my lord.” Coll bowed and turned to leave but halted in his tracks.

For at that moment, Wun Wun and another pair of giants were ambling by, all carrying what looked to be half a forest’s worth of logs in their arms. Wun Wun took notice of Jon and grunted something down, a greeting he thought. Coll surprised him by shouting what sounded to be a word of the Old Tongue back at them. The giants paused for a moment, gaping at the squire with their small eyes, before bellowing out a bunch of loud, grumbling laughter. Tormund and Willem were chuckling as well while Coll smiled widely before taking off back towards Melisandre’s rooms.

“What the hell was that?” The Greatjon asked and Willem laughed all the harder.

“Well you know that wildling, Leathers? The one that took the black? He’s been teaching me some of the Old Tongue, well, a few choice words really, but anyways… the lad’s so taken with the giants, he wanted to know how you say hello to them…”

“By the gods!” Tormund laughed. “That’s what you told him? How long’s he been doing that?”

“About a week! Every time he sees one… sometimes he shouts it more than once…”

With how hard Tormund and Willem were laughing, Jon actually felt his mood improving, for he suspected what his friend had done to the poor squire.

“I take it Coll’s not saying hello?”

Tormund smiled widely and wiped at his eyes.

“Far from it Dragonwolf! He’s yelling ‘arse’ at them.” Tormund grabbed at his middle as he began shaking again and Willem joined him.

“ _Arse! Arse!_ Every damn time he sees a giant… _Arse!_ ”

Everyone got a good laugh out of that, including Jon, even though he felt bad about doing so.

_Sansa would probably say I’m not being very kind to my squire…_

_No doubt Arya would be laughing harder than any of us._  
  
The moment was as good a time as any for Jon to excuse himself, for it left the Greatjon and Tormund in good spirits. Willem followed as the pair of them made their way to the winchlift. Jon was meant to meet someone atop of it and he felt bad at how long the man had likely been waiting.

When they finally boarded the lift, Willem passed the time by espousing his theory on why Tormund and the Greatjon hated each other so much.

“Oh they’ve got to be related.” His friend held up seven fingers. “Seven Jon! Seven ways I count that they acted similar to one another!”

“Umbers and wildlings aren’t really know for intermarrying Will…”

“Neither were direwolves and dragons.” Willem nudged him. “Anyways, I’m saying they’re cousins at least! Maybe even half-brothers at most!”

“Try suggesting that to them and see what happens.” Jon shivered as the wind blasted at them, causing the lift to shake. Willem seemed to ponder that a moment before brightening in a way Jon didn’t care for.

“Do not think for one moment to task Coll with delivering the news of your theory for you.” Jon said flatly.

“Oh come on! I’m helping the lad build a fine reputation for himself! Squire to a secret dragon, cursing at giants like it's nothing… imagine the tales they’d tell of him if he tried to arrange a family reunion between the Umbers and the Giantsbanes.”

Their argument lasted the entirety of the ride up, with Willem finally agreeing not to use Coll as his messenger and Jon reluctantly agreeing not to inform his squire of the lad’s poor grasp of the Old Tongue.

When they reached the top, the battlements that were carved into the ice were teeming with builders and laborers from both the northmen and free folk. Beyond them Jon could see dark plumes of smoke from the burning of wights in the open country nearest the gate. Another dark shape blocked his view though for Samwell Tarly form was now walking towards them.

“Lord Jon.” Sam nodded as he approached, clutching something desperately to his chest. He face was covered up completely except for his eyes and both Willem and Jon followed his example.

“I’m sorry to make you wait Sam.” He said, wrapping a scarf about his head as he gazed out into the field below the Wall. “Matters in regards to the army had to be sorted out… and I was seeing Lady Thenn off. She did not welcome the journey ahead.”

“I will miss her.” Sam admitted sadly. “Sending her away is wise though, even if she wishes to stay… what we want in the world often matters less the more important we become.”

“Aren’t we the deep thinker?” Willem asked as he brushed by Sam to get a better look at the work below. The knight had still not forgiven Sam for his attempts at getting Jon to take the black.

_I cannot be angry with Sam for putting the needs of the Watch, and even the realm, ahead of the wants of a man he hardly knows._

_Look at the hell I’ve helped create down there_ , he thought, gazing down at the thousands of men toiling below. _A hell I’ll be sending a thousand more to march straight into._  
  
He wanted nothing more than to halt all that work and get those men back behind the Wall for their safety. To free himself of the burden of guilt that would surely come with all the fighting that lay ahead.  
  
“Fine words Sam. Truly.” He said quickly, trying to convince himself that his wants mattered little. “Have you brought the maps?”

“I have but… well you must know, those weren’t my words.” Sam seemed to be struggling with himself at handing over the object he held to his chest. In his mitted hands, the sworn brother held a very weathered looking, old book. One bound in what looked to be red leather.

“I read them in here. His diary… I apologize for not telling you of it sooner, I only just discovered its existence…” Sam ran a hand over the top of it tenderly before their eyes met and he offered it to Jon. “It belonged to Maester Aemon my lord. Aemon Targaryen… your kin… his life set forth by his hand in this tome since he came to the Wall. His watch has ended and so… it seems right that this is returned to his family. It belongs to you now.”

Instead of taking the offered book, Jon merely stared at it, his mind unable to comprehend the enormity of what Sam was giving him.

_I barely knew the man… and I never knew him as family…_

_To own a chronicle of his life, it would feel like theft it if I took it now._

“We’ve been repairing the rookery recently and I found it hidden beneath a stone. It didn’t burn, not like everything else… not like…” Sam’s voice trembled some and Jon knew the cold had not caused it. “Forgive me Jon, for I’ve read some of it. More than I should’ve to my shame...”

“You were closer to him than I was, so in my eyes, there is nothing to forgive.” He took the book from Sam’s hand, marveling that this was the only connection he had to a Targaryen he actually respected. “Surely if this work began at the Wall, it should remain here. Or perhaps be sent along to the Citadel.”

Sam appeared surprised to hear him say so, perhaps even touched.

“My lord is free to do with it as he sees fit. I’m sure it would be valued wherever it was kept. With you as well.” Sam shifted uncomfortably as he gestured at a bit of ribbon hanging out of the book. “It is strange, but when I read one part in particular, it reminded me of you. I found the page quite by accident, the Lord-Commander’s raven landed upon it as I was flipping through the pages…”

_That bloody raven gets into everything._

As the pair walked to join Willem at the edge of the Wall, Jon opened up the diary to the page in question. Most of it was blank, save for two small portions of writing. The part towards the top was penned in a language he could not read, though Jon recognized the words as High Valyrian, after all the lessons he’d had with Maester Luwin at Winterfell years ago.  The middle bit of writing was done in the Common Tongue though, in excellent penmanship if Jon was any expert.

_‘Those who must rise to take a command, and who are truly worth of it, often find little joy in it. Those leaders must have great strength of heart to do the things that must be done. I once told my beloved brother Egg, a sweet and precocious boy to me, known as Aegon, Fifth of his name to the realm, that when he became king, he would have to kill the boy inside if he was to rule the realm as it needed._

_Here in my final days, with winter almost upon us, I pray that the great leader the realm of men needs can do what my brother could not._

_For the sake of us all.  
Kill the boy and let the man be born.’_

Jon was shaken to read those words as his eyes flitted to the work below. Great wooden structures were being raised, stakes being placed along the ground, ditches being dug into snow and frozen earth. The dark smoke and constant flames of the burning wights was only a taste of the gruesome feast Jon had served up to the thousands of men at Castle Black.

“There goes our scout.” Willem pointed down, and sure enough, Jon could see Ghost’s faint outline as the direwolf ran towards the Haunted Forest.

_Off to see death itself, as I sent him to._

_How many more will I send out to die in the coming days?_

_What right do I have to do any of this?_

_I was born and raised a bastard, not some leader who can fight the Others themselves._

“We’ll give them a good fight at least.” Willem crossed his arms and looked to the other two. “Better than we would’ve otherwise.”

“I didn’t think we stood a chance before.” Sam continued. “Hide behind the Wall, keep the gate shut… that’s all I thought we could do. No one had the courage to say we should take the fight to them. Not me certainly… I’m glad you did Jon.”

“Why? I’ve likely put us on a course that will see hundreds of men dead. Maybe even thousands.”

“Death for life.” Sam said softly. “Many may die but how many more may live?”

“It would be a hard decision for anyone.” Willem added. “One that needed to be made though, I’m glad no one asked me to do it.”

The cold winds blew across them then, Jon’s cloak flapped in the wind and he allowed it, if only to clutch Aemon Targaryen’s diary tighter to his chest, as Ghost disappeared from sight.

“The boy I was is dead.” Jon flexed his burned hand and flinched at the memory. “Killed several times over between Winterfell and King’s Landing, from Blackwater Bay to the Twins… this man is all that I have left to offer…”

“Gods help us all.”

**ARYA**

“He will live. Most likely that is.”

Maester Medrick moved over to the washbasin and cleaned his hands, saying nothing more about Pod’s condition. Arya glanced down at her bedridden friend, looking so pale and covered in sweat.

“His forehead is so hot to the touch though.” Brienne pointed out from the other side of the bed, standing up and walking over to plead with the maester. “And he was speaking wild nonsense almost the entire night, surely there is more you can do?”

“I will ask a steward to bring him some broth so he can build his strength.” Medrick dried his hands on a cloth and began to gather up his instruments, none of which could apparently help. “Unless of course you decide to let me leech him…”

Arya was dabbing at Pod’s face when those words caused her to glare at the maester. There was no way she would let anyone bleed him, not while she had breath in her body. The only reason Pod was so sick right now was because of her and she needed to make that right somehow.

_I want to make it right, I want to do good… that’s all I’ve ever wanted…_

_So why does everyone get hurt when I try?_

“Give the squire another night of rest. His fever has broken so the worst is over. If you’d excuse me, there’s a council meeting I must prepare for.” Medrick offered Arya a nod before he departed Brienne’s room.

The lady had moved Pod into her more private and much larger chambers as soon as the fever had come over him. Beside the bed lay a pallet of blankets and furs that Brienne had slept on each night. She refused to leave Pod’s side for any reason, save to guard Arya throughout the day.

And with Arya spending each day in the room with Pod that meant Brienne never had to leave his side for long.

“Broth…” Brienne almost whispered. “I had not thought of broth. He’ll be hungry of course… he needs his strength…”

“He is strong.” Arya replied, replacing the cool cloth over Pod’s forehead. “Much stronger than some stupid chill…”

“He should have been smarter. Going out there, in that cold, dressed as he was… Was there any doubt he’d fall ill? To put himself at such risk…” Brienne knelt at Pod’s side, laying a hand against his chest which gently rose and fell. “I cannot believe he would abandon his duty like that... but no, the fault lies with me. It was too much for him, protecting you is my duty. I am to blame for Podrick becoming so ill.”

Arya clenched her fists and bit her lip to hold back from screaming the truth. Arya felt so much shame for her part in what happened when Yoren visited the Winter Town. All she wanted was to confess everything to Brienne and beg the lady for her forgiveness.

Yet she couldn’t.

_I made a promise and I can’t break it._

_I won’t betray Pod._  
  
After he had killed the trader, they had not lingered long in the hut. Arya had wiped away her tears and fixed up her Yoren costume as best she could, to make sure that no one recognized her as they made their escape.

The trader’s screams had caused many of the townsfolk to poke their heads out of their homes or drift into the alley out of curiosity. She and Pod had kept their heads low and moved briskly, Arya ignoring how bruised and dirty she felt. Few words passed between them the entire way back towards the castle. She was only able to find her strength and speak after Nymeria had joined their side.

“How did you know?” She’d finally asked. “That I went to the town… who I was… how did you figure it out?”

“Lady Lyanna.” Pod had spoken through chattering teeth, wiping at his running nose. “I was told to fetch you for the evening meal. When I knocked… she might look like you with a cloak on but I know your voice well.”

“She was supposed to cough a lot…”

“Well she forgot.” He’d snapped. “When I found her she told me everything. How you’ve been tricking me, acting like this Oren person.”

“Yoren.” She’d corrected him but then she felt stupid and shamed for doing so when the frozen squire turned a harsh eye on her. “Why isn’t half the castle dragging me back? Why is it only you?”

“Lady Lyanna wouldn’t tell me anything until I swore to get you by myself.” Pod had pulled his thin cloak tight around him, shivering. “In truth, I didn’t really want to tell the whole castle that I’d lost a princess.”

“Don’t call me-”

“Shut up!” He’d snapped, the cold seemingly forgotten in his sudden rage. “You’re a princess! Your brother Robb was a king! Your sister was a queen! Rickon is king now! That makes you a bloody princess Arya, no matter what you may think!”

The shock of Pod speaking to her so harshly, along with what she’d been through at the hut had been too much for her. So Arya had begun to tremble and step back from Pod. When he’d seen her fear, his face had softened and he began shivering again. Arya couldn’t remember a time when he’d looked so sad.

So disappointed.

“I’m sorry… you’re so strong sometimes…” He’d whispered as he turned away from her. “I forget sometimes that you’re still just a little girl.”

Another protest was on her lips but then Arya had remembered how weak she’d felt and how easily the trader had overpowered her, simply because he’d been taller and older than her. Pod had begun to look at her again, looking like he was about to cry, and that made her shame feel worse.

“How could you do this Arya? How? What if I hadn’t come? I would have fallen on my sword if you… if that man…”

“I don’t want you to fall on your sword!” Her eyes had started to water then. “I don’t want people to protect me… to die for me… why does everyone think I’m okay with them dying for me? The name I used, Yoren… he was a man of the Night’s Watch, he helped me escape King’s Landing after father died… and then he was killed for it! Now Brienne and Gendry, and even Jon and you, you’re all always risking your lives and getting hurt, and you all say it’s protecting me? I don’t want that! I hate it! I want to be the one who fights! I want to protect everyone… my family, Brienne, Gendry… you.”

She’d reached out to him then and Pod had let her hold onto his arm.

“I’m an idiot though. I needed to be saved again like a stupid princess. I couldn’t protect myself and… and I almost let him ruin me…”

“Don’t say that.” Pod had whispered, pulling her close. “You didn’t let him do anything Arya, he was… sometimes, no matter how hard you fight or bite or scream… you don’t always win. It doesn’t mean you’re ruined. The Bastard hurt Jeyne and she isn’t ruined, and the Boltons… I-I thought I was no good after-”

“How?” She’d wrapped her arms around her friend, shocked at how cold he felt. “How could you be no good? You saved me! You’ve saved me so many times Pod. At the Crossroads and when the Boltons attacked us, you’re always there. How are you always there?”

“I swore to serve you.” He’d answered while weakly returning her embrace. “A knight needs a cause to fight for and I may only be a squire but I need one to. Princess Arya is my cause. You give me someone to fight for. You give me a reason to keep going after everything that’s happened. I think that’s what keeps us all from becoming broken men… Lady Brienne would agree… you’re more than just a princess to us. You’re our hope.”

She didn’t want to be their cause or their hope. Yet as Pod and she held each other, Arya couldn’t make those words come out. With the storm of thoughts raging in her mind, anything she might have said would’ve felt stupid and feeble.

Eventually they’d started walking again and as the castle began to loom before them, she finally found the nerve to ask the question that had been tearing at her.

“What happens when we get back? What are you going to tell everyone?”

Pod blew on his hands before answering her, his eyes locked on the castle as well.

“That I failed you Arya.”

“No you didn’t-”

“I did. I was meant to watch over you and you’ve been tricking me for days, weeks even. You could’ve been killed tonight and it would have been my fault… when everyone hears about this, no one will trust me with anything. Maybe they’re right not to trust me. My uncle used to say that I wasn’t fit for anything and for so long, I thought he was right. I’d thought maybe, with Lord Tyrion and the Lady I could change… but it’s hopeless now. I’ll never be a knight.”

“Not if they don’t know Pod.” She’d put in. “I don’t want you to lose your chance at knighthood, this is my fault not yours. If we can get back into the castle without anybody noticing, I promise I won’t tell anyone about my sneaking out.”

“They have to know about what happened. That man-”

“I can handle that. Sansa will know but she won’t have to know about you, I swear to it Pod. No one will ever know.”

Pod had taken a little more convincing, and she’d needed to promise to never become Yoren again, but in the end he’d agreed to try her plan. They’d decided to go with the story that Pod had used to get by the postern gate, that Arya had sent him into the village looking for Gendry and Brienne. Yoren was his escort back from town or something like that.

She’d been trying to think of a story for Yoren when she’d suddenly felt something from Nymeria.

The direwolf had tensed beside them for a moment before lunging forward. When she began charging at the gate, a bunch of shouts had welcomed her coming. Rather than barring her path, the guards who were collected about parted for the beast and let her pass through. Then they’d almost lost their minds to see Pod.

“By the gods lad!” Ulroy had shouted, waving Pod within. “They’re hunting the entire castle for Princess Arya and they were about to send riders out into the town looking for you!”

No one was paying attention to Yoren and she’d followed Pod with her head down. The whole castle had been alive with shouts and curses and Arya could sense the panic all around her. Many people were calling her name and she’d had barely enough time to whisper to Pod about keeping to the plan before she ducked into an alcove. She’d ripped off her disguise quickly and used spit and snow from a ledge to scrub away Yoren’s birthmark. When the guards had finally found her, she’d been wearing a ratty shirt and breeches, innocently asking if they’d seen the cat she was chasing.

For a few brief moments she’d felt relief, for the trader was dead and she was back in Winterfell, her home. Everything was alright.

Then Brienne had run up, scooping Arya up into her arms and squeezing her so tightly that her bruises had protested in agony.

“Thank the Mother!” Brienne had almost wept as she carried her through the courtyard like a small child. “Arya… Arya, where have you been? Pod said he left you in your chambers and when I couldn’t find you, I feared the assassin had-”

“Assassin?”

“Arya!” Sansa’s scream had been gut-wrenching to hear. Sansa’s screams at her were usually so high and annoying, sometimes condescending, but this scream had been filled with a terror that sent shivers down her back. When she managed to pull away from Brienne’s grip to turn, she saw a frightening sight.

Her sister had a crazed and desperate look about her while she’d pushed her way through a crowd of people gathered about the Great Hall. Arya spotted the scattered remains of what looked to be a woman at the center, drawing gasps from the people. Shaggydog and Nymeria were tearing at what was left of the torso with a sort of rage that didn’t fit for them simply feeding.

Sansa had ignored all of that as she came, joining Brienne in pressing against her. As much as it hurt her bruises, she didn’t mind being embraced so hard.  Arya knew they’d never hurt her like the trader had.

“Oh Arya…” Sansa had wept. Her eyes were red and her hair was messed horribly, like she’d been tearing at it. “I thought I’d lost you too… I couldn’t lose you too…”

“What happened? Who did you lose?”

The answer had been hard to hear and even more difficult to believe.

Myranda Royce hadn’t been her friend, yet as much as Arya pretended to hate her, she hadn’t truly. The lady had danced with Pod at the feast that welcomed her home and that had been such a nice and funny memory. The lady could be pushy and loud but she was always full of smiles and jests, and while Arya didn’t always laugh at them, Sansa usually would.

Hearing that someone had almost poisoned her sister and that they could have poisoned Rickon as well had filled Arya with a red rage.

The rage had disappeared when Arya realized her role in it. Her failures had almost cost Sansa and Rickon’s life and it had actually killed Myranda.

Maybe even Pod too.

“Princess.” Pod gasped then, writhing some in his bed. “My princess…”

“Hush Podrick.” Brienne made a soothing sound as she brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Arya is here. We are both here.”

“No, she’s gone.” Pod whispered back. “Far away… my princess… so golden…”

Arya reached out to hold one of Pod’s clammy hands as Brienne did the same for the other one. She hoped he felt them there. She hoped that he knew they’d been there for him the whole time, waiting and praying for him to get better.

_I’d even be here at night if I could._

_I’m so sorry that I can’t be Pod… they would never let me._

_And my family needs me too._

Since Myranda’s murder, Rickon and Arya had been sleeping in Sansa’s bed with her. The first night it had been Rickon they cradled between them, with all three of them crying. Sansa wept for Myranda, Rickon cried because Sansa was crying, and Arya’s tears came because every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that hut. Her hands clawing at the dirt with the raper’s chest heavy against her back.

The morning after Myranda’s death, she’d woken up to find Rickon curled up against her and Sansa missing. Her sister had been sitting at her dressing table, not staring into the looking glass like Arya expected. Nor was Sansa looking pretty and put together like she always did. She was still wearing her wrinkled shift, her hair was unkempt and tangled, and there were dark circles beneath her red eyes.

She’d been gazing at her hairbrush, as if in a trance.

“I did this.” Sansa said when Arya came to her side. “It was my wine… I gave her my wine. It was supposed to be me. Cersei wanted me. I should have died, not Myranda…”

“You really think it was the queen?” She asked. “That she hired the assassin?”

Sansa had looked up from the brush to stare at Arya’s reflection in the looking glass, her face drawn and pale.

“The Strangler… that was the poison the assassin used. It’s the same one that killed Joffrey. Cersei thinks I killed him with Tyrion so she wants me dead. That’s why she didn’t threaten me in her proclamation… I was too stupid to see it! Cersei wasn’t trying to scare me. She just thought I’d already be dead by the time she sent it out…”

“Proclamation?”

Sansa had turned from the looking glass to look up at Arya, her face filled with remorse. That was when her sister had laid out everything she’d been keeping from them. It seemed there were no tears left in her so Sansa spilled out truths instead. Jon and the Night’s Watch faced tens of thousands of wights marching on Castle Black. Cersei had named Rickon and Arya as dead people walking. Dragons and Ironmen and a host of other threats to the south, Sansa had told her everything.

“I’ve been a fool Arya… it could’ve been Rickon or you there with me. Drinking the wine… If only I’d listened to Rickon. He tried to warn me. Shaggydog warned him but I wouldn’t listen…”

Arya had been mad at being left in the dark, but after hearing that, her rage had dissipated quickly and was replaced with guilt.

_If I’d warned Sansa about the threat earlier, Myranda might still be alive._

_Instead I tried to handle it alone and almost got myself killed._

_If I’d stayed inside the castle like I was supposed to, I could have helped Rickon warn everyone._

_She can blame herself till sundown and nothing will change that._

“If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me.” She’d almost touched Sansa’s shoulder as she said so but she couldn’t. “I knew Sansa. Just like Rickon, I knew. Nymeria sensed a threat and I didn’t say anything…”

“When? During the feast?”

Arya did like Sansa had, spilling all her truths forth from the time that Nymeria and Shaggydog had killed the traitors, up until the last wagons had headed into the Winter Town. She kept her promise to Pod though, making no mention of Yoren or what happened with the trader. She instead told Sansa that Nymeria had been hunting the traitors in the town and by the time she realized the threat had been in the castle, it was too late.

“I told Rickon to keep it all a secret from you.” Arya had been close to tears. “You didn’t understand our wolf dreams! How could you understand our skinchanging? I wanted to keep us safe but I was stupid and I made a mistake and Myranda died for it. They killed her and if I had just said something…”

“Oh Arya!” Sansa had shaken her head, looking overwhelmed by everything Arya had told her. She’d been ready for Sansa to scold her, to scream at her and blame her for everything, even maybe hit her.

Instead Sansa had laid a hand upon her cheek, her touch shaky and gentle but warm.

“I don’t understand so much of this… and I won’t lie, it scares me, it scares me so much to think of you and Rickon as wolves. I might have acted horribly if you’d told me of the traitors or maybe I wouldn’t have. I can’t say truly.” She’d shaken her head to look over at Rickon who was still sleeping.

“You’re just as good with Rickon as I am. I love you and Jon loves us both so much, so why? Why are we like this Arya? We’re supposed to be sisters, we’re supposed to be on each other’s side, but somehow we always end up seeing the other as an enemy. Why can’t we trust each other? If we’d done so from the start… maybe…”

“Myranda would be alive.” She’d nodded. “Truly Sansa, don’t blame yourself-”

“I know who to blame!” Sansa had snapped, all the warmth gone from her voice. “Cersei. I want her dead Arya. I’ve never wanted someone to die so badly since Joffrey.”

Arya had been surprised to hear such venom in Sansa’s voice but she’d understood.

_Now the queen is on her list._

“She deserves to die for all she’s done.” Sansa had continued, turning to look back at the hair brush. “For all the Lannisters have done to us. We’ve lost so much because of them. Cersei needs to pay for it… for father, for mother, for Robb…”

“For Myranda.” Arya had nodded.

The fire had gone out from Sansa then as she started moving her fingers across the dressing table. Her hand drifted over the brush but she’d seemed afraid to touch it.

“She’d be here by now to see to my dressing. To gossip… to ask about my plans for the day… just to talk… to brush my hair like mother would…”

Arya hadn’t known what to say to that. She remembered her first night back in Winterfell, when she’d chased Myranda out of her chambers for annoying her. If she could go back to that moment, she’d let the lady brush her hair. A thousands times over. Sansa had done it instead and Arya remembered how nice it had felt, how happy she’d been to feel her sister treating her so gently.

With love.

Without thinking, Arya had taken the brush in hand and began running it through Sansa’s hair. Her sister had looked shocked but Arya hadn’t let that stop her. She’d simply continued working, gently wringing out any tangles she found, thinking to herself again how much Sansa’s hair looked like their mother’s. She’d never wanted to brush someone’s hair before but she’d wanted to do it in that moment for her sister. Arya wanted Sansa to feel soothed and peaceful. Somehow that had made Arya feel peaceful too.

Being able to do something so normal, so gentle, it kept her from thinking of the trader and his rough touch.

They hadn’t spoken the whole time and when Wylla and Jeyne had come to see to Sansa’s dressing, her hair was already ready. The next morning Arya had done the same, except that time they spoke a few words to one another. Mostly about how Rickon was handling things and how to help Mya through her grief. Pod’s sickness had interfered in their new routine though. The day after he’d fallen ill, Sansa offered to brush her own hair and Arya had run straight to the squire’s bedside every morning since.

She missed it though, even now. Even when she was at Pod’s side, she thought of brushing Sansa’s hair. Arya had been surprised to miss something so stupid. Just as she was surprised by the lack of blame that Sansa held for her. Which made Arya feel all the more guilty for Brienne’s disappointment in Pod when she knew the fault was secretly her own.

“You shouldn’t blame him you know.” Arya said, bracing herself for the lie she was about to tell. “Or yourself. Not for that night. I ordered him away Brienne. To find Gendry and you. I commanded him as a princess… it was my fault he left the castle. He was just trying to help…”

“I bear the shame more than him-”

“No you don’t. You need to listen to me.”

A soft knocking at the door interrupted her as Jeyne and Lya entered, both ladies blanching some at Pod’s pale and sweat-soaked state.

 _He’s doing better, they shouldn’t look so worried. He’s getting better._  
  
“How is-”

“He’s getting better.” Brienne answered Lya’s question before Arya could.

“Thank the gods.” Jeyne spoke softly. “We’ve just come from praying for him in the godswood.”

“I don’t pray for anyone except for my family.” Lya added. “But I said some words for Pod. I owe him that.”

She knew Lya felt guilty over Pod getting sick as well but Arya hadn’t told her one word of that night. She didn’t want anyone to know how weak she’d been. Of how that man had touched her.

Brienne stood then, towering over all the girls.

“Your concern is touching my ladies but Podrick needs his rest. So many people here will likely interfere with his recovery…”

“We’re here to take Arya to the Great Hall, for her evening meal.” Lya inclined her head to the door. “Marlen’s outside to take over her escort my lady. Princess Sansa said you’d likely wish to stay by Pod’s side.”

Brienne nodded tiredly, and looked to Arya like she expected an argument. She didn’t argue though. As long as Brienne was with Pod, she was happy.

_It’s not like I’ve ever been able to keep him safe._

_He’s probably better off with me as far away from him as possible._

She said goodnight to Brienne and gave Pod’s hand one last lingering squeeze before she followed Jeyne and Lya out of the chamber. Marlen was waiting there for them and she was glad to see him. Since Myranda’s murder, Sansa had named three more Sworn Guards so that the Starks had night and day protection. One was a man from House Forrester, another was some Flint cousin, and the last was a hedge knight that Larence Hornwood had brought to the castle. Arya didn’t know any of the new men very well but she did know how hungry she felt then.

“Where’s Sansa and Rickon?” Arya asked her friends as they began walking to the hall.

“The king is with Osha and Rossett. Rickon took his meal earlier and is being told stories right now I believe.” Jeyne explained, trying to smile.

“Your sister is locked up in council chambers again.” Lya added. “I don’t think she’s made any of the meals in the Great Hall since… well since…”

“Since they killed Myranda.”

Lya and Jeyne nodded at that and Arya became annoyed. She didn’t like the idea of Sansa having meeting after meeting, trying her hardest to protect Winterfell and the North while she was so sad and tired. Her sister hadn’t been sleeping well, and from what Sansa had told her of what was going on in the south, Arya could see why.

_So while she has to hear the worst of things, I get to go enjoy a meal with my friends._

_While Pod suffers from a fever and Brienne blames herself._  
  
She stopped midstep, shaking her head.

“Go on without me.” She touched both Lya and Jeyne’s hands before turning and heading in the other direction. Marlen reversed course as well, leaving the two ladies with confused looks.

“What?”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to the council.” Arya said firmly. “I’m going to help my sister.”

While she made her way up to where Rickon’s lords convened over matters of the realm, she thought of how many times she’d scorned trials or other castle matters that Sansa attended to while she did other things. Rickon was the king and Sansa was the regent, which had left Arya free to do whatever she wanted.

_Look how that turned out… Sansa would have never been able to keep secrets from me if I’d cared enough to go to a council meeting._

_If I’d acted like the princess that Pod believes in._

She could hardly believe who she saw standing outside the council doorway. Gendry was clad in his fine armor and held a pillow with a bit of fur covering the top. When he saw her coming his expression changed somewhat and he shoved the pillow behind his back.

“Princess!”

She almost, _almost_ protested, but then she remembered what Pod had said and her shame silenced her. So instead she just sighed and waved, trying to smile a little.

“What’s with the pillow?”

“A special project that your sister has had me working on for some time.” Gendry looked to Marlen after saying so. “Marlen, could you take this in to the lords? I have something I’d like to discuss with Princess Arya privately.”

“If it was anybody else I’d have to say no.” Marlen frowned, taking the pillow from Gendry. “There’s to be a sworn Guard with the royal family at all times, the regent’s orders… but if you weren’t Knight of the Winter Town, I think we both know what color cloak you’d be wearing.”

Gendry thanked the crannogman, who indeed went into the council room, leaving them alone. As soon as he was gone, Gendry’s demeanor changed, his face darkening in a way she didn’t care for.

“Tell me about Yoren.” He demanded flatly, crossing his arms. “Now Arya.”

 _He can’t know_ , she thought, _Pod wouldn’t say anything and no one else has breathed a word of that name._  
  
“The man who saved us from the capital?” She feigned ignorance. “He was a brother of the Night’s Watch-”  
  
“He’s the guard boy that the men at the postern gate let in with Pod, the night of Lady Myranda’s poisoning. Yoren’s also the lad that many people at the Smoking Log spotted following after a tradesman who was killed that same night. His head was lopped right off. That same man was spotted with the ugly sot who dressed as a woman to sneak into the castle and who tried to poison your sister…”

When Arya said nothing to any of this, Gendry narrowed his dark blue eyes at her. Those eyes made her want to break and tell him everything.

“Nymeria was spotted in the town too Arya. You were missing all that time and now this Yoren character is missing too. None of the guard boys have seen him since that night. Rodwell figures that he’s the one who killed the tradesman.”

“Good for him.” She said softly, her skin crawling to remember the man.

“You won’t speak to it will you?” Gendry sounded angry then. “There’s a truth here that’s being missed. One I think is so foolish and-and so reckless that I don’t want to believe it but as a knight, I must. That someone who I-I- who is- that someone I care about deeply could put themselves at such risk, I- Arya, I can’t-”

Arya had never seen Gendry so flustered or upset. She’d expected him to rage or to go silent like he sometimes did when he was mad at her, but instead he sounded panicked and afraid. It was easy to forget, looking at him, how old he really was. Everyone thought Gendry was a man grown already, but he looked much younger in that moment to Arya. She wanted so badly to tell him the truth, to release herself of this guilt and to just let him hold her like Pod and Brienne had. To tell her that everything was alright.

But she couldn’t.

_You made a promise, he can’t know._

_He wouldn’t understand anyways. He might even think the worst of me._  
  
I’d have to tell him what that man did to me…

_I couldn’t live with Gendry seeing me that way. Not him._

Gendry liked to jest about her being a princess, but in truth, he was the only one besides Jon who saw her for who she was. More than that, he saw her strength. If he knew how weak she’d been, how she’d let that man touch her… the thought of it made her so ashamed. It made her want to scream.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She stared at the floor as Gendry fumed above her.

“Fine. Don’t tell me the truth.” He sighed, sounding more disappointed than angry. “After everything we’ve been through, how far we’ve come… the two of us…”

Gendry face broke into something of a smile then, and even though it was a sad smile she liked it all the same.

“The truth would be good but if you’re happy with your secrets then fine. I’ve decided that-that seeing you happy is good enough for me. I like to think of you happy and full of laughter… I always want you like that. Safe and happy, wherever you may go… it does me good to think of you like that… I want us to be good….”

The emotion in Gendry’s voice and the patient way he gazed upon her made Arya feel even worse for what she was keeping from him. She turned away to hide her tears as she struggled to keep the memories of that night away from her mind. She could hear Gendry say her name softly and a moment later she felt a touch on her shoulders and she was instantly somewhere else. 

Her breeches around her ankles. Her nails digging into the hard ground.

The man’s teeth on her ear. His touch on her sex, rough fingers poking at her.

 _‘This is going to be good.’_  
  
“No!” She screamed, leaping away from Gendry and pressing herself against the wall away from him. “No! Stop!”

It wasn’t Gendry she was screaming at really. He’d jumped back the moment she first screamed but she still felt like she was under attack, like the man would come out of her memories and finish what he had started. Marlen and Ned suddenly burst forth from the council room, startling her even more.

“Arya…” Gendry said as he pulled even further away, which wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

“Princess, is there a problem?” Marlen asked while Ned put himself squarely between Gendry and her.

“What did you do?” Ned glanced between them. “She’s shaking…”

“I’m not!” She protested, doing her best to stamp down her fears. “Nothing’s wrong! Gendry didn’t do anything, I just… well I was thinking of that night, thinking about the assassin, and I got scared.”

That half-truth was the only thing she could think of.  She didn’t want Gendry to look so hurt at her reaction to his touch. She wanted to walk up to him, to apologize and maybe explain but suddenly Ned was there in front of her and she became startled again like a stupid fawn.

“You got scared? You?” Ned asked, looking worried.

Marlen scratched his head as all three of them stared at her. Their eyes were boring holes into her, like they could see her shame, and she wanted them all to go away. Arya felt like their eyes were stripping of her clothes and she began to breath heavily but she couldn’t close her eyes and focus or she would think of the trader.

“Everything’s alright.” Ned spoke softly, offering her his hand. “I can take you away from here. To the hall, to the godswood, even farther if that’s what you want. I’ll take you to wherever you feel safe.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere!” She snapped as more people exited the council room. Sansa came forth as Ser Evan held the door for her. The sight of her sister, which only a week ago might have filled her with irritation or even suspicion, calmed Arya greatly and she went to her eagerly.

“I came to attend council.” Arya said quickly, ignoring Ned and Gendry’s looks and trying to speak before Sansa asked about what was happening. “Please. I want to be in there with you. I want to help.”

Sansa looked like she needed it. The crown on her brow looked as shiny and fine as ever but her sister looked beaten and tired. Arya couldn’t help thinking that her hair wasn’t brushed very well either. Sansa found a way to appear surprised as all this tumbled forth from Arya’s mouth.

Ser Evan looked angry though.

“How did you know what we were discussing?” The knight puffed out his chest, looking about the corridor. “If there are people sharing what goes on in there I will-”

“I don’t know what you’re discussing.” Arya ignored the pompous man in favor of Sansa. “But I wish I did. No matter what it is, or how bad it might be, I want to know. Just… just let me come in there. I want to be in there.”

Sansa nodded sadly.

“You think I’d still keep things from you?” Sansa’s eyes flicked behind her toward Ned and Gendry. “That I’d not learned my lesson?”

“No.” She wanted to believe Sansa and she did, but this wasn’t about that. “I want to help, to keep us safe. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

Sansa gazed at her a moment longer before raising an eyebrow.

“You have strange timing Arya. Truly strange.” Sansa put a hand to her shoulder and it made her feel safe. Her touch made all of Arya’s fears melt away like the snow on the first day of spring. Ned spoke up then, taking a step towards them.

“Is the time now? Am I to ask her-”

“No my lord.” Sansa shook her head. “That has not been decided and we will inform you when it has.  You may take your leave of us. You as well Ser Gendry, I thank you for all you’ve done.”

Arya didn’t have the courage to look back at them as Sansa led her into the chambers. She got the feeling that both Ned and Gendry wanted to say something to her but when Marlen closed the door behind them she was glad for it.

_I’ll talk to them later._

_It’s Sansa who needs me now._

Within the chambers, Arya was surprised to find only Maester Medrick and Lord Manderly. She knew there were other council members who helped guide Rickon’s kingdom but it seemed they weren’t there now. The two men looked surprised to see her enter and began struggling to their feet when Sansa waved them back down.

“Princess Arya.” Lord Manderly pulled at his long moustache. “I had not expected you to join us…”

“Has the squire’s condition worsened?” Medrick asked and, to his credit, acted genuinely concerned.

“No, he was the same when I left.” Arya kept her annoyance in check at everyone being so surprised with her presence. On the table she spotted the pillow once more, with its hidden prize still covered.

“My sister wishes to take part in our meeting.” Sansa took her seat at the head of the table and Arya noticed the empty chair between the maester and herself. Wyman and Medrick acted put out by those words.

“Considering the matters we’ve been discussing your grace, do you not feel it would be more, er, appropriate, to have the princess attend at a later time?” Medrick asked. “Perhaps on the morrow?”

“I have to agree with the maester, though I would go further. I think it would be wise to delay her joining your council for a few years more. Our discussions are a bit too serious for such a young woman.” The fat lord smiled at her. “With all due respect, princess.”

_Shove your respect up your bulbous ass._

_Tells me to wait a few years… why so he can eat himself into an early grave?_

_Then he won’t have to deal with me?_

“You’ve let Rickon come a few times.” Arya protested, remembering how he’d complained about them to her. “I’m much older than him and I won’t ask to leave when I get bored.”

“Your boredom is not my worry.” Lord Manderly answered and he seemed more serious. “We speak of things that are far too harsh for a young girl’s ears.”

“I can handle it. I’ve seen things on the road that-”

“Not to mention, we can’t be sure that you’ll be able to keep certain matters in confidence.” The lord continued, interrupting her. “When I was planning my treachery over the Freys and Roose Bolton, I did not tell my beloved Wylla. While I never doubted her strength or her loyalty to House Stark I could not trust that she would keep my secrets. It pained me to do so but it was the correct move at the time...”

Arya moved to protest again but Sansa squeezed her hand to stop her.

“She stays.” She said softly as she looked at the empty seat beside her. “My sister has every right to know how we plot vengeance against the Lannisters and work to keep the ironmen away from our shores.”

Sansa pulled Arya gently into the seat then, smiling some when she finally sat. It was a sad smile though, the same one she’d had when Arya had taken the brush to her hair.

“I’m regent.” Sansa continued as her hand moved up to Arya’s shoulder. “Rickon is king, but none of that makes Arya less important. The Starks are weakest when they’re apart…”

“The pack is stronger together.” Arya finished, keeping her eyes on Sansa. “We can get vengeance together… protect Rickon and everyone else, together…”

“Well, I suppose it’s not my place to question the Starks then.” Lord Wyman touched his chubby fingers together before nodding. “You act in this as princesses should.”

“Speaking of…” Sansa gestured to the pillow and Marlen took the hint, walking forward to lift it from the table. He made to bring it to Sansa and her sister laid her hands upon the fur covering.

“When Rickon returned, the Greatjon and the other lords allowed me to keep this crown.” Sansa touched her bronze circlet. “When Robb’s crown was returned to us, I had it on Rickon’s head as soon as I could.”

“It slid right on down to his nose…”

Sansa laughed at that memory as much as she did, which felt strange. The two of them laughing together, here of all places. To Arya, the council room had been where words were thrown around while true strength, the one that came from swords and fighting, was practiced in the yards. Everything about Sansa’s meetings with the lords and knights of the Kingdom of the North was a reminder that Sansa was a princess, which made Arya one as well.

_I never wanted to be a princess, I wanted to be strong._

_A warrior who could run into battle and win it all on my own._

_All I did in the Winter Town was get myself nearly killed and put everything at risk._

_A princess would’ve warned everyone. A princess would’ve had the castle locked down and safe. A princess wouldn’t have let Pod get so sick that he almost died._

_A princess would’ve saved Myranda._

“Ser Gendry fitted Rickon’s crown.” Sansa smiled at her. “He did such fine work that I set him to a different task altogether. Rickon wears a crown, I wear a crown, and it was only right that you have one as well…”

With that Sansa lifted away the fur and laid bare the small piece of metal beneath it. It was no true crown really, not large and gaudy like Arya would have thought, it looked more like a diadem of sorts. The bronze body was slim, and only widened some at the front, where an oval of black onyx stone was affixed. Arya immediately thought of how it would fit on her head as she trained in the yard, and she winced to think how much it might shift while she sparred.

“A crown for a princess.” Sansa said, lifting the diadem from the pillow and resting it on Arya’s head.

The touch of Sansa’s fingers and the cold metal did not set Arya to panicking like she thought it would, for her eyes were locked on her sister’s, and that made her feel far away from what had happened in the town. When Sansa pulled away her fingers, the crown did not shift, nor did it feel too tight. Gendry had done fine work it seemed, for the weight of it was no more of a burden than the mail Arya wore in the yard.

_And I wear that easily enough… and the crown is easier to put on than Yoren’s disguise…_

_I became a guard boy so I wouldn’t have to be a princess._

_But becoming Yoren led to such bad things… becoming a princess has to be better._

_I have to be better._

“I know how you see being a princess Arya, like it’s some sort of prison that you’d rather be free from.” Sansa said softly, startling Arya that her sister could understand her so well.

“Maybe not a prison… I’m sorry if that made you feel-”

“No Arya, in some ways… you’re right.” Sansa continued. “The weight of a crown can be a terrible thing. The responsibility, the decisions you have to make… it can all be so overwhelming… you often have to make terrible choices. Choices that affect the fates of the very people you love most.”

Arya didn’t know what to say to that. It had been easy to think of Sansa as the silly, girl she’d always been and to see that as the reason she liked ordering people around so much. Picturing herself as the strong one had been even easier. Arya was the sister who could fight and shoot and protect their home and do the hard things while Sansa played her games and made Rickon practice courtesies.

_I thought she got her strength from the crown, that without it she was nothing._

_And I was wrong… it takes real strength to wear a crown._

_I have to be that strong. I need to be that strong._

“I’ll do our House proud.” Arya said simply. “I’ll… I’ll do you proud Sansa.”

“Spoken like a true princess!” Lord Wyman declared while Medrick nodded.

“Princess Arya Stark.” Sansa beamed at her, the fatigue on her face falling away a little. “The Wolf Princess…”

“She-wolves.” Arya corrected her quickly. “We’re she-wolves. Both of us. The She-wolves of Winterfell.”

“And Starfall.” Lord Wyman added in, earning a sharp look from Sansa. “I mean, only if Lord Edric’s proposal is accepted, of course…”

“What? What about Starfall?”

Arya had no idea what the Manderly lord was talking about at first.

Then, suddenly, everything began to fall into place. She realized what Ned’s words outside the room could have meant and why Ser Evan had acted the way he had. They were speaking in secret, making proposals and agreements about the future.

About her.

“Arya.” Sansa moved her chin with a gentle finger and forced their eyes to meet. “We have much to talk about… you and me… and you have some choices to make…

“Decisions a princess must make.”

**THE LOST SOUL**

 

_Fucking shit._

He held back the gag as the filth wafted up to his nose, glad for the pitch black all around so he could be spared the sight of what caused such a smell. The damp tunnel Brynden was crawling through was freezing and cramped, the ceiling so low he had to crouch to press on. That meant lowering his face even closer to the shit and waste from an entire town.

_I’ve travelled halfway across the realm, seen more of the world than a hundred Tully’s before me… just to end up in a bloody sewer…_

_As if I deserve any better._

Brynden cursed himself for the thousandth time and every step of his life that had brought him here. This sewer leading beneath the walls of Maidenpool was not how he’d envisioned entering the town during his weeks of travelling. 

_Hadn’t expected to find it under siege either but I can’t figure why not._

_Why should this town be spared any of the fighting all about these lands?_

Brynden’s journey from High Heart had been long and meandering. The snows and lack of fodder for his horses had been the least of his worries. Between the Trident and the God’s Eye lay a swath of land filled with castles and patrols he needed to avoid. Harrenhal was still held by the Faith and considering how he’d captured their riders near the Twins Brynden imagined they would not be too well disposed towards him. Allies held Raventree Hall and Darry yet he couldn’t have any of his friends interfere in his quest for vengeance.

A quest that continued on ever as the war raged on around him.

Numerous battles had been fought in the lands east of the Kingsroad, lands he needed travel through to reach Maidenpool. Apparently Randyll Tarly had been given a sizeable force to throw back the Vale advance, which had been moving south from their stronghold at Darry. All said battles had raged from the shores of the God’s Eye to the walls of the castle Antlers, with both sides suffering defeats. Lord Tarly had fewer men than the Vale army yet had proven himself the fine tactician many claimed he was. He’d stalled the Vale lords yet had not the strength to defeat them fully.

_The Tyrells have worse problems than the Arryn forces._

_Or else Jason Mallister would need to get my men… his men out here to help out their allies._

_Thank the Stranger for krakens, mad queens and mummer’s dragons…_

It was a dark thing to think but fortune had indeed smiled on the opponents to the Iron Throne, for everywhere the Lannister-Tyrell alliance was tested.

Word along the Kingsroad spoke of the ironmen reaving up the Mander and that Highgarden itself was readying against attack. Others spoke of this Aegon Targaryen waging war against a mixed army of Stormlords loyal to the Iron Throne or men merely defending their homes against invading sellswords. Some claimed the royalist army destroyed, others said it was the Golden Company that was defeated. More made mentioned of the Dornish and Brynden figured all Seven Kingdoms were now fully involved in the fray now.

Most travellers treated those matters as trivial compared to the gossip from the capital itself, which was firmly under the dark rule of Cersei Lannister. Brynden had heard so much nonsense regarding the capital it was impossible to know what was truth or fancy.

From a wandering septon he’d heard the High Septon had died from the injuries he suffered during the panic at the queen’s trial. A cobbler swore Cersei was using dark magic to keep the city under her thrall and Mace Tyrell’s army outside its walls at bay. Sorcery was also the reason most often given for why Mace Tyrell continued feeding the city with his stores. Brynden figured there was less magic involved in Mace’s generosity than the lord’s fear for his daughter, who all said was kept at the Red Keep under Cersei’s control.

_Mace Tyrell with most of his troops engaged in a hopeless siege without Randyll Tarly to save his arse…_

_Tens of thousands of his troops just sitting around, unready for battle,_ he thought _, a damn tempting target if there ever was._

_If I had command of the army I brought to Riverrun I’d lead them west around the God’s Eye and catch Mace with his pants down…_

Brynden scowled at picturing someone with their pants down as he waded through shit and piss. Thinking of strategy was a good distraction from the hell he was living right now. It was also far less troubling than the other dread thoughts that clouded his mind so often lately.

_Sansa and Arya are safe at Winterfell, just as you wanted. Their brother Rickon even lives… a boy I’ve never known and can never know me._

_None of them would be any better off with me at their side. Not with what I’ve become._

_There’s no need to bring any monsters to the North._

Everything had felt different after High Heart. He’d killed the outlaws there without a shred of regret or sympathy yet stayed his hand against the old woods witch. There was little doubt in his mind the Ghost of High Heart knew the truth of Lady Stoneheart but even he had balked at the prospect of killing an old woman.

That act of mercy had changed things, at least they had deep within himself.

When he’d bedded down that night, his head resting against a weirwood stump, the dreams had been waiting.

_Cat had been there, sitting on a blanket along the riverbank with Riverrun not far behind them. The sun was shining; the weather warm and he basked in the beauty of his home during summer. Cat was even more beautiful, for she looked like as young as she had when she’d married Eddard Stark. His niece had been watching the water move before her until his presence bid her to look at him. Her face wasn’t ruined, looking as radiant as it ever did, and was only marred by the tears running down her cheeks._

_‘Oh uncle, father will be so cross with you.’ She said sadly. ‘Look at what you’ve let happen…’_

_‘I’m sorry Cat.’ He’d dropped to a knee beside her, weeping himself. ‘I couldn’t save you… or Lysa, maybe even Edmure… I’m sorry for what I let them do to you. I’m trying to make it right, I’m trying to keep your children from ever learning what happened to you.”_

_Cat had shaken her head, pointing out into the river and bidding him to look._

_‘I’m at peace uncle, in the river we Tullys are meant to rest in. You gave me that… an act of love that you twisted into something horrible. Look at what you’ve done.”_

_Brynden had looked out into the water then and saw the bodies floating along with it. He recognized many of them._

_Jack-Be-Lucky. Tom of Sevensteams. Lafe. Jon O’Nutten. Swampy Meg. Melly…_

_The list went on as the bodies drifted down the stream, which was freezing over and becoming darker with every passing moment. Cat crying harder now, burying her face in her hands._

_‘When I was a little girl you kept the monsters away… you said you’d always keep the monsters away… how could you become one? How uncle? You’re a knight, not a monster… a lost soul…’_

_He never got the chance to answer her, for as he reached for Cat the snow came and made the world white all around them. The flurries so thick she was lost to him once more, as was Riverrun itself. What glimpses he saw through the snows were strange ones indeed._

_Edmure, standing at the prow of ship beside a tall, thin man, whose hair was too long and filled with seaweed. Then he saw Roslin, his nephew’s wife, holding a red-haired babe in her arms and weeping as Cat had been. After that came Sansa and Arya, standing beside another boy with Tully features as a great fire wafted towards their terrified faces._

_He tried to save them but when the flurries blasted him once more he was in a far different place. With winter all around he had a hard time recognizing this windswept island that he’d once seen bathed in blood. Snow now covered this barren rock in the Stepstones he’d once fought the Ninepenny Kings on, where he’d stood side by side with his beloved._

_The very knight who stood before him now._

_‘Barristan.’ He almost choked the name out. ‘My love…’_

_The man had looked far younger than the last time Brynden had seen him. Indeed Barristan was every bit the handsome young man he had been when they’d fought together on this rock. His blonde hair did not shimmer as it should under the grey sky yet nothing could darken his smile._

_‘Your friend first Tully. We were always friends.’ Barristan reached for him. ‘We fought together, shed blood together… killed for one another… take my hand Brynden…’_

_‘I still would.’ Brynden tried to take Barristan’s hand but they were too far from one another. ‘I miss you. I love you, please you have to know I’ve never forgotten …’_

_‘You have forgotten.’ Barristan shook his head, the sky growing darker and his outstretched hand still remained too distant to grasp. ‘I know your worth Brynden Tully but you have forgotten it. How could you forget the man you were?’_

_‘It’s been so long… I’ve lost so much…’_

_The sea was raging all around them, swelling over the shores and rushing over the island. He tried to run to Barristan but no matter how fast he ran he never came any closer. He did so anyways, for he wanted to save him, to hold him._

_‘The swan Brynden!’ Barristan shouted over the crashing of waves. ‘I gave you my silver pendant! A sign of your worth to me!’_

_‘I lost it… I lost it with her… please Barristan don’t leave me!’_

_The water was at their feet and soon rising up over their legs. Before they both disappeared beneath the tide Barristan smiled again, even as he faced drowning, Brynden’s beloved smiled._

_‘You carry it still! Know your worth Brynden! Take my hand!’_

When the waves finally pulled them under Brynden had awoken, sweating despite the cold. His heart had been pounding inside his chest, breaking to realize he would not see Barristan standing out there in the snow, bathed in the morning light with his hair shimmering as it should.

 _Imagine if he could see me now_ , Brynden almost chuckled to himself, _covered in shit and wading through a sewer._

Barristan the Bold was too good a knight to ever consider tumbling to the depths Brynden had. His love would never be caught doing something like this.

Spotting the signs of light ahead gladdened him greatly. Not long after he began passing beneath grates leading to the world above, which told him he was well within the town now. Moving cautiously under each grate he tried to grasp at the time.

The sky was still dark yet light enough he guessed dawn was almost upon them.

 _Which means that attack will be coming soon_.

_And the task ahead will be made all the easier._

He waited some time more, until he found a grate that was loose and had no sounds of folk or foot traffic near to it. Dragging himself up and out he found a town that could have been deserted for how dark and quiet it was. Brynden realized he was near the town’s market and moved quickly, his back cracking at being able to fully extend. The darkened side of a closed alehouse was where he found what he needed. A barrel of rainwater rested against its side with only a thin layer of ice over top of it. After breaking through the ice Brynden threw down his satchel and sword, beginning to strip down as quickly as he could. When he was quite naked he held his breath against screaming and climbed into the barrel.

The cold cut at him like a thousand tiny knives yet he forced himself beneath the water and stayed there. He did not dare thrash for the noise it would cause, instead scrubbing at his body powerfully, lifting the stink of the sewers from him. He broke water slowly and cautiously, his teeth chattering as his eyes swung about.

When he saw no threats he climbed free of the barrel and ripped open his satchel. His cloak acted as a towel and he tossed his filthy leathers in the barrel to wash the smell from them as he threw his spare clothes on. After all that, still somewhat damp and not quite sure how he smelt, Brynden was ready to begin his search.

For somewhere in this besieged town Thoros of Myr was hiding and Brynden was going to hunt him down. Trying to do so in the midst of a siege was reckless but if he waited his chances of finding Thoros worsened. Should the gates fall and the town be sacked there was no way he could be sure if Thoros was among the bodies left to rot. If the assault failed then it was likely the defenses would’ve been improved against other attempts to enter the city and his sewer stunt may not have worked.

_I should’ve been able to ride right in through the front gate._

_Of course my luck is I show up when a bloody dragon’s army is ready to burn the place to the ground._

The closer he got to Maidenpool the more people he met on the roads fleeing from it. Each one with their own reason for leaving a port town while the lands further on starved in winter.

“The Cracklaw savages are coming!”

“Reavers are attacking the fisher folk! Reavers of all things!”

“The dragons are coming… sailors have seen them. Black, green and white… all fighting for that dragon bitch.”

He’d thought them all mad, for each one spoke of the strong garrison of a thousand men Randyll Tarly had left to Maidenpool’s defense. Those men, along with the hundreds of Lord Mooton’s forces, made the walled town almost impossible to take without devastating losses.

Brynden thought someone would have to be a fool to do such for a port like Maidenpool.

So it was an army of fools he found forming up outside the walls of the town. At most he counted their number to be four thousand but he believed that number to be less in truth. Of siege weaponry he saw little, maybe four catapults of pitiful power being pulled about. Whatever shock he felt seeing such a pitifully small force threaten Maidenpool’s defences was beaten out by the curiosity the motley army arose in him.

Every noble house and lord of Cracklaw Point appeared to have marched out from their pines and bog barrens to join this army. He spotted a score of banners he recognized, those of the Boggs, Caves, Crabbs, Hardys, Pynes and both branches of House Brune. They were a disorganized and poorly armored lot yet still drew less attention than the rest of their compatriots.

Among them Brynden spotted the banners of sellsword companies like the Second Sons and the Windblown. There were also a great many men wearing spiked bronze caps which made Brynden think of tales he’d heard of the Unsullied. As unbelievable as that seemed he also spotted riders he swore to be Dothraki.

The only thing that unified them were the large banners every part of the army flew under. The black ones with the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He thought perhaps this was the mummer’s dragon from the Stormlands but when he drifted within the Cracklaw part of the siege lines he learned it was a different dragon altogether.

This was Daenerys Targaryen’s army, the princess who’d fled the Baratheon wrath across the Narrow Sea and hadn’t been heard from for years. He thought it was a silly thing to travel so far to let her army be massacred beneath the walls of Maidenpool of all places.

Some drunken Crabbs had told him that their attack, and likely their deaths, would come at dawn. It had taken him most of the night to navigate their siege lines to find the sewer entrance and the rest of the night to move through the sewers themselves.

Now that he was in the town he had no idea where to start searching for Thoros. Dawn was not far off and he needed to move quickly and find people who might know where a low-life like the red priest might hide.

Most buildings were dark and shuttered against the attack that would come. He saw few people on the streets and most of them were guards and men-at-arms, who he hid from as often as he could. It was only when he neared the docks did he find a building that showed any sign of life. A seedy tavern with no sign above it.

The Stinking Goose was filled to bursting with sailors unable to put to water, for the port had been closed while four of Lord Mooton’s galleys guarded the harbor. Brynden moved about the ramshackle crowd, whatever stink he carried lost in their own and there were many uglier than even his scarred visage. With the sailors as drunk as they were it did not take long to find a person with some useful information.

“A red priest? You follow R’hllor?” The Volantene slurred his words some over his jug of wine. “All should you know… the night is dark and full of tenors… wait no… terrors… not fucking singers! Har!”

“Not yet but I’m curious.” Brynden lied. “A fire god to keep my faith warm throughout the winter. I thought to speak with a red priest about things, to set my mind right.”

“Only one in this town I know of… dour one truly, likes the drink though and pretty sure he’s a swordsman…”

“Where can I find him?”

The sailor shrugged.

“Saw him collecting coin for orphans near the home for the little shits. Near that tall building a few streets over. Four levels I think… follow the way along the docks… I think that’s where it was… I was drunk though.”

Brynden toss him some coin.

“Get drunker.”

A fog clouded the waters of Maidenpool’s harbor so that he could barely make out the Mooton galleys floating far within it. Besides those ships he marveled at how few men were stationed along the water’s edges. Whoever was in charge of the town’s garrison was putting his strength elsewhere, likely along the walls, and Brynden spat at the risk that ran.

_Let’s just hope they break this siege by the time my deed with Thoros is done._

_For I’ll need a ship to get to Dorne. Anguy and Edric Dayne are next…_

For some reason, the thought of killing those two filled his mouth with a bad taste. Maybe it had something to do with how Arya had cared for them so. Or that they had fought beside him in Riverrun.

 _None of that matters,_ he reminded himself, _not compared to what they did to Cat._

The memory of her falling, burning from Riverrun’s walls was still seared in his memory. Yet the vivid dream he’d had of Cat came to mind as well, when she’d called him a lost soul and stared out into the water. He knew which memory he preferred, which version of Cat he still loved with all his heart.

The bright one, the girl who’d always had a smile for her uncle.

When he gazed out in Maidenpool’s bay the mist had begun to glow with a golden tinge as the sun poked its way up to the lands east of them.

Dawn had come.

Not long after that his stride along the harbor front was interrupted by sounds of horns and trumpets from far away. Apparently the Targaryen attack against the walls of Maidenpool had begun. When he crested a higher incline along his path he spared a glance towards the walls and saw flashes of flames striking them. The enemy catapults had clearly begun their bombardment.

That was not his fight though and he pressed on. He found the orphan’s home stood near a tall building, one that was crumbling yet had a prominent view of the harbor and the town itself. He figured it for a guards hall that the town lord had let fall to ruin.

What Brynden saw atop of it though shocked him.

For standing on its roof, plain as day, was a man clad all in red and piecemeal armor with two swords held before him. Even at this distance Brynden recognized Thoros of Myr, which was saying a lot for the man appeared to have changed greatly. Where once he was full of body Thoros had become a thinner man and his hair had gone to grey much as Brynden’s had.

Something that hadn’t changed about Thoros was his boldness, for the red priest pointed a sword down at him and actually hailed him in his approach.

“Blackfish! You have come!” Thoros yelled down at him. “I thought the flames may have been wrong! I prayed they were wrong!”

“Your red demon is wrong! Dark and wrong!” Brynden shouted back. “Thoros of Myr! Red priest! Warrior! Sorcerer! Monster! I come for you!”

“As I saw you would! Yet here I am!” Thoros raised his swords high above him. “And the only monster I see here is you! For now at least…”

He drew his own sword then and glanced about seeking a trap, for any sign Thoros had gathered guardians about him in anticipation of his arrival. He saw nothing save empty buildings and the flashes of the battles along the wall.

_If he saw your coming where is his support? Surely he would have prepared for you._

“Come and face me!” He yelled, throwing back his hood and laying his scars bare. “Come and answer for what you’ve done. Or am I to come to you?”

Thoros did the strangest thing then, he laughed. A loud bout of it as well, though it carried little cheer and the priest ended it by pointing his sword out into the bay.

“Best you come to me ser! It won’t be safe for you down there much longer!”

That made no sense to him until he heard the horns blowing again. Only they weren’t coming from the far away battle at the walls. These horns were blowing from behind him, in the bay itself.

 _Oh of fucking course_ , he thought, _of all the times you’re right… why now?_

Out in the harbor, beyond the Mooton galleys, the sight of the dark shapes moving through the mist spoke to the arrival of another threat to the town. The galleys had spotted them too, for fires began to spark on the ships as they lit their braziers in preparation to loose flaming arrows at their coming foes.

The enemy who was better prepared and faster too.

He counted almost twenty longships now darting about the galleys, with some larger warships following behind. All loosing flame and missile against the outnumbered Mooton ships, who were soon sorely beset. Just like the docks and surrounding parts of the town would be when those ships landed.

There’d be little time to deal with Thoros then.

Brynden looked back to his prey and watched as the red warrior clashed his swords together in such a way that sparks were borne from it. A moment later those blades were bathed in flames and Thoros spun them through the air.

“Come Blackfish, fate and justice await!”

“Tell them vengeance comes as well!”

With that Brynden ran towards the abandoned building, with the sounds of battle and siege ringing out at his back. He ran through the entrance and pounded up the stairs at a pace he knew to be foolish, for he might very well be winded by the time he made the roof.

Yet he pushed on.

On and on. Just as he had the night he’d chased Cat up to the walls of Riverrun. He hadn’t been too winded to see to her fate that night. He couldn’t let Cat go without vengeance a moment longer. Thoros had to lay dead at his own hands, his blood coating Brynden’s blade just as all the others had.

For Cat, the child he loved so, deserved that. He wanted to give her that.

Even as her dream self scolded him.

_‘An act of love that you twisted into something horrible.’_

_‘You’re a knight, not a monster… a lost soul…’_

He pushed that all away as he kicked in the door that led to the roof. Thoros stood before him, his flaming swords in hand. The smoke that wafted into Brynden’s nostrils did not come from those blades though. A quick glance to the harbor showed burning ships and many more arriving at the docks, men spilling forth from them.

“Damn them.” He growled, for he was sure the only man that mattered to him right now was right here. “Let us finish this Thoros. There are others I need find after you.”

“If you are not on that list it is a false one.” Thoros spat, beginning to circle about and Brynden did the same. “How many have died for this false quest? How many good people?”

“One.” He snarled. “The only one that didn’t deserve to. My Cat.”

With that he charged, striking at Thoros who deflected with his left blade while the right cut upwards at his head. He jerked away in time to stab low, only to find Thoros spinning away and stabbing upwards at his own middle.  He avoided the gutting and slashed at Thoros’s left arm, trying to take the number of swords he faced down to  one. He was answered with Thoros backhanding him, splitting his lip and sending Brynden staggering backwards in shock.

_He’s fast._

_Too fast_

That didn’t stop Brynden from pressing his attack though. He charged across the roof and his blade met the burning swords of the Myrish priest once more. They clashed again and again, dancing across the roof as the two warriors tested their mettle against one another. Brynden was fueled by rage and a thirst for vengeance, which only grew as the priest cut him a few times during their bout. Whatever fueled Thoros’s actions was keeping him a step ahead  yet left the man morose, with an anguished expression upon his face.

“We tried to do so much good in a realm lost to evil. Our Brotherhood… Beric’s Brotherhood. We did all we could to keep some innocents from the grave.” Thoros kicked at Brynden’s ribs, sending him staggering back. “How many of my friends are dead and buried now?”

“Dead? All save you and three others.” He growled, ignoring the trumpets sounding in the streets below. “I can’t speak to if they’re buried or not. I left them all to rot like the bastards they were. So unless someone else took up a shovel…”

“They deserved better!” Thoros’s face twisted in rage and it was his turn to attack, slashing at Brynden’s head and stabbing at his legs. He ducked the upper cut and deflected the second only to find more coming.

“Cat deserved better.” He grunted as the barrage of flaming attacks drove him back. “You stole her away. She was at peace and you made her into that thing.”

“Not I Blackfish. I knew to try such a thing on one so far gone was not meant to be.”

“So you’re to blame Harwin? Who begged it of you?” He managed to draw a thin cut across the priest’s armor yet drew no blood. “I’ve heard the story from those I killed. Or is Beric Dondarrion who is truly at fault? It was he who breathed that evil into her in your stead. Had he lived I would have-” 

“You would have known a fine man!” Thoros raged, launching another flurry of cut and slashes which had Brynden scrambling. “R’hllor asked much of him and he gave it. Time after time he fell but the Lord of Light willed he return to us. Beric wanted none of it. The only return he craved was to his home and the woman he loved but forgot… the flames burned it away… burned more of him away every time. He wanted peace and rest we gave him endless war. I watched him… I watched my friend fade before my eyes… I watched him forget himself…”

Brynden froze mid-step, his mind reeling as Thoros’s words spurned those of a dream to come to the fore.

_‘I know your worth Brynden Tully but you have forgotten it.’_

_‘How could you forget the man you were?’_

His remembrance of Barristan’s voice caused him to forget that he was in fight to the death. Both of Thoros’s swords came slashing down at him and he swung his own up in an arc to hold the blades at bay, a hand’s length from his face.

As they burned above him Thoros’s eyes burned into his.

“The man Beric was, the true knight he had always been, he would have heeded me.” Thoros pushed down hard in his attempt to drive his blades into Brynden’s flesh. “Beric would have let the lady rest. Yet the man I’d remade was lost in his quest, in his need for redemption. He felt the need for some true victory in all the horrors around us. To raise the lady up. To spare her…  to do justice by her… Beric thought he was doing some noble thing. Instead he created a monster.”

Brynden somehow found the strength to kick out at Thoros’s leg, unsteadying his foe. He then threw a shoulder into the wizard and tried to back away, only to find Thoros coming for him again, swords a blazing.

“After all the deaths the lady caused. All the hangings and foul murders… after what she did at Riverrun… to children. I knew then that my friend had let his light pass from this world only to usher in a darkness.”

“What do you know of darkness?”

Brynden tried to turn the tide of this battle by stabbing at Thoros but earned only a fresh burning gash along his side. A knee to his gut and an elbow to the face sent him reeling against the roof’s edge, Brynden barely catching himself before he flew over the side. As he grasped the ledge and looked below he watched the battle for the harbor unfold beneath him.

The invading ships had made it to the docks, unloading a great many men upon them. He spotted what looked to be ironmen and more of the strangers Brynden thought to be Unsullied warriors. Fighting raged across the docks and ships anchored along them as sailors and the scores of defenders fought to hold their ground against the growing horde of attackers.

The docks were lost, he could see that, for more ships were coming and soon there would be enough invaders ashore to strike at the town proper. The sounds of trumpets and horses clattering upon the stone streets drew his eye to the main roadway leading to the harbor. It appeared whoever had command of Maidenpool’s defenses was not a total fool, for they’d rushed a strong reserve of armored horsemen to the harbor. Moving through the ranks of horses came a great many crossbowmen, men who formed a line across the street and lowered their weapons in preparation.

While the fighting raged closer to the water the invaders had begun to rally to face the counter attack. Many wore eastern garb and joined with the ironmen in flocking to the Targaryen banner being waved high in the air. Heeding the rallying call of a knight clad in fine white enamel and polished armor. His helm hid his face but the white cloak spoke to who this knight thought himself to be.

_Be gone pretender… the last true Kingsguard was driven from the capital years ago…_

_If the Seven are just he is far away and happy… he’d never see what I’ve become…_

“I see your darkness Brynden Tully.” Thoros spoke softly, bidding Brynden to turn around to take in the red warrior before him. “I’ve seen it my flames…”

“Is that what you did all this time?” He readied himself shakily, raising his sword up once more. “Cowered in this town and stared into your fucking fire?”

“I did what I could. I hid who I was and acted the man of god the high priests always wished me to be. I tended the sick, the weak, and the helpless. The children this war has robbed of innocence as well as parents.” Thoros spared a quick glance towards the orphan’s home. “They are safe. All huddled in a damp cellar far below the chaos to come here. I saw to their safety before coming here. I saw they’d live before coming to face my death… the death I saw in the fires-”

“So you’ve become a different man? You cared for some children and that washes away the abominations you’ve helped make!”

“We’re all different men ser.” Thoros answered sadly. “I’m just trying to make a difference before my end. For I will soon be held to account for all my sins, as is just… it is good to taste justice again… I used to sup on it with Beric and our friends… until it went to ash in our mouths…”

A great war cry went up from below and they both watched as the defenders loosed a volley from their crossbows into the invading ranks. Men screamed and fell throughout their number and many backed away fearfully when the trumpets sounded the charge of the riders. The armored line clattered down the streets, their lances and spears lowered, charging straight on into the ragged company. A double rank of Unsullied stood behind the rabble and Brynden wanted to watch more but took the opportunity the battle offered him.

He made a charge of his own, an attempt to use Thoros’s distraction to his advantage.

“For Cat!” He screamed as he brought his sword up and down to split the wizard’s skull.

It was not meant to be. Thoros moved faster than he expected and cast aside the killing stroke with a cut from his own blade. The other almost taking Brynden’s own head off. They began the dance again, although this time there was no doubt who led. For he was outmatched, Thoros swatting away his attacks time and time again like Brynden had once down to little Arya in the training yard of the Twins.

Thinking of that caused his strength to falter even more, for he missed the child dearly. Sansa and her both. It cut him worse than his enemy’s blades to think of how long it had been since they’d last spoken. While Thoros had months with children not even of his blood Brynden had spurned even writing to this those sweet girls.

_And now I am to die here._

_My quest will end here with this wizard for he will be the end of me for sure._

_I hardened myself for this day but gods does my heart yearn to know of those girls…_

_To beat for someone again… not just for someone’s death…_

Brynden fell then _,_ this time against the ledge on the other side of the roof. That was how far Thoros had driven him in this one sided bout. He could not even glimpse the battle raging beyond for the building and his killer blocked his view.

“You lied Thoros.” He spat his blood out, using his sword to bring himself to stand once more. He would not die on his knees. “You said it was you to die here.”

“I never said it was you meant to end my life.” Thoros hefted his blades up for the final kill. “All I saw was our battle, a fight between light and dark, the victor seemed clear when I saw myself standing alone in the end. Alone against the flames.”

“You people…” Brynden hissed. “You and your bloody, fucking flames…”

“I shall pray for you in them Blackfish.” Thoros nodded. “There is much salvation to be found in fire…”

He laughed and spat blood again as the man readied his killing stroke.

That was when the air was torn asunder by a terrible screeching. One so dreadful it set Brynden and Thoros to wincing.

A second one just as bad followed and had both men reaching up to protect their ears. He’d never heard such a sound before and he imagined, from the scared screaming coming from the men below, they hadn’t either.

None could have been expected to hear such a thing before. For when his eyes found the source of the screeches he thought himself mad as the beasts making them had been lost to the world for generations.

Flying across the water on leathery wings came two creatures Brynden had only ever seen in books or imagined in his own head. He named them as dragons and cursed himself for being able to, for the terror that built up within him nearly sent his knees to buckling.

One was a deep, dark green in coloring, with bits of bronze thrown in, the other was a cream color, with gold chasing its scales instead. The beasts that could not be real were both far larger than the biggest horses he’d ever seen. He rubbed at his eyes in disbelief as the dragons drew closer, the pair erupting in a chorus of loud roars then. Less high pitched than their screeches the roars were no less frightening. To him at least they sounded like war horns from hell, bellowing forth an attack no man should ever face.

The dragons’ actions confirmed his fears, for as they closed upon the town their intentions were laid bare. Both began diving down from on high, arching towards the harbor and the battle that raged there.

The green demon came first, bearing down upon the street filled with defenders not far from Brynden’s own personal battleground. The roar came again, drowning out the terrified cries of the men below as the dragon unleashed hell from its mouth. A great burst of orange-and-yellow fire chased with green shot forth and across the street below.

That attack came so near to Brynden and Thoros they were battered with wind as the dragon passed. The intense heat that came with it caused his eyes to water. Considering the agonized sounds coming from the street he counted himself lucky that was the worst of what he endured.

Until his attention turned back to the white dragon.

_Oh fuck._

The second beast was closing on the town as well, flying straight towards the building they stood upon. He glanced at the stairs he’d climbed to the roof with and knew he’d never reach them in time. For Brynden had little doubt the kind of treatment the dragon had in store for those standing in its path.

“They have returned.” Thoros spoke as if in a dream. “May their fires light the way…”

Brynden wanted to kill the man all over again for saying such a stupid thing, for the dragon was happy to oblige Thoros’s prayer. The now familiar roar broke free and shook him to his very soul. When that fearsome mouth opened to unleash its flames Thoros raised up his swords in a salute of sorts, an insanely brave act Brynden was not going to try and live up to. For his instincts drove him to an act of stupidity instead.

Facing certain death on the roof left him few options save to choose another death altogether.

“Fuck!” He cried out as he threw himself over the ledge.

His movements came just a moment too slow to spare himself witnessing the dragon unleashing a pale gold inferno from its mouth and engulfing the roof. He watched as Thoros was bathed in those flames, his swords raised high, as he disappeared within them. Brynden saw little more as he tumbled backwards into the alley below.

For a moment or two his greatest concern was that his cloak burned in dragon’s fire.

Then he struck the first overhang and pain became everything to him. His body slowed its decent greatly as it tore through the wood and clothe attached to the building. When he was falling again it was a pile of crab cages that softened his fall, causing Brynden to cry out in agony at all the splinters and scraps of wood stabbing into him.

Above him the guards hall was burning bright and thick black smoke filled the sky. Some of it coming from where he lay, for his burning cloak was causing some of the flimsy cages to catch fire as well.

“Fuck.” He groaned, unclasping the burning garment as fast as he could. Then, ignoring the pain and his great many injuries, he climbed down from the burning pile of cages to find chaos awaiting him.

Sword in hand he watched as burning men and horses fled by the alley entrance, the smell of that ghastly inferno filling the air. Their screams were even worse but it was the other sounds that worried him more. The clashing of swords and thudding of weapons against shields. A stonewall at the opposite end of the alley offered no escape and with the fire spreading behind him Brynden had few options left to him.

_Another battle… another fight… Cat how many more?_

_How much more is expected of me?_

His only chance at life was to try and fight his way through this madness, so he set forth to do that very thing. Barely two steps out of the alley the battle welcomed him with its warm embrace, a Mooton swordsman covered in gore charging at him out of the smoke.

“Dragon fuck!” The man yelled, slashing at him far slower than Thoros had. “My father! You burned my father!”

He ended the man’s grief quickly, slicing his leg and then his throat open. It felt odd to do so, for he had no quarrel with this town. Nor with the invaders, yet the dragon’s flames and nature of battle itself turned the street into a merciless bloodbath.

No place for reason.

Only death.

He impaled an olive-skinned man thrusting a spear at him. A bearded man wearing salt stained leathers cursed him in the name of the Drowned God and then cursed louder still when he was left gutted and dying. An unhorsed knight with the green apple of the Fossoways on his shield chose poorly in his opponent soon after. Brynden had to kick at the man’s chest to wrench the sword free from the knight’s skull afterwards.

All the while the town burned and the roars of the dragon’s echoed off the buildings. One wooden structure, fully engulfed in flames, collapsed out in the street itself, cutting the front part of the invading force off from the rest. The opportunity it offered the floundering defenders was not wasted, as a score of knights rallied more men for a charge against those ranks.

With Brynden stuck in the middle.

_Can’t fight both, best pick a side._

His choice was made easy when a Mooton man-at-arms tried to cave in his skull with a mace. Such was how Brynden found himself fighting side by side with the Targaryen army. In hindsight he wished he’d chosen otherwise, for they were hard pressed by the greater number of the defenders on this side of the burning barricade. Add to that the desperation borne across Maidenpool’s garrison and his newfound allies were faring poorly.

All save the white warrior who’d found himself on the wrong side of the barricade as well. While Brynden cut down another foe he found himself watching as man after man came at the Kingsguard only to pay for such with their life.

While the knight’s own men fell all around him this white warrior stood tall, fighting in such a way that sent goosebumps to rising across Brynden’s body.

For it was in a style he found all too familiar.

“To me!” The helmed man shouted. “To me! For the Queen! Daenerys! Daenerys!”

He almost froze at the sound of the voice. Even over the din of battle it called to him. It made no matter that it was muffled by the helm the knight wore, for Brynden had heard that voice through countless helms during their battles together.

“Daenerys!” Many men called back yet that was not the name he shouted.

“Barristan!” It felt like it was someone else crying out so, with hope and pain echoing in their voice. “Barristan!”

The knight he prayed for, the knight he longed for, turned towards Brynden as he called out. For the sweetest of moments, Brynden thought he could see the eyes he’d dreamed of for years staring at him through the slit of the helm.

_I’m here… don’t see the monster I am… see me…_

_No matter what else stands here see me…_

What he saw next drove him to scream, for the lapse he’d forced on Barristan had allowed two knights to emerge from the smoke and batter his love. Barristan lost his helm as it was torn away with the strike he barely reacted to in time. The two would be killers did not allow him time to recover, falling on Barristan in a storm of steel and curses.

Brynden felt like his legs moved on his own, as if his body knew what to do before he did. Throwing men aside and leaping over corpses all his aches seemed far away, for Barristan was so close.

_My knight is here._

_And he needs me._

He didn’t have the swan pendant Barristan had gifted him but he had a sword and put it to good use.

“Leave him be!” Brynden roared as he cut away at one of Barristan’s attackers, driving the man back so the knight could deal with the other foe. “Leave him!”

The man shouted something back but he didn’t care, those words meant nothing compared to duty before him. The young knight was able yet weighted down by his armor, clearly fatigued by all the fighting so far. As Brynden should have been yet the screaming of his body was nothing compared to the pounding of his heart. When the knight raised up too high he cut upwards and into the man’s armpit. A slash against his gorget closed his enemy’s throat rather than opening it, yet the man fell all the same.

Just as Barristan’s foe did, his helm caved in from multiple strikes, and blooding seeping through the eye slit.

“Tully?” Barristan said with wonder and a touch of skepticism. “Tully what are you-”

“Not now!” He yelled as more foes came at them, three this time.

Barristan remained confused but showed no such unease meeting the next attack. Just like it was at the Stepstones, the pair fought side by side. His love was the far better swordsman and he marveled at the beauty of him as he battled. He took his own share of enemies away from Barristan yet his knight protected him just as often.

It was like it had been. Two men with no one else but each other in a battle among hundreds. Safeguarding one another as the seven hells opened up all around them.

So lost in the moment Brynden forgot about the dragons altogether, even as their foul work set an entire town to flames.

He remembered the dragons quickly enough when a roar echoed high above them, the beating of wings following soon after and he shuddered to see the green dragon diving once more. It was far ahead of them, coming from behind the enemy now, angling its way back towards the harbor. From the great height it had dived from the dragon was now flying above the height of the buildings. Smoke billowed from its mouth as it drew closer still.

_Oh by the seven no… not like this._

When the dragon’s flames were loosed the streets filled with fire and death. Homes burnt alongside armed men, the fiery torrent drawing closer and closer to them as the dragon beat its wings. He feared it was about to wash over them as well and sought to spare his love.

Barristan was grappling with a new foe and neither appeared to realize that death was on them. So he went to join them, pulling Barristan’s enemy away and freeing his love to flee.

“Run!” He shouted as he struggled with the man. “Run Barristan! The dragon!”

The knight looked behind him yet no fear was borne across his face. He twisted around to see the green dragon ending its fiery attack long before it came to the ranks of Barristan’s men. Indeed the beast glided on by overhead like nothing had happened, terrifyingly serene compared to the horror it wrought.

The man in his grasp cared for none of this, for he threw his head back into Brynden’s face, freeing himself. Once freed the foe followed this by smashing the pommel of his sword across Brynden’s face, driving him to the ground.

He lay there in a haze of pain, the ground wet with blood and the air filled with smoke and the smell of death. The world around him was falling to fiery ruin, men burning alive and the town was being brought to its knees in the most brutal way. He’d come to Maidenpool to deal death, to continue on with his dark quest yet the scale of death here was too much for him.

What should have felt like a nightmare felt like a dream instead. For amongst all of this suffering, he found a cause he thought long lost to him.

A love denied him long ago.

Through his blurred vision that love stood above him now. His white shape a glow in the light of all the fires. No matter how bloody or ash stained Barristan became his brightness shone through, bathing Brynden in a light that warmed him even on the cold ground.

He feared Barristan would look away, just as his knight had done after the Battle of the Trident, when Hoster had kept Brynden from showing him his love. He couldn’t lose him again, for whatever monster Barristan saw on the ground wasn’t the man he wanted to be now.

He wanted to be a knight again. He wanted to feel warm again. For his heart to beat once more.

“Barristan…”

“Easy Tully.” The man spoke in his commanding way. “You look like hell old friend…”

With that Barristan made Brynden feel as if this was all just a dream. That he’d knocked himself out after falling from the roof and was slumbering like a fool this whole time.

For the knight of his dreams did exactly as he had done in Brynden’s dream at High Heart. Barristan reached down to him, offering a hand and a small smile. The months of pain and darkness began to slip away as he gazed at that hand, almost believing its touch could pull him from the depths he’d fallen.

Deep within himself he didn’t feel worthy of accepting that offer, for he was a broken, scarred mess of a man while Barristan remained the shining dream he’d always been. Even Barristan’s light could not survive the darkness Brynden had allowed into his heart.

_There’s no real hope for me… there can’t be…_

_This is not a dream…_

Barristan knelt beside him then, his eyes full of worry as they pierced into the what remained of Brynden’s soul.

“Take my hand. Let me help you.”

“I can’t… you can’t… I’m not worth it…”

His knight was not dissuaded.

“I haven’t forgotten you Tully. I know your worth.”

Like the dream that was Barristan’s words came forth as his hand lowered still.

“Take my hand Brynden.”

This time, no one held Brynden’s hand down. No one kept him from doing as his heart wanted.

So he reached for his love, for his hope.

And grasped it with all the strength left in him.

With all his heart.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of the Seven Flames.
> 
> War, death, horror, loss.
> 
> Fire and blood.

**JON**

 

He stared at the parchment a bit longer, frowning at how untidy the words had come forth onto the page. How unbefitting they were of what he truly felt.

It wasn’t just Jon’s poor penmanship. The ink had kept freezing as he scribbled away, making him have to start and stop and start again, covering each new sentence with a dark splotch of freshly melted ink. His chambers here at Castle Black were cold, far colder than usual. Usually Coll or one of the stewards would stoke the fire in the hearth before nightfall, yet no one had done so today. All were too busy and that wood needed elsewhere.

 _Just as I am_ , he lamented, _I have a command to take up and a battle to fight._

 _I’ve taken up enough time saying farewells._  
  
He didn’t believe that though, or didn’t feel that way at least. As Jon read the letter again, he began to doubt the words he’d used and wondered at others he’d left out. The task he’d set to had not been an easy one. To write a letter laying bare his love for Sansa while doing everything possible to hide his true love’s identity from any other readers was difficult to say the least. It made his words seem awkward and stilted, with a forced propriety. Harder still was trying to make the letter not sound like a farewell.

_I don’t want to scare her needlessly… but I know Sansa, she’ll worry no matter what I say._

_And I can’t wait to send this. Should things go badly tonight, there may not be anyone alive to send a warning to Winterfell._  
  
He shook his head at that dour thought and forced himself to stop delaying the inevitable. With a sigh, he folded the parchment and placed it within his cloak. Sam would be here soon. The steward had kindly agreed to drop by before Jon went through the Wall, to personally see the raven off to Winterfell for him.

Reaching for his sword belt, Jon tightened it firmly around his waist. Following that, he pulled a leather glove over his left hand, his right already covered as usual. He flexed his scarred hand then, remembering the feel of Sansa’s lips upon it. Jon wanted to be strong for her yet he felt his arm shake at the thought of Sansa’s ghostly kiss and he clenched his fist to stop it. Exhaling and letting his breath turn to steam in front of him, he imagined those were his fears leaving and disappearing from his chest.

It felt cold, a bitter, evil cold that bit at Jon even in his chambers. It was even worse outside and he had no doubt the feeling would only deepen Beyond-the-Wall.

_They’re here. After all these months. They’ve finally come._

_The Others… the white walkers… by any name they are our enemy._

_And they have not come alone._

Ghost had not had travelled far from Castle Black before he came upon the undead horde. Jon had been wearing his friend’s skin that night. The wolf had crested a small hill to see the thousands of blue eyes staring back at him. Not all belonged to the undead corpses of men either, a great many giants and animals had seen Ghost as well. They didn’t breath, none of them did, yet they appeared to sense his presence there all the same. They could feel the warmth in the wolf’s blood. None of the corpses had been fast enough to catch him, yet the Others had other allies.

The large ice spiders with their long, spindly legs seemed to glide across the snow-covered lands with impossible speed. Had Ghost stuck to open ground, he would have surely fallen victim to their frozen fangs. Yet both man and wolf knew how to hunt and how slower prey would avoid their hunters. The wolf had darted in and out of trees, leaping over rocks or even ducking below fallen logs to keep the spiders at bay, and it had worked. The monsters’ wide stance meant the creatures could not match the maneuverability Ghost had and, in the end, it had saved him.

The direwolf had made it back to the Wall but whether he was any safer here, Jon couldn’t say.

He felt guilty for risking Ghost in such a way, for his friend would be joining the army for the battle ahead, facing danger once more because of him. They needed all the help they could get as the Others and their army already greatly outnumbered them.

_And if we wait to do this, how much larger will it grow?_

_Who is to say that it stays together at all? What if they split into a hundred smaller groups and hit us all along the Wall at once?_

_The Others may not be able to harm the Wall itself but we don’t even know if they can set the wights to doing so…_

_There’s so little we really know…_

The knock at the door interrupted those doubts, and he was glad for it. The sound had been a soft one, even by Samwell Tarly’s timid standards. Considering what was about to happen tonight, Jon could forgive the man that.

Especially if he got Jon’s words to Sansa.

“Come in.” He said, double-checking that he was ready for battle.

He was not ready for who came in, for it was not Samwell Tarly.

“Jon Targaryen.” Melisandre’s voice came forth in its queer accent. “I pray I’m not disturbing you.”

Everything about Melisandre was disturbing to him. From the way her eyes burned with their own light, to the woman’s slender, graceful body beneath her red flowing silks which drew his attention so easily. He loved Sansa utterly, but the memory of Melisandre’s naked form sprang to his mind unbidden. As a man betrothed and a knight who did all he could to respect the honor of women, such thoughts were unworthy of him.

As were the dark ones he had towards the woman’s unannounced visit.

“Lady Melisandre, I have refused you an audience many times now, have I not?” He did little to soften his voice.

“Too many times and for too long.” Melisandre glided through the room, looking about like all was as she expected. “I’ve allowed it for a time but that time has passed. What shall come in the coming days requires that we speak… the Lord of Light willed me to seek you out.”

With that she reached up to touch the choker around her neck, the one with the bright red ruby.

“I felt it when you used my favor you know, close to a year ago. Was it as I foretold? Of the dark fish becoming what he needed…”

“Your help was welcome.” Jon gritted his teeth to admit it. “I would thank you…”

“Yet you have never come before me to do so. Setting your squire to follow me, having that godless Lord-Commander restrict my movements… these are strange ways to thank me Jon Targaryen.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Is it not who you are?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “The trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen…”

“No matter the truth of my parents I was never raised a Targaryen. The name I lived my whole life by was taken from me by that truth so if I am to live the rest of my days using another name, it shall be one of my own choosing.” He fought to control his anger. “Take comfort that I have so little love for my father’s family, else I’d be tempted to avenge your murder of my great uncle, Aemon Targaryen! A kindly old maester and a good man… who you saw fit to burn alive in place of a child.”

“A fine sacrifice for R’hllor.” Melisandre smiled as she walked towards him, reaching for his face in a way that made him jerk away in disgust. “Or did you truly believe this castle held after the previous Lord-Commander’s death because of the fat lordling and his… ability? R’hllor granted us that time so we could prepare for this battle.”

She spoke of Sam with the same tone of disrespect that Jon had been hearing from many of the wildlings and even his own men. Even Sam’s fellow brothers, besides a righteous few, were begrudged to acknowledge the steward’s invaluable contributions to holding the Wall. To hear Melisandre attributing Sam’s accomplishments to her murderous god made him want to shout her down.

When she made to touch him again, Jon grabbed her wrist and met her burning gaze, trying to give her one of his own.

“A battle you keep me from.” He hissed, tossing her arm aside. “Is this truly why you came? To grab at me? If so, I’d remind you that I’m no longer a lonely, young squire held prisoner by your king. I will not fall prey to your charms-”

“You will not fall because of me my lord. Not me.” She whispered, gazing at the last embers in his hearth, shuddering some at seeing them so low. “Do you think I have come to seduce you? That I wish to bring you again to my bed?”

“I have no time for this.”

“If I offered you this body, would you join our flames again?” She reached up to caress the ruby around her neck again before letting her fingers glide lightly down her breasts and towards her hips.

What should have been an act of seduction instead disgusted him. Her body was comely but compared to the memory of Sansa’s touch and how much he ached for her love all these months Melisandre’s actions were wasted on him.

_For I’ve seen true beauty and I’ve made love. I’ve no need for this woman’s dark caresses or empty pleasures._

_Nor her false god._

“I would not have you. Do not ask again.”

He crossed his arms and wondered where Sam was, for his arrival would be welcomed right about now. If Melisandre was disappointed by his answer she did not show it. 

“As you wish. The last time we joined our flames, it earned us the favor of our Lord of Light, and in such dark times, it would be good to have it again. To light the way.” Her words earned no reply from him so she continued. “You may rest easy though Ser Jon, for our joining is not why I come to you now. For I have had visions… several visions of what is to come, and what our roles will be in the coming days. I have seen you on your way south. Not to flee any battle or this war, as many here truly wish to, for that is not the man you are. A man R’hllor intends to travel back to the den of the direwolves. The seat of the Starks. Back to Winterfell. I am to join you when you do so... such is his will…”

Melisandre’s voice had risen steadily during her telling and towards the end she even reached up towards the ceiling with both hands, as if beseeching her god to speak for her. No answer came from above and Jon pressed a hand to the side of his head as it was beginning to hurt.

He knew Melisandre had power, he’d seen it with his own eyes. Yet Jon had many reasons to doubt the accuracy of her visions, the most important being that he did not trust her.

“I have no plans to return to Winterfell.” He spoke sternly. “Should we be victorious tonight, the war will not simply end with the coming of dawn…”

“It shall…”

“The fight against the Others is here!” Jon barked, getting tired of her foolishness. “I will see that it remains here, far from Winterfell, as I promised House Stark. If you wish to travel, I suggest you seek the Nightfort. They respond to few of our messages and we need to know the situation there.”

“I am not needed beside King Stannis. Nor does he want me by his side. My messages go unheeded as well ser.” Melisandre shocked Jon a little by sounding truly troubled, caressing her ruby once more yet this time in worry. “And R’hllor has shown me that my path is beside you when the ser rides south.”

“I’ve heard enough-” He tried to walk by her but this time Melisandre’s hand shot out and took hold of his shoulder before he could stop her. She’d closed her eyes, which were fluttering some, and her head was inclined towards the fire’s embers.

“I saw it… your journey south, to a castle, with cold walls and warm earth. There I saw a sorrowful woman covered in blood… a castle of wolves howling in fear and sadness… where the flames burned brightly… so brightly…”

The meaning behind Melisandre’s words was not lost on him. For he instantly pictured Sansa hurt and weeping, with Nymeria and Shaggydog mourning whatever harm had been done to her.

Whatever hurt he hadn’t guarded her from.

_No! No that can’t be!_

_I won’t let it! I won’t let this red witch hurt her!_

Before he knew it his hands were at Melisandre’s shoulders and her eyes shot open as he gripped her tightly. His face felt red with rage and he knew his hold might be painful to the lady yet she showed neither hurt nor worry.

Only confidence.

“Are you threatening Sansa?” He rasped. “Are you threatening my family?”

“Lady Sansa? The false queen who was once your sister?” Melisandre asked, eyeing him with curiosity. “You worry for her? I thought she meant little to you.”

“What? Why would you-”

“Once before, when I asked the flames to show me your beloved sister, they showed me a grey girl, naked and scared while hands touched her from the shadows. She screamed out your name for help. I never saw your other false sister…”

“What? What’s happening to Arya?” Jon asked in a panic. “Are you threatening them?! Answer me!”

“I am not my lord. Nor would I. All I am doing is trying to warn you. Be wise and heed my words before it is too late. Try and harm me if you wish.” She glanced at his fingers, digging deeply into her shoulders now. “It changes nothing. For what R’hllor shows me will comes to pass and-”

He cursed, releasing her as much in frustration as embarrassment. He’d allowed the red woman to rile him up, when he knew very well her habit of making wild and sometimes false predictions.

“Spare me your ravings, for your visions have failed you before my lady.” He reminded her and himself. “You never saw what I truly was, even as the truth of my blood coursed through my veins. If the red god showed you truths I would never have left Dragonstone, would I? You would have burned me for my king’s blood.”

“It would have been a pure death. A great gift to...”

“You also told Jeor Mormont that Jeyne Poole was my sister Arya and so you sent Mance Rayder after a mummer’s wolf. I don’t think your visions mean anything!”

“The flames are never wrong. I am simply the one who errs in their reading…”

“Then why bother saying all of this? What do you want from me? Why do you wish to leave here so badly? Do you seek Winterfell? Is it because Stannis has shunned you?”

When Melisandre remained silent, looking into the glowing embers of his hearth like they would answer for him, Jon simply growled in frustration before turning away from her. He had grown very weary of the red woman, and thankfully Sam helped him escape the situation then by knocking lightly and entering.

“Lord Jon?” Sam asked, poking his head within before widening his eyes in surprise to see Melisandre standing there as well. “Forgive me… I do not wish to intrude.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You were expected and a welcome sight.” Jon did not even look at the sorceress again as he strode quickly to the doorway. “My lady, if you would excuse me, I do have someplace to be and men to lead…”

“And more to burn.”

He left the room with Sam following at his heels. Somewhere in the armory, the sworn brother had found a brigandine large enough to fit over his girth and Jon was glad of it. Sam’s place would be atop the Wall, seeing to the ravens that would fly from their army on the ground to the commanders along the icy battlements.

Maege, Sigorn of Thenn, and Ulmer of the Night’s Watch would all share responsibility for the Wall and their defenses there. Sam would be safe with them, far from the fighting up on the Wall, and Jon was glad for it. The steward was the only one he trusted to tend to what was left of Maester Aemon’s ravens, as well as the ones the North had brought with them to the Wall.

_The only person I’d trust this letter with._

“You say there is no name?” Sam asked as he examined the parchment Jon just handed to him. “How are they to know-”

“The person I wrote to… well the regent will know who it belongs to. Just get it to Winterfell and Princess Sansa will take care of the rest.”

“The Lord-Commander speaks very highly of the royal regent.” Sam spoke with an air of embarrassment. “I believe some of her deeds would’ve left me cowering in a corner. She must be quite the woman to do all she has. Escaping the Lannisters, taking control of the North… I’m glad she’s on our side because she sounds terrifying.”

Jon laughed.

It was tempting to go on about all Sansa had accomplished yet Sam was clever and if he began praising Sansa it was likely he would betray his true feelings for her.

The only words he cared about now were the kind ones in his letter. Many meant for Arya as well, just in case, and even some for little Rickon. They were his words and not meant for anyone else but those he loved, so he stayed silent as Sam and he descended out into the grounds of Castle Black.

Willem and Howland were waiting for him there, both atop their horses, ready to ride through the Wall. Aldred and Coll soon joined them, his squire leading Jon’s own horse.

“Got those dragonglass daggers you wanted.” Willem said, tossing one down to him, which Jon shoved dutifully into a holster were he’d once kept a steel knife instead. The other dagger he’d forced Willem to keep for himself, despite his friend’s protests. Jon wasn’t about to let Willem go out there less protected than himself. 

As he was about to climb upon his horse, that thought gave him pause.

“Sam.” Jon said, turning back and offering his hand to the man. “I am glad to have met you. You’re a credit to your order. For all you’ve done, accept my thanks… and my friendship.”

Sam stared at his outstretched hand for a moment or two, alternating between shock and unease. When Sam did take his hand, he did so in a flash and awkwardly, squeezing his fingers in a desperate way.

“Th-thank you ser… my lord… I accept both. I name you a friend as well!”

“Do well this day Sam, we’re depending on you.” Jon smiled before ending their handshake and climbing into the saddle. “And as friends, it better if you called me Jon.”

Willem snorted, riding between them.

“You’ll continue calling me ser, Tarly.” Willem’s tone was harsh enough to make the steward flinch but he looked down with a smile. “I hope you can call me ser again come morning, and for many days after. So do me a favor and don’t fall off that Wall. I’d hate to have to try and put you back together again.”

“Get to your post Samwell.” Howland added with a nod. “Give Lady Maege my regards.”

They began their ride towards the gate after that, Willem and Howland falling in beside him. Castle Black seemed so quiet now, almost empty of life after months of hosting so many under its walls. Many archers were still running up the great switchback stair, heading to the battlements. Stewards joined them, some following behind with armloads of freshly made arrows or impressed into becoming bowmen themselves. Jon saw Pyp running down the stair with a bow strapped over his shoulder, helping an Umber squire pick up some dropped shafts, smiling and laughing and wiggling his ears like he always did.

Giants clambered into the winchlift to join their allies up atop the Wall, though most of the creatures would join Jon’s party on the ground. Howland believed their strength would be needed against the wights. Though many of the brothers of the Night’s Watch still didn’t trust the giants, seeing them as being too wild or too slow to take orders, Jon had confidence in them. They spoke and learned well-enough for their needs, and had done well in helping to rebuild the wooden switch-back stairs with haste.

The largest of the giants was not where he needed to be though. Even worse, he appeared to acting strangely. Wun Wun, usually docile and quite safe to be around, was heaving back and forth wildly, thumping his huge hands against his small head.

“What’s the matter with this one? Did someone give him wine again?” Willem asked as Jon kicked his horse to follow Howland, who was already hurrying to the giant’s side.

“No idea!” Grenn called back as he edged others away from the giant. “He was getting ready to head through the gate when all of a sudden he just started actin’ all mad like this!”

Wun Wun dropped to his knees then, eyes turned to the sky before bellowing an anguished moan. It was a truly sad sound, one that sent a strange shiver through Jon. Howland and he exchanged a worried look at the thought of the massive Wun Wun, lost to some fit of violent madness just before this extremely important battle. Aldred caught his eye as Jon’s sworn man hefted the large axe from his back, as if preparing for a fight.

Then suddenly everything changed.

Wun Wun stopped making his strange, anguished sound and his hands fell from his head. The giant held his hands in front of him instead, gazing at them as if in awe. When he began to move his fingers, Wun Wun made the rough barking sound that Jon knew to be a giant’s form of laughter.

“Wun Wun.” He said carefully, urging his horse a little closer. His words caused the giant to look over to him with a strange expression on his face, more human than Jon had come to expect from the beasts.

“Try saying hello ser!” Coll suggested before Willem cuffed him.

“None of that!” His friend scowled. “And don’t try saying anything else Leathers and I taught you either lad… you haven’t got the enunciation down quite right yet…”

Wun Wun was trying to speak now, his deep rumbling voice alternating between grunts and wheezes. He then awkwardly rose to his feet, trying to approach Howland and Jon. Their guards were not about to tolerate that, so Willem and Aldred moved to block Wun Wun’s path, startling the giant.

Jon spared a look to the sky then and knew night was almost upon them.

_We don’t have time for this…_

“Wun Wun!” He hailed, pointing at the gate. “We fight! Wun Wun fights!”

The giant’s eyes widened and he struggled to speak again but Jon knew as little of the Old Tongue as Wun Wun did of the Common Tongue. So he pointed at the gate again, repeating what he’d just said, hoping Wun Wun would understand that they had to go.

Or else Jon would be forced to leave their giant ally behind.

He was ready to do just that when Wun Wun growled in frustration and thumped his chest, pointing at the gate himself. The giant then pointed to Jon, then back at himself, before bowing slightly as if to nod.

“I’m taking that as a good sign.” Jon said to Howland, who looked doubtful. “We ride. If he follows, he follows, but we must go.”

“I could stand to wait a bit longer.” Willem offered.

Howland shared Jon’s mind on this though and with one last gesture to the gate for Wun Wun’s sake, they made their way forward. Looking back, Jon was heartened to see Wun Wun hastening after them, his small legs scrambling through the snows.

“I’m glad he’ll be here.” He admitted to Howland as they passed within the Wall. “We’ll need his strength…”

“We have been in worse positions Jon.” The Lord-Commander offered. “The Twins. Moat Cailin. Winterfell. Together we have overcome great odds and fierce foes…”

“Men. We fought men. Now we lead men against monsters.” Jon shook his head at Howland’s attempts to ease his mind. He couldn’t feel at ease when tons of dark ice hung above their heads. “You would not have asked to take command of the center in my stead unless you were fearful as well.”

“I’d be a fool not to fear. Nor would I be your friend if I did not try and relieve you of that burden… as Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch though, I accept your wisdom that I should lead the reserve. Should you need me, should any of you need my help…”

“Howland Reed will be there.” Jon replied.

He looked at the lord, who had become a key part of his life long before he even knew. The man who he’d alternated between trusting and hating, one Jon had come to depend upon. It had only been about a year but it felt like a lifetime ago when he met the strange crannog lord. Now they had been through so much together and Howland was right, no matter what they’d faced, they’d survived.

_Only to ride out to certain death now._

The preparations were done and he knew they had done everything possible to prepare for this battle despite his fears. When they emerged, the army was arrayed as planned with thousands of men armed and at the ready, arranged in a great semi-circle about the gate. Howland’s reserve, a mixed force of five hundred riders, were the closest to the Wall. Beyond them was a large bonfire and near it was a great many unlit torches, a reserve of another kind.

His party left Howland there to continue forward and survey the rest of their army.

To the left Tormund had brought the free folk together, a mix of men and giants that Jon prayed could hold like his new ally swore they would. To the right, the Greatjon led the northern host, the lord already bellowing to his men while he waved a gigantic, jagged-looking greatsword with one hand. At the center, the part of their lines closest to the Haunted Forest, stood a combination of all of their strength. Scores from the Night’s Watch, hundreds of men from House Stark, and a thousand of the more hardened and disciplined free folk warriors.

All under Jon’s command.

Soren Shieldbreaker and Grenn were already moving amongst his men, seeing that the torches were being given out among their front ranks. Looking up towards the top of the Wall, Jon saw hundreds of archers and other men lining the edges, all ready to loose a deadly rain from on high.

The army was powerful yet not nearly as impressive as the six large structures that ringed the edges of their large half-circle formation. Each looked like half-finished timber keeps. Logs had been laid on top of one another in great wooden frames that towered three times as high as any giant and twice as wide. They were spaced out evenly around them, and had the structures been finished with platforms and turrets, Jon thought they would have made an unbreakable cordon for any army.

Any army of men at least.

Behind him the giants were grunting as they dragged catapults forward through the snow. These were smaller weapons, able to be moved to different areas as needed during battle. Wagons of their ammunition followed as well but Jon’s gaze broke from his army’s movements to look to the west instead.

Where the last light of the day was slipping away, the darkness falling upon them.

_It’s time… by the gods, we’re not ready…_

_I’m not ready, I should have been out here for hours already…_

A horn sounded from back towards Howland’s ranks, signaling the outriders along the edges of the woods to begin as planned. Small signal fires were lit then, lighting up the trees before the riders rode back to join the main armies once more.

As they fled towards the back of their ranks, Jon and Willem were riding around to the front, Coll and Aldred pausing only to collect burning torches. One of the outriders did not seek the safety in the reserve, instead heading straight for Jon. For he was no outrider in truth.

“They come!” Ser Richard called out as he neared. “Things are moving in those woods. I heard too much noise for it to be anything else.”

“Thank you ser. See to your men!”

Ser Richard nodded, kicking at his horse and galloping down the line.

The knight’s small company from the Nightfort was part of Jon’s force. The Greatjon had said he had no need of them and Tormund could not be trusted to keep from killing Ser Richard himself. It had been Stannis’s knight that had slain one of Tormund’s sons during Mance Rayder’s first attack against the Wall. Willem and Aldred had not been happy to include Ser Richard in their number but Jon had seen the man fight and welcomed his ferocity to their ranks.

Even in the dim light of evening, the fear of the men was clear. Most stared out at the signal fires and the darkened forest. Others looked down to the unlit torches in their hands, their eyes filled with dread. Problems he set out to solve.

“Coll. Aldred. It is time.” He glanced to his squire. “Light the flames. Quickly now.”

“Yes ser.” Coll nodded, riding over to a collection of long, spear-like torches held by another man.

Using his own torch, the squire lit the torch-spear before riding down the line, to do the same for others. Aldred set to riding back and forth to make sure every man had their weapons and fires at the ready. Jon watched as his his men’s torches lit up like the firebugs he’d seen flying during his nights in the Reach.

“Here Wolf.” Willem said, handing off one of the flaming spears to him while claiming another for himself. “I think mine’s longer.”

“If it keeps you alive then I welcome you to it.” He answered quietly, riding out a little further forward into the darkness. Willem did not let him do so alone.

“The Greatjon’s lighting his fires, Tormund’s doing the same from what I can see.” His friend then jerked a thumb up at the Wall. “Maege is putting on a fine show up top as well… you know, with her in charge of those archers, I’m glad she never found out about Jorelle and me…”

“Will, please. This is not the time for jests.”

“Who says I’m jesting? If she sent an arrow down for every time I went down on her daughter-”

“Burn me.” Jon cut him off, looking to Willem as the knight’s face twisted in confusion. “If it comes down to it. If I fall here… I don’t want to become like them. Burn me Willem. Spare me from becoming one of those things.”

A cold wind rose up, blowing out of the trees and biting at the exposed parts of his face. The night had found them at last and while they had hoped for a full moon to help light the way clouds obscured much of the moonlight. They were blind now, which was bad since Jon thought he could hear what Ser Richard had mentioned. What Ghost had heard whenever he neared the Others and their host; the sounds of branches snapping, of trees moving, of an army of monsters moving in the night.

“Not a fucking chance.” Willem answered. In the faint light of their torches and the faint moon, his face was cut into shadows. “I didn’t find you at the bloody Saltpans and bring you all the way North just to burn you.”

“Willem, this is an order.”

“Fuck your order. Have my head off for it if you want but I won’t put you to flame. I can’t.” Willem jerked at his reins and glared at him. “When we took back Winterfell, I threw us out of a burning building without one bit of hope that we’d survive… not to save us. Didn’t think there wasn’t a chance in hell of that… I just couldn’t let us die in a fire…”

The wind came again and it felt even colder now, causing Jon to cringe against its icy wrath. He spotted Ghost running towards them from the far end of the army but it was the friend beside him that Jon worried for.

“Not fire Jon. Not by my hands… or my order. I couldn’t stand to watch you burn… not you… there’s nothing worse than that…”

“There is worse.” Jon countered, feeling startled that Willem would deny him this. “It’s coming right now.”

“Then it’ll find us waiting for it!” Willem snapped. “And it’ll wish it never had. Gods Jon, look at your men! They’re scared and you’re sitting here talking about dying and burning. Be the fucking knight that I saw ride into the Twins, brass balls waving at the Freys. Be the fool that rode straight at the Moat without a care for the arrows raining down on him. Be the man who climbed the fucking walls of Winterfell itself! Show them that man! Show _me_ that man!”

Jon almost snapped back at Willem to keep his voice down when he realized that silence was indeed the enemy right now. For while he could hear faint shouts coming from Tormund and the Greatjon’s flanks, the two commanders riling up their men for battle, his own were deathly quiet. As quiet as the wights marching towards them.

_I brought them out here… this is my plan and now I leave them to the cold and quiet?_

_I was so set on accepting my fate that I accepted theirs as well. As if they are all dead already._

_I’m not here to lead them to their deaths… I’m here to save their lives… we’re here to save the realm itself…._

“Are we dead?” He asked Willem suddenly before turning his horse and riding back towards his men, raising his voice to shout. “Are we dead?!?”

The thousands of men staring back at him in confusion made Jon feel uneasy all of a sudden, like he felt whenever people scorned the bastard boy of Winterfell for speaking in their presence. He pushed on though, for these men deserved better than that boy who was long dead.

While a man lived in his stead.

“We’re not dead yet!” He called out, moving his horse up and down the line. “How many of us should be? How many have survived battle upon battle, horror after horror to be here? The Others think we’re beaten and scared! They’re fools! Fools who I pity, fools who make me want to laugh!”

Jon turned back to the woods, pointing his flaming spear at them and repeating the taunt.

“You’re fucking fools!” He heard the ripple of shock move through the men as he turned to focus on them again. “They don’t realize we’re the ones who have made it! We’re the strongest! The bravest! The worst foe any monster could dream of! Who here thinks they’re the worst?!”

Willem answered the call, riding straight up to the front of the ranks and standing tall in his saddle.

“I’m pretty terrible! Mind your maiden ears but I’m actually pretty fucking terrible!” He roared. “Just ask your mothers!”

Laughter and shouts of agreement met that and Jon searched for more to take up the cause.

“Who else? Who else is the worst enemy those monsters could ever dream of!?”

“Me, I’m right here!” Soren Shieldbreaker yelled.

“They haven’t killed me yet!” Grenn added. “Let them try!”

“Couldn’t get me on the Fist!”

“I showed them my arse at the Skirling Pass!”

Their voices blended together and Jon could no longer tell apart Northmen from the brothers of the Night’s Watch from the wildlings. It didn’t matter if they wore blacks, or furs, or bones, or standing black bears on green, or snarling grey wolves on white.

At night, all banners were black.

They were just men now, and more and more of them began to yell their own praises for themselves or curses for the Others. Some were openly mocking the monsters of legend while others nudged at those who still seemed quiet and unsure.

“Those things may be dead but we have lived!” Jon shouted above the din. “We have lived despite everything! We have lived when there was no other choice but to keep living! Are we to fear a bunch of dead things!?! Those dead things should fear me because I will keep living! All men must die but today we live!”

Shouts and cheers answered Jon’s call and madness filled him at his own words, burning away all the fear inside him. Just as the anger was beginning to peak in his men, a horn blast from one of his watchers rang out.

Then a second one.

There was no need for a third as they all saw what the horn blower had by now.

Their enemy had come.

The blue eyed horde of wights was moving out of the forest in a long, unbroken line. Thousands upon thousands of glowing eyes and frozen corpses were suddenly appearing in the weak light, popping up like shades in a nightmare. Their undead army stretched along a line far wider than their living one, and from what Jon remembered in his wolf dreams, the ranks of wights would be far deeper as well.

“Seven save us.” Willem choked out as the undead army marched towards them, the distance between them lessening with each shambling step of a wight.

Jon felt his nerve breaking then and if it was not for Ghost bounding up beside him, he might have forgotten his duty in the face of such terror. The direwolf reminded him that they’d faced this horde together once before and survived.

_For we’re their worst enemies._

_We have to be._

_We spent weeks preparing and building for this._

Despite his fear and apprehension, Jon raised his torch and began to shout again.

“This is not the end of us! Remember that! We have faced the Others before! Long before we had the Wall at our backs!” Jon pointed his torch at the Wall and remembered how it had felt standing up there, like he’d been standing on the edge of the world. “The Wall will never fall and neither will we! Thousands upon thousands of years ago, men made common cause! We join our strength again! We drove the white walkers back to their frozen lands before and tonight, we’ll do it again! We will hold back the night and we will see dawn again! We’ll throw them back! With our fire! With our blood!”

Jon sought out the man in the crowd he needed then, finding him already staring back and quivering as he clutched his longbow to his chest.

“Archer!” Jon hailed the man. “Loose the signal!”

The man jerked an arrow out of his quiver and lit it, the end sparking with life. Then he notched and aimed, not at the wights directly, but high into the sky itself. When he loosed the arrow, it traced a fiery light across the darkness, butting into the abyss like a white and red knife.

“Archers!” Willem yelled next. “To the front ranks!”

Even as their own archers began to move up from the back of lines, others in the different parts of the army moved to action as well. Once again, when the arrows were burning and ready, their target was not the wights.

These arrows were meant for the great wooden towers.

“Let’s unleash hell!” Jon yelled so hard that his voice was raw. “Show them why they should fear the living!”

The towers were massive bonfires in truth. Their insides were filled with smaller logs and kindling, coated with as much lamp oil as they could spare and it appeared that they had used enough. When the arrows struck the towers ignited, ringing their army with large fiery pyres that acted to guard their flanks and funnel their enemies. The wights saw the flaming towers and acted as Jon had hoped, changing direction and moving towards the gaps between each tower.

_When those things truly get burning, the heat and flames will make those gaps even smaller._

_Be ready now Maege, it is time to thin the herd._  
  
The wights continued on, the front of their undead army reaching the gap directly in front of Jon’s position first. When they came within fifty feet, Jon called out for the second signal arrow to be loosed. The arrow hadn’t even struck the ground before their archers along the top of the Wall answered. A bright and fiery shower came down from the battlements, tearing into the wights who had pressed tight together to try and enter the causeway that the towers had created.

As scores of wights burst into flames, massive pounding sounds came from the Wall as trebuchets on high threw down burning barrels of pitch into the horde. Their explosive landings set even more wights to burning. The bombardment had been so fierce that, of the hundreds of wights to pass the towers, only a third made it through.

“Archers! Call your targets!” Jon yelled to his own men. “Notch! Draw! LOOSE!”

His own men’s flaming attack cut down many of the surviving wights, even as another volley from the Wall crashed into the body of the oncoming press. More were beginning to pass through the gaps in the towers east and west of them but fire poured forth from the left and right of the army and the support from the Wall.

Hundreds upon hundreds of wights were soon burning, some of those corpses even setting flame to others in their own tight press. Yet they came ever onward, even as the towers became bright-white infernos and the wind blew flames north, causing more damage and setting more of thralls to burning.

The wights’ great numbers would soon mean too many escaping the archers’ fury though, nor did they have so many arrows to do for all of the undead army.

_That’s why we’re here._

_That is why I’m here._

“First rank!” He waved at Willem, then at Grenn and Soren further down, even to Ser Richard. “Second rank! Form up to advance!”

While those men holding spear-torches prepared to take the fight to the Others, Ghost and Willem took up either side of him. Aldred and Coll following after, his squire unfurling the white dragon banner of Jon’s unnamed house as the fires around them lit the cloth with an almost blinding white light.

“Whitefyre.” Willem said suddenly.

“What?”

“Your bloody name.” He laughed despite everything. “I mean it makes sense doesn’t it? I mean forget the Blackfyres and all that nonsense! Black bad, white good! Whitefyre! Jon Whitefyre! Trust me!”

Jon gaped at his friend for his timing in all of this madness but did not have time to do so for long. The numbers of wights were growing beyond the towers and already some bodies squeezed through and were heading toward them, Ghost baring his teeth at their approach. Somewhere behind him, Jon heard a giant’s roar.

_The battle is on… after all of this… we’re truly here._

_Now we just have to make it to dawn._

“Forward!”

**MELISANDRE**

_Beautiful…_

_It is so beautiful… the land bathed in fire…_

_Everything is burning my lord. The world is blazing with your light-_

The sudden roar of a giant distracted Melisandre from her prayers. There were a good number of the beasts among the defenders atop the Wall, the nearest men to her jumping at the sound of their allies’ bellows. 

The giants were reloading and aiming the trebuchets, using nothing but brute strength to make the old and broken machines work. Sigorn of Thenn, the wildling she had helped to make a lord, acted as a leader now. Shouting at the giants in their barbaric tongue, directing them in where they hurled their barrels of pitch. 

“Tell them to the left!” Lady Mormont called to Sigorn, pointing her mace out towards the dark skies of the west. “They’re pressing hard there! One of the trebuchets to the left!”

“Aye!” Sigorn snapped back before grunting in the Old Tongue. The giants at the western trebuchet growled back before snuffling and pushing as they forced their siege weapon in a new direction. 

The trebuchet closest to her was locked back in preparation, a giant loading the barrel while the steward named Pyp rushed forward with a torch.

“Ready!” The black brother warned loudly and Sigorn nodded, allowing Pyp to set flame to their ammunition. “Let fly!”

The trebuchet suddenly sprang forward, letting the burning barrel sail up into the moonlit sky, which was already stained with thick black smoke. The path of the bright, flaming projectile reminded her of the red comet that had once traced a bright blood-red line across the sky.

_I believed it was a sign that heralded the return of dragons… I grew doubtful…_

_Yet they have returned. One is down there fighting even now._

The barrel was crashing into the ground then, exploding into flames and engulfing a score of wights. That was far from the end though. There were more of those ungodly creatures, thousands more.

Everywhere Melisandre looked she saw the thralls of the Great Other, the walking corpses filled with unspoken and evil magics, flooding out of the great dark forest.   
  
 _Seeking the warmth of the living… the men who fight and fall to keep that cold at bay…_  
  
 _A dragon prince among them…_

The tide of wights broke against the army’s flaming barriers, but they could all see the swathes of dead squeezing through the openings. The towers of flames had at first been beautiful beacons of hope and R’hllor’s protection, ringing their army and engulfing any wight that journeyed too close. Those wights that kept their distance, moving through the gaps, faced fires from above. Even now, flaming arrows flicked down from the Wall, a constant stream that tore through the undead ranks. The wights that fell now littered the ground, forming new burning obstacles of protection. Wights that followed had to either go around or climb over the flaming piles of their unholy brethren to attack the living, breathing army.

A challenge they did not shy from.

_For these thralls have no choice, their masters bid them onward._

_No matter how many they lose… more will come._

“More! On the far side! More arrows to the left!” Maege waved to Ulmer of the Night’s Watch. “More fire to the left! They need time to bring up their catapults!”

“You heard her! What are you waiting for?” Ulmer raged, smacking at one of his archers. “Give them flame! You may ache and your fingers may be numb but you’ll do as yer told! Those are our brothers down there!”

Some of the archers were groaning from the strain of their constant efforts while others had already faltered. Men were lying against the opposite edge of the wall, some clutching their arms and shivering, others holding bloodied rags to their sliced fingers where gloves had worn away from use.

_Scratches. Wounds that should be suffered with pride._

_Blood spilled in the only war that matters._

She wondered at how many had fallen so far. The wights who pushed past the cordons and the flaming arrows and barrels of pitch were met by men. Warriors wielding torches and shields to hold back their foes, and while only one side truly bled, it was nonetheless a bloodbath. Wounded were streaming back towards the gate and the screams of pain and terror reached her ears even at this height. The wights were burning, suffering thousands of losses compared to their scores, yet the living army was the one giving ground. With each passing hour, with each passing moment, the dark was pushing them back towards the Wall.

Somewhere among that thriving, smoke-filled battleground fought the man who haunted her dreams.

_He is not the youth I knew._

_I knew a wolf pup. This man is a knight, a lord, perhaps a prince._

_A dragon before all of that._

Why the Lord of Light had kept that truth from her visions troubled Melisandre greatly, though she couldn’t lie to herself anymore than to R’hllor. Jon Snow had been right earlier; had she known his true lineage at the time when they met, her king would have never allowed him to leave Dragonstone.

_Yet to not let him go would have been to question the will of my god…_

_And Ser Jon’s departure and all his trials have led him here, the very reason this army now fights for the dawn._

_We cannot question His ways. The Lord of Light must have kept that knowledge from me so that Jon Snow would be free to play his part in this battle._

_Leading this army of the living… a role I thought had been for my king…_

That Stannis did not join this fight was even more worrying, for what few visions she had of her king showed him in a dark place, with the fool Patchface dancing around him and a child’s sad voice singing from the darkness. Her deception with Mance Rayder had been a sad mistake in retrospect. All it had done was serve to harden Stannis against her guidance, and while she prayed and beseeched R’hllor to show her their true king, all He showed her was the sorrowful woman covered in blood, with flames burning bright around her.

_When I told Ser Jon of the sorrowful woman, he accused me of threatening the eldest Stark girl… he thought the flames were a mark of her auburn coloring._

_Yet I do not think it was her… nor was it his false, grey sister…_

_The woman I saw… her features were strange… I could not see them fully…_

_Not before the flames enveloped her._

“More fire to the right!” Lady Mormont’s yells broke into her thoughts, the warrior woman urging Sigorn to redirect the fire from one of the trebuchets.

“Yes!” Melisandre cried. “More fire! More flames! R’hllor blesses us in this battle! The Lord of Light shines upon you all!”

“That’s the moon you bloody twit.” Ulmer shot back, pushing by her to shout at more of his archers. “Stop shooting in waves at the center! Loose at will! They need the arrows to come fast! So do your-”

Ulmer paused suddenly, pointing at a black shape flying up at them.

“Raven coming in Tarly!”

“Yes!” Samwell Tarly broke away from tending to an archer’s bleeding hand. “I see it! I see it!”

The fat steward waddled quickly to his cages where the raven came to land, offering soothing sounds to the bird as he unfurled a message from around its leg. The sworn brother blanched to read it, an expression she’d seen him make often in the months that he had tried to hold the Wall without accepting R’hllor.

“The Lord-Commander… he-he wants us to send all the men we can spare down to the battle.” The steward read shakily to the Lady and Sigorn, catching the attention of many others as well. “Excluding archers and those needed for the trebuchets… but any able to hold a sword or a torch is to be sent through the gate…”

“That is me.” Sigorn declared, holding both his arms up and clanking his bronze armbands together as if to demonstrate his ability. “I will go. My father would go. I am Magnar now and my place is in fight.”

“Your place is here!” Maege snapped, pointing her mace at the giants. “Or are there any men here who will teach me the bloody Old Tongue in the next few moments?”

Sigorn made to argue but Ulmer pushed forward, slinging a bow over his back before strapping a sword to his belt.

“I’m going! You’ve got Tarly here to represent the Watch in my stead.” The old outlaw spat some brown chew at Sigorn’s feet then. “You can command the archers in my stead wildling. They’re good men... they managed to kill a good many of yours in the last battle here.”

Ulmer did not wait for a response as the screams and sounds of fighting continued to echo up at them. He began gesturing at the stewards and the wounded brothers around him.

“The Lord-Commander needs men! I see a bunch of fine ones here. If you can’t shoot a bow, follow me. If you can, do us all a favor and keeps those bastards off our asses!”

It did not surprise her how many hurt archers suddenly found the strength to take up their bows again. The stewards who were not so skilled, so many of them began to follow Ulmer towards the lift while others ran for the stairs. Including the young man Melisandre knew to be named Pypar.

“Pyp!” Samwell Tarly grabbed at his friend. “Pyp, you can shoot a bow! You’ve been doing so just fine!”

“I don’t know if I’m hitting shit Sam…” The young man turned his glistening eyes to the fires and the fighting below. “Edd’s down there. Grenn’s down there... my best friends. Ser Jon is fighting too and he’s the one who taught me how to fight… I might not be alive today if he hadn’t. He called me his friend… they’re my friends Sam. They’re my brothers. My brothers are fighting and dying while I’m up here wasting arrows.”

“Pyp-”

“You’re my brother too Sam. You stay here though. You hold the Wall.” The young man smiled and wiggled his ears playfully. “No one else can.”

As anguished as the large steward acted to allow it, he did, and his friend went to join the others heading down the stair. Melisandre found Pypar’s bravery quite astounding and thought it worthy of praise.

“May the true lord guide your way young man.” Melisandre nodded to him, causing him to pause and look back at her. “Go forth and be a warrior of the light.”

“I fight for the Night’s Watch. Not your red devil.” Pypar spat at her. “I fight for Lord-Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon! So close your eyes and take five steps towards the edge and I’ll meet you at the bottom of the Wall.”

She let him depart without censure, for words were wind, and the wind blowing from the north was far colder than the steward’s harsh words. Turning her gaze towards the forest, through the clouds of smoke and the light of the moon, she saw them.

_The masters of the wights._

_Our true foe._

_The warriors of the Great Other._

They’d come some time after the battle had begun. They were far fewer in number than their wights, perhaps as few as thirty from what Melisandre could count. The pale creatures known as the Others stood at the edge of the Haunted Forest, bathed in the moonlight yet standing still as statues. All the while their thralls marched forth around them, the white walkers content to merely watch the fray.

Maege Mormont surprised Melisandre by not only approaching her, but also speaking her mind to this very issue.

“Only the wights are attacking.” The Lady shook her head to say so. “What in the hell are those demons waiting for?”

“I know not.” She answered truthfully. “Perhaps the flames frighten the Others. The power of fire is great…”

“And many say yours is as well- More arrows to the center! Starks and Sealskinners! Shift your fire there!” Lady Mormont bellowed at the closest men before turning her attention back to Melisandre. “If you are as powerful as some whisper…”

“I am only as strong as R’hllor wills me to be.”

“Fine, then ask him for more strength. Whatever you have, whatever power you can offer. Use it here. Use it now. We have to make it to dawn. Help us do so.”

“You fear for your children.” Melisandre spoke with certainty. “For your grandchildren. Those living and those not yet born. The Umber lord’s child…”

“How did you know of Lyra’s babe?” The lady was taken aback. “Her husband only told me the day before last. Lyra kept it from him all these months so he would not worry. Jon only knows because the maester at Last Hearth betrayed Lyra’s confidence…”

“R’hllor sees all.” Melisandre almost smiled when a gust of wind fanned the flames of some of the towers so that they reached out and engulfed hundreds of wights in their embrace.

“Fine, whatever you say. Just get that red god of yours to send down a firestorm, or summon a great army from thin air, or… anything! If you’ve got any power, now is the time to use it. Good men are dying down there.”

“Some of them are good men.” Melisandre narrowed her gaze down at the dark line of mounted men, still waiting for their call to action.

Among them was the new Lord-Commander, the bog lord who held faith with the old gods. Such false gods were simply puppets of the Great Other. Melisandre believed Howland Reed was touched by the enemy of R’hllor, tainted by the same darkness she spied in her visions.

When she asked the flames to show her that enemy, she always glimpsed a white corpse with a thousand red eyes, staring back at her with terrible knowledge. Alongside him was the boy with a wolf’s face, who cried in the dark and was chained by white roots. The boy’s face would shift constantly, like an illusion, from man, to wolf, to raven, to man, to wolf again. These creatures were filled with darkness and she knew that they must serve the Great Other. They caused her a great dread feeling and she had that same feeling whenever she was around the Lord-Commander.

_There’s something else out there tonight along with him._

_I’ve felt it for weeks now, just as I did with the eagle at the first Battle of Castle Black._

_Another servant of the darkness works his way among the army._

_Though this one is stronger than any I’ve ever met._

“I will do as you ask Lady Mormont.” Melisandre touched her choker then. “What power my god gives me will be turned upon our enemy. I will make them burn.”

The lady thanked Melisandre before having to leave her side then, to see that the direction of their trebuchets was changed again. The ranks of wights were drawing closer with more and more men carrying torches to meet them.

Fire against cold.

Man against monster.

“Lady Melisandre!” A familiar voice hailed her.

Her eyes moved to the winchlift and she watched as her king’s squire ran forth to join her side. Devan Seaworth paused when he took in the breadth of the battle below, the young man actually taking a step back from the ledge in awe. Gone now was the glum expression he’d held so often of late. Since word came of King Stannis and his father arriving at the Nightfort the boy had been praying for weeks that his father was alive and well. Yet no call had been sent for Devan to join his father.

“You have done as I asked?” She put to him quietly, waving Devan forward to her side. “You were not seen?”

“I did.” He answered barely above a whisper. “No one was there… they’ve gathered all the wildling women and children in the Shieldhall for their safety, so her chambers were completely empty.”

“Excellent. You placed it in my chest like I asked?” The squire nodded with a grim look that reminded her of his father.

She felt a rush of relief run through her at the news. With everyone distracted with the battle Beyond-the-Wall, it had been the perfect opportunity to set him to this task. For despite all Jon Targaryen may have said to her, Melisandre knew the truth of the path before them.

_He will journey to Winterfell and I will be with him._

_Whether he accepts me in his company or not._

“I am free to fight now?” Devan asked, hand on his sword, doing his best to sound brave. “May I join Ser Richard’s men?”

The boy had been eager to prove his worth, like all foolish young boys with pride in their hearts were. Setting him on a task that required deception and secrecy had wounded that pride as well, but it had needed to be done. Now he had a chance for honorable battle but she couldn’t allow him to take part.

She had at first brought young Devan into her service to spare Ser Davos from seeing any more of his sons dead, but over the months, she had grown somewhat fond of the boy. Though she had long ago abandoned any ambitions or feelings outside of the Lord of Light’s will, a forgotten part of her did not want to see the boy become another sacrifice to R’hllor’s eventual victory.

_I would spare him that and protect him for as long as I can._

_But I would do it. I would sacrifice him if that was R’hllor’s will._

_As I would myself._

“No Devan. Your place is at my side for some time more.” She showed the squire her back as she turned her attention towards the battle. “Fetch arrows for the archers if you wish.”

Another roar from the giants interrupted Devan’s protests, for it seemed an eastern portion of their lines were breaking, and when Melisandre saw why, she understood the sorrow in the creatures’ voices. Hundreds of men were running back from the front ranks as undead giants were bearing down on them

“Sigorn!” Maege yelled. “Trebuchets to the right! Both of them! Get those fucking monsters to stop gaping and load them faster! By the gods…”

“I see Bear Woman!” Sigorn snapped back before shouting in the giant’s tongue. “We’ll need more barrels soon!”

_No, you’ll need more than that._

_Just as I’ll need to do more than I ever have before._

Melisandre set to praying once more to her God. Begging for his power and wisdom to see them through to the dawn. To help her in finding the servant of the Great Other that was hiding amongst their army.

_For it must burn._

_Wherever it hides, whatever its dark deeds…_

_It must burn._

**BRAN**

_Everything is burning._

_My world is darkness and the trees… not this world of flames._

_Not this hell._

Bran struggled to get a hold on his fear as seasoned warriors fled around him. These men were large and strong, holding weapons that were fearsome in appearance. The kind of men who, had they ever seen Bran at Winterfell being carried around by Hodor, would have thought him a weak and broken boy.

Except now these men were the weak and broken ones. Some were even weeping as they ran from the battle. The fires from the burning towers and the flaming piles of burned wights lit the battlefield, showing thousands more of them coming. Hundreds of brave men still stood their ground though. Those hundreds followed the rallying cry of the giant lord, swinging a giant greatsword in one hand while holding a torch in the other.

“Any man who runs answers to me!” The Greatjon yelled, cleaving halfway through a wight before driving a torch into its face. “Forgot the wights! They’ll die by my blade!”

Bran remembered this lord had once scared him when Robb had called the bannermen to Winterfell. The Greatjon had been so loud that his voice almost shook the castle walls. The man had even laughed after Grey Wind took two of his fingers.

No one was laughing now, and no matter how much the Greatjon threatened and yelled, men continued to run.

Leaving Bran to face the coming of the wights alone.

 _Run_ , he thought, _you have legs now… run!_  
  
Or fly! Leave this body and fly! 

_Back to the cave! Back to Meera!_

As he watched the wights come even closer, their blue eyes glowing, Bran was tempted to escape this place, to forget these horrors. Another presence within him yearned for Bran to flee as well, to abandon this body and go far away.

If he did return back to the cave though, Meera would be there waiting for him. She would want word of her father, who was somewhere in the battle too. The idea of facing her, of dealing with the shame of his fear while her father continued to fight in this terror, it was too much for Bran to take. Jon was being brave and Bran could too. He had to fight.

That was why he had come to this battle in the first place.

To save someone.

To keep him from falling.

 _Jon_ … _Jon’s still in this…_

_He was right there. You were right there. Why didn’t you stop him?_

The wights were almost on him. The two closest were garbed in wildling ring mail. One was clutching a spear with a stone tip and the second was holding a bronze sword. The blade cut at Bran while he remembered speaking to the brother he missed so.

_You know why you didn’t stop Jon… why you followed him through the gate…_

_I felt strong… powerful… I stood taller than everyone around me…_

_I wanted to fight._

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. The wight’s cut was stopped as Bran snapped into action, catching its arm and holding it in place, as easily as when he’d stopped Rickon’s thrashing as a babe.

_You want to fight. You wanted to be strong._

_So be strong!_

_Fight!_

_Fight!_

Bran lashed out then, or rather, the giant he was lashed out. His large fist pounded into the sword-wielding wight with so much power that Bran felt its ribs cave in. Then it flew backwards colliding with another wight, their limbs tangling with each other as they tumbled over the ground.

The spear-holding wight made to impale Bran but he swung the giant’s other arm at it, tearing the weapon away and knocking the wight onto the ground. He grabbed its leg and, wrenching the corpse around like a doll, began wielding its body like a club. Marching forward rather than back, Bran used the squirming wight in his grasp to batter and beat at the last three foes facing him. When all were writhing, broken messes of frozen flesh and bones, he gave a mighty heave and tossed his makeshift club into a burning pile of men.

Bran stood above the carnage he had just created and gave a mighty roar, challenging the thousands of wights ahead.

They didn’t answer but the Greatjon did.

“That’s the way! Get your hairy arse up here! I’ve more for you beast! Come fight! Fight for the Starks!”

 _I am a Stark!_ Bran screamed in his mind _. I can fight!_

Some of the men who had been fleeing proved that they still could too. Men who’d watched what Bran had done to the wights and became inspired with hope. Men with torches who set flame to those broken bodies Bran created. Men who watched Bran lope by them toward the front.

Towards the real fight.

The giant whose skin he was wearing was not quick and his gait was short and awkward. It had taken hours to get used to but Bran was thankful to have legs again.

Even if they weren’t really his.

Through his third eye, Bran had learned this giant’s name, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun. Yet Jon had called him Wun Wun. His brother, who was a cousin in truth, had looked Bran right in his face and called him Wun Wun.

He’d spent weeks slipping into Bloodraven’s feathered friend, the one always flying about Castle Black and around Howland Reed. Bran had tried to be near Jon every moment he could, yet Bloodraven’s teachings had had him journeying far and wide. Deeper within the weirwoods than he’d ever gone before.

In that time Bran had seen things. Learned things.

Things he wished he could forget.

What he hadn’t learned was how to speak using the giant’s mouth. It had been hard for Bran to bring Wun Wun to heel when he’d slipped into the giant’s mind. Wun Wun had resisted more than any of the animals he’d ever slipped into, even more than Hodor. That fight hadn’t been as vicious as the one Bran had fought with Varamyr Sixskins, and it hadn’t ended with Wun Wun’s mind being thrown aside. For the giant’s spirit was still here with him, just pushed back to a far corner of his mind, where it raged and wept at being used in this way.

Bran had felt frustrated at not being able to speak to Jon before they journeyed through the Wall. When he’d tried to stop Jon, to warn him, to keep him away from the battle, all that had come out were grunts and snarls. The men around Jon had acted like they wanted to fight and Bran couldn’t bring himself to hurt them.

 _‘As I told you.’_ Bloodraven had whispered in his mind. _‘To try and keep him here would lead to blood. To hold him back from this battle would allows rivers of it to flow against the Wall.’_

_But it won’t be his blood! I’m a giant now! I’m strong!_

_I can keep him here and away from the fighting…_

_‘Then do so. Risk a fight here and now. They see the body you wear as mad Brandon Stark. They will cut that giant down and your kin will still go out to fight in this battle…”_

_No! You said he’d fall!_

_‘You cannot stop what is to be.’_

_I can! I will!_

With the giant’s might under his control, Bran didn’t believe anything could beat him. The strength had been overwhelming, mingling with his need to safeguard Jon’s life. Jon had been staring at him the whole time, with concern and something akin to disappointment. The little brother that Bran would always be wanted to prove to Jon just how strong he had become.

He wanted to show Bloodraven just what he could do.

“We fight!” Jon had shouted at him, pointing at the gate. “Wun Wun fights!”

 _No_ , he’d thought, _I will fight._

_Jon won’t fall. He won’t die in this battle because I’m going to be with him._

_I’ll protect him, this giant will fight with Jon, like he was supposed to._

So he set to joining Jon and his party but they were on horses and his legs were shot and his steps cumbersome. The riders moved so much quicker than Bran and when he finally emerged on the other side of the Wall, Jon had disappeared into the army.

He’d panicked, moving along the thousands of men but his weak eyes couldn’t find Jon anywhere. When darkness had fallen and the wights had come, Bran had been caught up with other giants, men yelling at them to pull catapults this way and that. The fire, the smoke, the screaming, it had all come closer and closer as time dragged on. It had felt like days since the night had come and he’d lost Jon.

Bran was with the Greatjon’s men when the wight giants had come. The endless stream of wights borne of dead men had ceased for only as long as giants’ towering undead bodies blocked the gaps between the burning towers. The flaming arrows loosed by the Greatjon’s own archers, and the ones atop the Wall, had done little against them. For several arrows could strike the undead giants before they’d fully set to burning, and sometimes even that was not enough. Some of the giants had been dead for a long time, their matted fur sleek with frost, which was poor fuel for fire.

Bran had helped push the catapults closer during that fight and it was those weapons and the trebuchets on the Wall that had broken the attack of the wight giants. The flaming bowls of pitch launched from the catapults would explode around a wight, and while the ones long dead would take longer to burn, they eventually would. In the end, Bran thought every catapult in their army had been pulled towards the right side of the battle, where hundreds of the Greatjon’s men were dying to hold back the undead giant and the wights that followed after.

A battle Bran now joined, bellowing the cry he often had while playing at war in the godswood.

_Winterfell!_

_For Winterfell!_

What came out of course was but another roar, causing the northmen in front of him to part, letting him take the foe head on.

A giant wight stood, half burning with the ruined body of a spearman in its grasp. Its blue eyes looked up just before Bran delivered the blow. Drawing his massive fist back and then throwing his weight forward, he connected squarely into the side of the wight’s head, where it jutted forward from its shoulder blades.

Someone must have tried to take the wight giant’s head earlier for it tore off with ease and flew into the army of undead men behind it. Bran and Wun Wun groaned in pain at the feeling in his fist. It felt like he’d punched a block of ice.

Worse, the wight had not fallen, the headless body merely tossing aside the dead man in its grasp and reaching for Bran now. Before the wight could reach him, two northmen leapt forward with flaming spears, jabbing them into the parts of the giant not already burning.

“Yeah!” One man yelled with the Umber giant borne across his chest. “Burn you bastard! Kill them all!”

The giant wight flailed at the attacks and Bran helped the men even more, pushing hard at the creature until it fell backwards with a loud thud. The northmen were on it, putting it fully to flame as Bran searched for his next foe. The wights of men came next, and it was time Bran began to use flame himself. An empty wagon was burning near him and Bran wrenched a log from it to use as a weapon.

“That’s right beastie!” A man shouted from behind him. “Give them what for!”

Bran looked and was shocked to see more men flocking behind him, even some giants as well. He hefted the flaming log above him and roared, pounding upon his chest.

_Jon and Meera should see me… they should all see me…_

_I’m fighting… I’m leading men…_

With that he began to swing his club wildly, smashing into wights left and right, crushing some into heaps or knocking others aside for the northmen to set aflame. He ripped one corpse’s rotting skull off and slammed his fist down into another, driving its head deep within its chest. One came close enough for Bran to grab and throw high into the air before landing upon a pile of bodies that was quickly set to burning by men behind him.

He felt like a force of nature. As the flames burned everywhere around him, a greater heat burnt within his chest. The cold things in his way couldn’t stand against him. Nothing could. Not against a greenseer as powerful as him. Not when he was in the body of a giant.

_No wonder Brandon the Builder controlled them._

_If I had hundreds of them doing what I wanted, the Others wouldn’t stand a chance!_

_No one would! I could beat the Others alone! And the wights! I could tear down entire castles!_

_I could tear down the Wall itself!_

Bran roared again as his burning club flung three wights aside and he struck another so hard that its back bent the wrong way.

“Get back!” The Greatjon’s voice rang out, the lord waving his torch at him from a good ways behind them. “A line! We need to keep the line! Wun Wun! You lot! Get the fuck back here! You’re in the way of the bloody catapults!”

His giant breaths were creating a fog between them but his eyes were not so weak as to miss that he’d led a good many men away from the main part of the line, if it could still be called a line. Wights now moved within several areas of their formation. The Greatjon was doing all he could to fight back against the breaches but it was clear he needed help.

Then Bran saw that the group of men he had led here needed help too.

The wights were not just pressing from the front anymore but from every side. A man had his throat ripped out by the claw-like grasp of a dead black brother. Another gurgled as his head was split by an undead wildling wielding an axe. Then it was fire itself that claimed a life, for a man was pulled to the ground by a burning corpse not yet lost to the flames. His screams were terrible to hear as he too began to burn.

 _Back!_ He grunted at those following him, pointing at the Greatjon. _Get back!_

_I’ll guard your way!_

Some of the men not already fighting wights nodded, and a giant barked something at Bran in the Old Tongue.

Until its chest exploded outward in gore. A large, dark fist was sticking out through its ribcage, bits of bone around the hand. When the undead giant pulled its fist back, the newly killed one fell forward, crushing a man beneath him. Bran hadn’t even seen this wight giant coming, for it was smaller than him, at least two head lengths shorter and nowhere near as wide.

_A young giant… a dead young giant._

_It’s no match for me._

He went forth to face it when pain lanced through his mind. Wun Wun screamed out from where he was imprisoned just as Bran did. A sharp pain was coursing through his hip and he saw a wight had buried a dagger there. The thing was drawing back for another strike when Bran brought his flaming club down on it, crushing it into the ground. The pain in his side along with Wun Wun raging in his mind caused Bran to lose focus as he smashed the wight down again and again.

For he was strong. He was powerful.

 _No one can stand against me_!

He was still thinking that when the giant wight stood before him. The world became bright all of a sudden and wind whistled around his furry body as he staggered backwards. The pain in his side was nothing compared to what had just been done to his face. Bran moaned in agony and touched Wun Wun’s jaw, the bone moving alarmingly at his touch. He spat out some blood and felt teeth come out as well.

While he’d been confident only moments before, Bran felt his fear returning now. He hadn’t even felt the full strength of the giant wight. The damage done had come from a glancing blow.

And another attack was coming.

Horns blew behind the Greatjon’s line as Bran brought his massive fists forward to crush the smaller giant. The wight caught his wrists in its cold hands and stopped Bran’s attack before it could reach it. He roared at the creature, blood and spittle washing over its mangled face but its blue eyes stared back at him unflinching. Then its grip tightened in such a way that Bran wailed.

It felt like the wight was trying to break his wrists. Then he was sure the vice-like grip was meant to sever his hands entirely. He tried to jerk away, to free himself, but all that served to do was unsteady him enough for the wight to drive him to his knees. Two burning arrows struck the undead giant’s side, Bran’s allies trying to help him. Yet the wight did not even notice.

Its blue gaze was only for him.

_Its going to kill me… it can’t kill me…_

_I’m supposed to save Jon… I don’t even know where Jon is…_

Horns blew again and Bran threw all his strength into freeing himself, driving Wun Wun’s arms as far apart as he could. Blood dripped down from them where the wight’s fingers had torn his flesh. It was no use though. Any moment now his bones would break and his hands would be ripped from his body.

He’d be broken again.

“Wun Wun!” A voice cried out and the sounds of galloping horses followed.

The wight and he turned just in time to see a group of riders coming towards them, all carrying burning spears. The man at the head of the riders Bran recognized, even with Wun Wun’s poor eyes. Bran had grown very familiar with that face through the keen eyes of a raven.

“Drive them back! Hold the right!” Howland Reed commanded as he drove his flaming spear through side of the undead giant. “Burn them all!”

That attack distracted the wight enough for Bran to force his arms free again. Taking the opportunity Howland Reed had given him Bran grabbed the undead giant by the armpits and pulled until its arms ripped out of its sockets, raining the snow with bits of frozen blood and gore.

The wight kept on fighting though, driving its head into his and sending him staggering back into the snow. When he looked up, he saw the wight giant burning above him and more riders appearing to drive torches at it.

_Get up… you have to get up…_

_You can’t give up now… Jon will fall if you don’t get up…_

More and more riders were all around him, setting flame to wights and doing their best to drive the horde back as the Greatjon rallied his men, just as Bran rallied his own strength to climb onto his knees. The ground was shaking beneath them and he wondered how many horses had to have come for it shake so much.

“Lord Umber! Jon!” Howland Reed cried out, the black-cloaked man joining the Greatjon in taking down a naked wight. “We must hold the right! The catapults cannot stay here! I fear we have drawn too much of our fire away from the other ranks!”

“I could’ve had things in order!” The lord bellowed back as Bran gained his feet, keenly aware of how the ground kept shaking.

“Your men would’ve folded some time ago if you didn’t, but you cannot hold here alone my lord. Like it or not, this is a command we share now.”

“What about that bloody wildling? How’s the left?”

“They hold for now, and dawn comes soon… it must come soon. Something is not right though! We’ve burned thousands upon thousands of their wights but reports from the Wall say the Others still only watch…”  
  
“Bloody cravens! They’d rather have us kill our own dead then- hey! Watch your horse man!” The Greatjon backed away as Howland’s horse began to buck and kick, looking about nervously.

It wasn’t the only one to do so. As he neared the two lords, many of the horses began to buck and whinny in fear. Their pounding hooves only adding to the strange feelings coming from the ground. The giants nearby began calling out as well, bellowing strange words Bran didn’t know. Soon he recognized it as the same word being said over and over again.

“What the hell are they on about?” The Greatjon asked as a horn sounded from atop the Wall.

Then two more blasts and the ground’s shaking was so great that Bran knew it could not be horses.

Horse hooves could never fall upon the earth with so much force.

From within the prison in his mind, Wun Wun fought and screamed, rattling the bars to be heard, for he understood what the giants were trying to warn them of. The shaking of the ground was something Wun Wun and his kind had felt before.

It was not the mounts of men that battered the earth so.

But the mounts of giants.

“By the gods.” Howland looked towards the forest at something Wun Wun’s poor eyes couldn’t see. “No… the center… Jon can’t hold against that… there’s too many…”

Bran felt relief and terror then.

For Howland Reed had just told him where to find Jon, at the center of the battle it seemed. Yet Wun Wun had told him what Jon and his men were about to face. Beasts Bran had once dreamed of seeing after hearing Old Nan tell tales about them. The mounts that giants rode into battle on.

But the giants at the Wall had no mounts left. They’d all fallen to the cold or the Others.

Which meant the beasts of legend bursting forth from the woods now were no longer the mounts of the giants.

They belonged to the Others.

Bran and Wun Wun cried out in fear as one.

 

**JON**

“Jon, come on!” Willem coughed as he kicked a wight back into a pile of burning corpses. “Time to sort ourselves out! Like you said!”

His friend’s smoke stained face had tear lines running down from his eyes, the result of a night of battling in hell. Smoke had choked them for hours now and the weather itself had been tainted by the battle. Ash was now falling from the sky in place of snow, the same ash rising from the thousands of burning corpses throughout the field. The smell was so foul that it was overpowering. It made others retch and Jon had tasted bile several times during the battle.

Yet he’d choked it down to fight on. He still lived while many of his men did not.

Some were dying even now, right before his eyes.

He was sure ordering his men to fall back was the right decision. They’d held firm most of the night, giving some ground but nowhere near as much as they could have. The losses had been heavy and each time a man fell, he rose again to switch over to the enemy’s side.

It had to be the right decision. When Coll had ridden to tell them that the right was collapsing, drawing back had made sense to Jon. Almost all his men had been in pitched battle, and if the flank broke, their retreat would need to be quick.

 _We also need to breathe_ , he thought as he coughed, _the smoke will kill us before the wights even get a chance._

The smoke and ash was mostly coming from the piles of wights that burned in the gaps between their flaming towers. While the original fires of the towers had largely burnt down, their coals still glowed with an intense heat, so hot that any man that accidentally drew too close would see their flesh and garb ignite suddenly.

Though the flaming towers had begun to die away, there were still large obstacles guarding their front lines, namely the piles of blazing bodies that had been built during the battle. At some parts they were higher than Jon’s head and he credited them with being the only reason the army hadn’t been overrun. For the wights had to climb over those fiery corpse piles to reach them, many falling to the flames as they did so. The rest were simply spared by stepping over their fellow undead brethren who hadn’t quite yet taken to flame.

Creating bridges of rotted, befouled flesh.

He looked to the sky and prayed for dawn. For the light to pierce the darkness and free them all from this battle.

In the thickness of the smoke, he could barely see the moon anymore.

_Yet I can see my men die… men I’ve brought here to their end…_

_Lives lost to the ice and fire…_

When they’d fallen back, some had been trapped between the flaming towers and the undead hordes. Scores of men left to the mercy of the wights who tore at their flesh or cut them down with cold weapons. Pulling their forces back had saved the center and its formation, he believed that, but it did not spare the men who hadn’t had time to regroup to Jon’s position.

They were all spread so thin that trying to save every broken group would have been a fool’s errand but that didn’t make him feel better. Jon watched as a greybeard shoved a torch in a wight’s face only for another to drive a gnarled hand into his middle, pulling away with a handful of the poor soul’s innards.

Hundreds of wights were still clambering over the flaming corpses and he worried he would not be able to set his ranks to rights before they were on them. Yet there was a glimmer of hope in the death ahead, for one group had not been overwhelmed. Twenty or so men, with Ser Richard among them, desperately trying to fight their way back to the lines but cut off by a press of wights. The undead creatures seemed to be seizing on their desperation, as if they were attracted to it.

_They’re drawing the wights from our position. Their deaths are buying my men time to regroup._

“My lord!” Aldred hailed, hacking a wight’s head clear off with his axe before knocking it down with his shoulder. “My lord! I’d have you back, there’s too many here!”

“And there’s more coming Jon! For fuck’s sakes, come on!” Willem cursed as he took a torch from the hands of a dead man, only to begin lighting the corpse on fire right after.

“We can’t regroup if they are at our heels!” He snapped back, pointing his numb hand towards Ser Richard’s besieged group. “We need time! We need a distraction!”

“Let the southron do that for us then!” Aldred kicked at the headless wight again as Willem set it to burning.

“You already gave the order! When Coll reaches Maege this whole area will become an inferno! They’re done for Jon! Let it go!”

“I know what I ordered!” He said, feeling that guilt threaten to overwhelm his thoughts. “He’ll need time to get word to her, and our men will need space for Maege to do what needs to be done! Ser Richard’s men won’t last that long and they won’t draw enough of the enemy away.”

He looked about him then, taking a quick stock of the closest men who could still fight. Ghost was dragging a burning wight away from Grenn and some sworn brothers as they burned a reanimated snow bear. The direwolf’s white coat was black with ash and soot, so much so that he looked more like Shaggydog. He also saw a good number of Stark and Reed men near him and he figured then that fifty would be enough.

Willem had followed his eyes and reached for him.

“Let’s fall back Jon! Please don’t-”

“Willem, you and Soren will take command of the men!” He jerked free of his friend’s hold and pointed back at his retreating army. “Get them ready for whatever is to come!”

“No fucking-”

“Grenn! You and your men to me!” He yelled before pointing to Aldred and the others nearby. “All of you to me!”

Willem tried to take hold of him again and Jon did the only thing he could in this situation. He struck his dear friend soundly across the face, sending him falling backwards, sprawling head first into the snow.

“I love you like a brother but do as I fucking say!”

He pointed his sword down at the man, fighting the shaking he felt in his arm. Willem was one of the most important people in the world to him and Jon knew that he was the only one who could lead the center in his stead. When Willem rose up to look at him, touching at his bloody lip, his eyes gleamed in the firelight as well as with rage.

“Go my friend.” Jon shook his head and reached down to rob Willem of his torch, for his friend would find others to the rear. “Go so that my men will have a safe haven to return to when this is done. I trust you to do what is right.”

He did not wait to hear what else Willem would say, turning his back on the knight and waving what men had gathered around him forward. With Grenn and Aldred to either side of him, they began charging straight on to where the wights encircled Ser Richard’s company.

Towards the flames and the hordes of roaming dead.

“No one else.” Grenn coughed through the smoke wafting towards them. “If this was that Greatjon man or some other man, I wouldn’t be doing this right now. Running into hell for a lord, that’s not what the black is meant to be. But you’re a sworn brother at heart, deep down Jon. Always thought so.”

“Later Grenn.” He shot back, watching as Grenn left his side to join two men in setting a female wight aflame before riding back. “Later so I can sing your praises as well. You’ve become a fine ranger my friend.”

“Good to know you think there will be a later Jon.” Grenn answered, continuing on. “Good to keep hope alive.”

_My hope is alive._

_Alive and well and safe in Winterfell. Far from this horror._

_Sansa… Arya… Rickon… I will keep this all from you._

_If it means my life or the lives of hundreds of others, I will keep you safe. I have killed the boy, and the man I have become will do all he has pledged._

Ser Richard’s men were being killed just ahead of them. About ten still stood by the time Jon and his men fought their way through the press towards them. Ghost leapt at a large, hound-like wight, the direwolf’s massive jaws closing around its neck like he did with fresh game before running the wight towards a fire.

“Form a circle!” He yelled. “We’ll all fight back to back if we have to! But we’ll stay alive! Everyone stays alive!”

Another of Ser Richard’s men died then, trying to save the knight from the three wights who’d pulled him off his horse. Ser Richard’s savior had his head pulled completely around by a fat wight whose face had been cut off.

“Aldred!” Jon cried out for help as he rushed to aid the fallen knight.

He came to the pile of wights atop Ser Richard and grabbed at the long hair of one of them, yanking it back to put his torch directly in its face. Aldred drove his axe deep into the back of another, which did nothing save make the thing’s legs limp. It suited Aldred well enough apparently for he merely grabbed at those legs and wrenched the grasping thing away from Ser Richard. The last wight was choking the life from the knight so Jon chanced drawing his sword, hacking down sideways to cut at its lower arms. He kicked the rest of the body sideways and drove his torch into it as Ser Richard pried the still moving hands from his throat.

Ser Richard was not a handsome man and the ravages he’d been put through by the wights had not helped. His face was bloody and torn, with his neck showing deep gouges that were likely to scar.

_If he lives. I’d gladly bare some scars if it meant surviving this night._

“Ser.” Jon said gruffly, offering the knight his help in rising. “I need your blade.”

The man paused at seeing whose hand was being offered. Jon was surprised himself at how he quaked under the man’s glare. He had no reason to fear Ser Richard and could not explain why he felt the need to shake at his sight.

“It’s yours.” Richard grunted, taking his hand as he rose shakily to his feet, taking stock of the battle around him. “Where are your riders?”

“My riders?” He asked, embarrassed to still feel shaky in the man’s grasp.

“Can’t you feel that?” The knight looked about quickly. “The ground’s trembling… I thought the reserves were charging…”

“What the hell is going on?” Grenn asked then, staring at the ground and holding out his hand to show how it shook.

Jon looked to the piles of burning bodies about them and saw that they were shaking as well, corpses and embers tumbling loose. Glancing back to their lines he saw his men still reforming and no sign of Howland’s reserve. Nothing to explain what was causing the earth to quake in such a way. Whatever it was though, it was getting closer.

_And it’s not coming from our side._

_Which means it can’t be good._

A horn blast came forth from back towards the Wall. Then it blew twice more and he had every reason to urge their retreat, for those horn blasts meant the Others had unleashed something else upon them.

“Away from the fires!” Jon pushed at Aldred and Richard, waving at the other men who were too busy battling wights to hear him and suddenly fear gripped his heart. “Back away! Move towards our men regrouping toward the Wall! Get back!”

As they tried to fight their way through the press, the shaking became more intense. He set another wight to flame, and then another, but Jon counted three men fallen in the same amount of time. Looking back to the wall of flaming corpses, he was shocked.

No more wights were pushing through the gaps or climbing over the corpse bridges. They had been a constant stream the entire night yet suddenly that stream appeared to have been dammed, which made no sense considering how the wights had braved fires most of the night to reach them. Now, with Jon’s men struggling to fall back, they suddenly stopped.

“I hear it!” A man shouted. “The pounding! Can’t you hear it?”

He _could_ hear it and he could feel it as well in his bones. It sounded like thunder but no storm raged anywhere he could see. Jon could feel Ghost’s fear as well, their bond bringing forth the direwolf’s instinct to flee, to run as far as they could from whatever was coming.

They weren’t moving fast enough though. Not to escape what suddenly hit the fiery barricades with the force of a thousand horses.

Men screamed and Jon choked his own cry back when the towers that they had spent days building, and the piles of burning wights that had been holding back the tide, suddenly surged forward. Coals and bodies tumbling forth as some great power forced them forward, opening the field for the first time in the entire night.

His men cried in fear and shock.

“The earth quakes!”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“The fire is coming for us! The white walkers control the fire now!”

_No… not the fire…_

_They control something else._

The first hulking figure to burst through the mountain of corpses was thick with flames itself. The fiery beast swayed and collapsed soon after emerging, its massive body shaking the ground with its fall. Even as the body of the mammoth burned away, behind it others began to break through the flames just as the first one had. Some falling prey to the inferno they’d just charged through, falling in massive heaps that rattled Jon’s teeth, while others carried on.

The burning mammoths came straight at them, with more coming behind, relatively untouched by the flames. Eight of them if his terrified mind counted right.

“Run!” A man screamed. “Back to the Wall!”

_Running won’t help. We’ll never make it._

_They have to be brought down here… gods Maege, tell me you got my command…_

His company had to break apart as a burning mammoth ran by them, its undead hide billowing forth a stench that caused Jon to retch. The sight of one man being trampled beneath its massive feet did not help. The pressure on the unlucky bastard’s body was so great that it caused his eyes to shoot out from his head.

“Get out of their way!” He ordered, spiting the bile free. “Get out of here! All of you! Run back!”

Most listened to his words but he couldn’t, for a wight came at him then. A horribly disfigured man of the Night’s Watch, with disgusting boils on his neck. He dodged the creatures attempt to tear his throat out but faltered and fell backwards over another burning body in his attempt to flee.

Ghost hadn’t fled either though. His friend rushed forward to knock the wight back into the path of a charging mammoth and the wight exploded under the mammoth’s foot. Jon stood and looked at the barricades again to see them spread out across the field from the mammoths’ charge, to be smothered by even more of the gigantic creatures, as well as the hordes of wights behind them. They blanketed the entire field with their cold, dead flesh, killing all of the light with their coming.

The dark, frost-ridden forms of the mammoths that passed Jon’s party did so without the burden of being aflame. The giant creatures would likely smash straight into the newly formed ranks that he had ordered Willem to regroup and roll them up to the Wall itself.

But then Maege Mormont proved her worth yet again.

The ground between two of the mammoths exploded in a fireball, far more intense than any of those caused by barrels of pitch. This explosion moved out like a spray, coating the earth and the mammoths in flames. A moment later, another landed upon a third mammoth, enveloping it completely and causing the creature to come to a stop soon after.

Jon winced as the heat from these explosions wafted toward him, the memory of burning at the Twins causing his sword hand to ache terribly.

_Well worth it though. Keep them coming Maege. No matter who is in the way._

_Keep the fire coming._

They’d always known there was a risk they could be outfought or overwhelmed. That perhaps the thousands of men, torches, and arrows would not be enough.

Pitch and wood could fuel great fires.

Yet oil would burn far more fiercely.

The casks Maege was now flinging forth from the Wall represented every ounce of oil they could find between Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. There wasn’t much of it, fewer than ten casks Jon remembered, but enough to coat one part of the battlefield in flames quickly if need be.

 _The need is here now Maege_ , he thought, _do not hesitate at who is in the way._

_Not for one moment._

He cursed himself for thinking such a thing, as another explosion did not just engulf a mammoth but some of his retreating men as well. As they flailed and cried out, the mammoths charged on, straight into their lines. Jon had thought the cries of his men burning were terrible to hear, but the sounds they made as mammoths trampled them to death were almost worse.

All the exhaustion came on him like a wave then. He’d been fighting all night. The longest night of his life it felt like. His muscles were worn and there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t ache. Beneath his leathers and armor he was drenched with sweat and his body was near to the breaking point.

Worse still, Jon found himself far from most of the fighting. The men Jon had been leading had dispersed wildly after the mammoths’ charge. Ser Richard was trying to follow his command and bring his men back to their lines while Aldred had leapt to avoid the coming of a mammoth and was now battling a wight in his attempt to rejoin Jon’s side. Ghost was cut off by a burning mammoth that chased the direwolf away back toward the Wall.

Then suddenly cold found him.

It was a deep, harsh cold that travelled on no wind that he could feel, one that gripped his heart and mind and bid him to look back at where the mammoths had cleared a path toward the forest.

That was when it became clear what the true purpose of the mammoths’ charge had been.

Their masters had finally come to join the fight.

The pale, ghost-like figure that strolled across the corpses of man and beast was like something out of a dream, a nightmare. The white walker was tall and gaunt, its flesh paler than milk and its beautiful shining armor reflecting the horrors of the battle all around them. Suddenly the Other seemed to glide across the snow with impossible speed, holding a shimmering blade in its hand, so razor thin that Jon was hard pressed to say it was there.

Jon gripped his sword and torch all the tighter, preparing his weakened body for the coming of his foe.

He’d taken a step forward to meet the white walker when it changed direction suddenly, veering off towards another man in the midst of battle.

“Grenn!” Jon warned, beginning to run. “Grenn! Grenn behind you!”

The ranger of the Night’s Watch had just saved the life of one of his sworn brother’s from a wight and looked at Jon queerly. Grenn either had not heard his words or didn’t comprehend them quickly enough to react. Jon ran all the faster, frantically pointing behind the man to warn him, shouting his voice hoarse.

When Grenn took his meaning, the ranger struck behind him with his sword without even looking, just like Jon had taught him years ago. While impressed with the speed and instinct of the strike he was horrified by how easily the Other dodged it. Its own attack was almost a blur, cutting low at Grenn’s left leg and bringing the young man to his knee.

“Ah hells!” Grenn cursed, trying to stab up at the Other. It merely brought its arm out in an arc and struck the man’s wrist so hard that Jon could hear the bone snap.

“Grenn!”

“Fuck! You bastard…” Grenn cradled his wrist as the white walker then clutched at his hair. “You’re lucky Sam isn’t here you sorry sack of-”

The Other struck swiftly and cleanly, taking Grenn’s head off with one blow. Jon’s legs moved without thought, his heart wrenching as he watched his friend’s body fall forward. The white walker only added to his horror by flinging Grenn’s head in his path, forcing Jon to leap to avoid kicking it.

“Monster!” He shouted as the Other came at him. “No more! No more of my friends! It’s your turn now!”

A sound like ice cracking answered his shout and the Other brought its glass-like sword up at his head like a flash. Jon met the attack as if in a trance. The clash of their blades made a strange otherworldly sound as they passed one another.

None of this seemed real.

The canisters of oil exploding in fire and engulfing undead mammoths. Beasts of tales long past, attacking the army he had led into battle. The world was a mix of flame, smoke, and darkness. It was all so far from the life he’d had at Winterfell with the woman he loved, the sister who chose him, and the little boy who needed him.

Jon was now battling an Other.

It was all so mad, he wanted to laugh.

The frozen sword struck so fast that Jon nearly didn’t defend in time. He met its cut, then the next, and then the one after that. The Other’s eyes were bright as blue stars but with none of their beauty, freezing Jon in its gaze.

A memory came back to him then, of the dark dream that haunted his time at Castle Black. He remembered Sansa holding out her arms for him in the darkness and the ice cracking all around her. The sounds were almost identical to the ones the Other made now as it spoke.

“No!” He slashed at the creature, watching as it spun away easily. “No! She is mine! You monsters can’t take that from me, you couldn’t take that from me!”

When their swords met again, he noticed his blade was covered in frost. The Other stabbed at him but Jon swatted the attack aside and cut upwards, his steel scraping across the throat of the creature. The blow filled him with pride yet that feeling quickly fell away when his foe didn’t even stumble. Jon’s sword did no damage to the white walker and soon enough it was cutting at him again.

_Normal steel holds no threat to them. Sam told you that._

_It has to be Valyrian steel._

_Or dragonglass._

Remembering what Willem had gifted him with he backed away from the Other. With a torch and sword in either hand he had a decision to make and a split second to do it. The white walker’s sword would cut through the torch like butter so it was the flame Jon tossed at his foe. The creature stepped aside with ease and was two steps closer to him within the bat of an eye.

Jon was waiting for him.

“Come on. Come on then!” He yelled while drawing the Other into a feint. “You got in close to kill Grenn! You want to enjoy my death? Come and try me!”

The Other’s eyes glowed when they met again, Jon using two hands to fend off its attacks. He did not do so easily, and trying to bring the Other closer could likely mean his death. When his left hand dropped away to fall to his belt, the Other slashed down upon his sword, trying to cleave him in two. Yet Jon held the strike above his head. The white walker was so close to him that Jon’s skin began to crack from the cold. The steel of his sword cracked and broke as well and he was forced to use his dagger then.

With the dragonglass dagger in hand, Jon stabbed up and into the middle of the Other, a sharp screeching coming forth as he did so. He jerked away, for the white walker’s cold bled out and into dagger, and even with his glove on, his flesh turned to freezing before he dropped it. The Other’s pale flesh fared even worse though for it began to melt away, bones and all. Jon watched in awe as his foe disappeared before his eyes into a dark pool upon the bloodstained ground until only the steaming black dagger remained.

_Sam was right. They don’t just die, they’re destroyed._

_Good._

“For you Grenn.”

Jon spat into the puddle as he bent to retrieve his dagger. It was still steaming with its intense cold but he fumbled it into his belt for he would need it again soon. Coming out of the darkness were more of the wight walkers. First a few, then some more, until he thought he saw maybe twenty spread out across the corpse covered field. Three heading right at him.

“Jon!”

_Oh you stupid fool._

“Jon!” Willem called again as he ran towards him, flanked by Aldred and several Stark men, all dodging wights. “Did you just kill a white walker? You always find a way to show me up, don’t you?”

“I gave you an order!” He chided his friend, genuinely angry to see him here.

It was good they had come though, for some wights had been coming up behind Jon and it appeared his men had been holding them off. In truth they were being driven off, forced back towards the Wall again and only Willem managed to break through the press to reach his side.

“Did you ever wonder why Yohn was happy to be rid of me?” Willem asked but Jon didn’t answer, for he was taking in the scene back towards the Wall.

The mammoths had done much to throw their ranks into disarray but the drums of oil had set most of them to burning. He saw maybe three or four massive dark shapes wreaking havoc still, crushing men beneath their feet or using their tusks to throw others high into the air.

“We’re still under attack and you left our men-”

“Oh if that’s not the pot calling the kettle- well this.” Willem pointed at his blackened face. “You can have my head off for it later then.”

Jon flinched to think of poor Grenn.

“The mammoths and wights are just softening them up for the Others! The men need to be led Will!”

“I agree, that’s why I came to get their rightful bloody leader.” He scowled before jerking a thumb back at the battle. “Soren and Richard are trying to take down the last of those beasts but when I saw the Others coming…”

Their frozen foes had arrived on the field and Jon figured from the lack of fire coming down from the trebuchets that their ammunition was finally spent. Just when they needed it the most.

Yet they still had one weapon left to use.

“The dragonglass.” He turned to Willem who watched the coming of the Others as fearfully as him. “The obsidian arrows. Our archers need to use the ones we brought out-”  
  
“We’re trying to find them. The arrows and some archers.” Willem said darkly, his breath steaming in the air. “Some reinforcements had just come down from the Wall when the mammoths broke through. The monsters went straight into the their ranks Jon... then the wights came after and it was a fucking massacre. I had a few men searching for the quivers that held dragonglass arrowheads but if any survived the mammoths’ bloody trampling, I’ll be surprised…”

“You’ve got your dagger still?” He asked, hoping Willem still had that protection.

Willem nodded before letting his eyes fall to Jon’s sword, which was in a sorry state. Cracks ran through it, like no kind he had ever seen before. Steel could bend and dent with use but to become splintered like it had spoke to the dark sorcery of the Others.

“That sword is going to fail you.” Willem said while putting a hand to Jon’s chest as they both retreated away from the three white walkers who were almost upon them. “Get out of here Jon. Get back to your men.”

“They’re too fast to allow that… and I’ve still got my own dragonglass dagger.”

“Look at the length of those blades. They’ll cut you down before you even get close.” Willem pushed at him again. “Go on Jon. I’ll buy you some time.”

Jon pushed him right back. He was scared and certain that there was no chance they could defeat these ice demons but he would not let his friend sacrifice himself. Not like Hallis Mollen had. Not this man who had saved him from a burning building. He couldn’t leave him here on this battlefield.

“If you aren’t going to follow my orders then I’m sure as hell not going to listen to you.” He touched at the dagger on his belt to feel that it was still harshly cold. “I’m not defenseless.”

“No, you’re just senseless!” Willem barked before tossing aside his torch and drawing his second sword and handing it over to Jon. “Take it! Only started carrying it so it could help me out one day. ‘Bout time this got used like it was supposed to be.”

He didn’t argue for there was no time for it. The Others were on them. Three to two odds were not in Jon and Willem’s favor and clearly their foes did not care much for honor.

Ghost, however, did. The direwolf rushed from the side and leapt before one of the Others, snapping and darting at the creature. The thing stopped to slashed at Ghost with its sword while its two comrades came on. One even spun its shimmering blade in its hand as it did so.

“Oh that’s my dancing partner for sure.” Willem snarled, spinning his own blade. “What say you my lady! Nice night for a dance?”

The white walker did not respond to Willem’s challenge, save to raise its blade and come at the knight. When their swords met Jon heard the strange clashing sound again but his eyes were for his own foe. It began to circle around him, its eyes shining down upon the dagger at his waist before moving back up.

Jon saw an evil sort of understanding in them, a haunting kind. He wanted it to know some fear too, so he followed Willem’s example.

“This is for you.” He said, tapping at the freezing dagger. “For you and all your kind. And there’s more like it coming. More men like us. Men who will fight you. Men who will see you all turned to the soggy piles of slush you fucking-”

The Other’s crackling speech cut off his own, carrying on the breeze that reached him just a moment before the white walker did. For its attack was sudden and furious. He defended the first strike, wincing to see frost forming on his blade, and then the second and third before he struck back. This Other was being cautious, not coming in close enough for Jon to use his dagger, nor was it turning its back to the men battling wights nearby.

That was fine by Jon for it let him keep an eye on Willem and Ghost, so he could aid them if the need arose.

Ghost could do little more than act a nuisance to his foe while Willem aspired to do much the same. The knight was proving just how skilled a swordsman he was, for Jon saw him scoring hits on his opponent.

All the while taunting it mercilessly.

“You remind me of someone my lady!” Willem laughed as they danced around each other. “The silent treatment, the disapproving look, your cold heart… why throw a dress on and it’s my mother for sure! Oh and then there’s how you fight!”

The Other responded back with a higher pitched version of its talk that Jon swore broached on annoyance. Willem laughed all the louder when his blade thudded off the white walker’s head.

“Nevermind! As thick as that head sounds, you could be my father!”

Jon wasn’t laughing though, for his own foe was not as distracted as he was. Its frozen blade sliced so close to his face that it cut away some of his beard.

He parried one of the creature’s strikes and swung two-handed against its hand to try and disarm it. When the blade struck, not so much as a chip of ice came away from the Other’s skin. All his attack did was fully engulf his blade in frost so that it steamed in the air. The sight of that reminded him that steel could not last against their magical blades.

He then leapt back as the Other made to take his head.

It swung wide and sliced across his shoulder instead, cutting loose his cloak clasp. Cursing, Jon reached up and grabbed at it so he would not stumble or be blinded. Backing away from the Other, he dodged its strikes rather than meet them, for fear of what it would cost his sword.

_Which is useless! I need to use this dagger!_

He made to cut away his cloak when he was struck by an idea and then nearly struck by the Other’s backstroke. With his cloak in hand, Jon moved quickly, pulling it off and throwing it up high at the white walker. The momentary distraction was all he needed. Jon immediately dived low, rolling across the ground to get behind the Other, which had sliced through the cloak to find Jon missing. When it spun around to see him, dagger in hand, its icy voice shrieked.

That didn’t stop Jon from driving the black blade up into its throat.

While the screeching that erupted from it hurt his head, it also filled him with hope.

The sound of Willem’s blade shattering carved that hope to pieces.

“Oh fuck.”

Willem cursed as the pieces of his sword tumbled to the ground between him and the Other. His friend was now only holding the handle of his blade in one hand and the dark dagger in the other, the white walker spinning its sword once more.

“You prissy bitch.” Willem answered that by waving his sword handle about before flinging it with full force into the creature’s face. His friend actually smiled to hear the thudding sound it made as it bounced off white walker’s forehead.

No harm was done to the Other though and it came on unimpeded.

“Willem!” Jon screamed, running to his save his friend who suddenly seemed miles away.

His path was blocked by the third Other who had escaped Ghost, the direwolf now facing several wights.

“Will!”

Willem was fast and spry, dodging his enemy’s cuts with grace. Yet the Other moved just as nimbly and after a while its blade found its mark, driving through Willem’s shoulder and out the other side.

The knight cried out in pain and Jon’s heart stilled in his chest. Willem’s shout was not his death cry though, for he soon became to laugh.

“A fine dance!” Willem spat as he raised his black dagger up before driving into the white walker’s chest. “Time for it to end!”

The Other wrenched its blade and body back from Willem and melted into death, while the knight dropped to his knees, clutching at his wounded shoulder.

“I’m coming Will!” He yelled, running full at the Other standing between them, their blades meeting in a spray of frost. “Hold on!” 

“T-take your t-t-time.” Willem waved him off, his teeth chattering. “It’s n-not mortal Jon. C-cold as anything but went through and t-through… it’s not even bleeding… j-just keep that b-b-bastard off me.”

“I will!” He answered, desperately thinking of how he would defeat this Other. For his dagger was back in the remains of the last one. “Will, your dagger! Throw me your dagger!”

The white walker cut at him and Jon spun away to put himself between Willem and the creature.

“It’s t-t-too cold…” Willem answered. “This whole b-bloody land is t-too cold…”

“Then run Will!” He could see wights nearing and wanted his friend far from here. “Get up and run! Back to the Wall!”

“Not going to leave you son… not again…”

“What? You’ve never left me!”

The Other was not going to allow them the time to talk, its blade thrusting again and again. He used his sword as little as he could, hoping it could last long enough until he figured out a way to end this. Or for Willem to be able to toss him the dagger.

The cold clashing of their blades rung in his ears and Jon wished he had a Valyrian steel blade. Or his army still at his back. Or even Ghost.

Anything to spare him this battle with the Other. To give him time to grab Willem and get back to a maester. His friend was not even jesting anymore as he rocked back and forth on the ground. The Other sidestepped his last cut and struck out with a pale fist, the punch hitting Jon like a block of ice in his chest. He kept his feet but he knew he was slowing while his opponent showed no sign of fatigue.

“Willem run!” He begged. “You have to run, I can’t hold him-”

The roar of a giant cut off him off and both the Other and Jon turned to look at the large creature charging towards them. The giant was running awkwardly, throwing aside wights and men alike in its urgency to reach them.

_Wun Wun?_

Wun Wun roared again and the Other waved its arm. Suddenly several wights changed direction to move towards the beast. The giant grabbed one and hurled the corpse through the air, the wight colliding head on with the white walker and knocking it backwards into the snow.

_Thank the gods for giants._

“Help’s coming Will!” He yelled, running to Willem’s kneeling form, intent on grabbing the dagger and getting his friend out of here. “Let’s go! I’ve got you and I’m getting you out of here! Sam can-”

Just before he could grab the dagger from the ground, Willem’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. He’d intended to help Willem up but his friend’s hold was too tight, so tight in fact it was hurting him. In the moment that it took Jon to realize his friend was not seeking comfort Willem had already gained his feet.

“Willem… what…”

Jon’s words were lost in the cold air, choked away as Willem’s other hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing his breath away. He couldn’t believe his friend would ever hurt him like he was doing now. The knight he’d met all that time ago had saved him, had given his life purpose again when he’d given up all hope of seeing his family again. Willem had saved his life several times over and he couldn’t reconcile that warm, loving fool with the man who was squeezing the life from him now.

For Willem’s touch had never been so cold.

His eyes had never shone so blue.

 

**BRAN**

He brought his arm back before hammering the Other down into the ground.

The sight of its frozen body smacking against the cold earth was a good one. The pain shooting through Wun Wun’s hand was quite bad though, so bad Bran figured it was broken. Twice now he’d struck the Other with enough force to rip the head off a giant, snapping bones in his fist to do so, and twice the Other had quickly recovered and stood unfazed.

Now, just like before, the white walker began to climb to its feet again, raising its sword and turning its icy gaze on him. Somehow, with his third eye, Bran knew the Other saw more than just a giant staring back at it.

 _It’s looking at me,_ he thought, _the white walkers can see me._

_They don’t see a giant, they see a broken boy…_

That thought scared him more than the wights. After Howland Reed had spoken to where Jon was Bran had fought across half the battlefield in search of him. Meera’s father and the Greatjon had called after Wun Wun, wanting him to help move the catapults but he couldn’t stay with them.

He had to find Jon.

He’d ripped a score of wights to pieces in his journey through the battle lines, the fight becoming harder the closer he came to the center of the army, which was faring worse than the right had been. Undead mammoths had broken through the fires, charging through the lines of men and trampling many. It had been horrible to see how a man could go from a living, breathing person to a mess of blood and bones beneath the foot of a mammoth.

Worse was that Bran and Wun Wun recognized some of those killed along the way. Bran knew them from his time inside the Lord-Commander’s raven, when he would sit on Howland Reed’s shoulder as the lord spoke with his men. Wun Wun had grown fond of many in the Watch, men who brought him roots and let him drink of their wine.

Ulmer had been such a man, and Wun Wun had grieved to see the old archer impaled upon the tusk of a mammoth. The small, big-eared steward Bran had seen joking and laughing with Jon, Pyp he thought, he’d survived the mammoth’s charge.  Pyp hadn’t escaped the wights that followed though. Bran hadn’t been quick enough to save the young man from having a spear plunged through his throat.

When he was a little boy, he’d dreamed of being a knight, fighting as a hero in glorious battles. Ones people would sing about. Battles he’d be proud of fighting.

There was nothing glorious in the thousands of charred and burning bodies he saw here. He didn’t want to hear anybody sing about the Others cutting down men who had no way of defending themselves.

Bran wanted to forget that this night ever happened. How he couldn’t help men like Ulmer and Pyp.

Yet he could help Jon, and his adopted brother needed his help.

Bran found him in a truly horrible part of the battlefield, where bright new fires fueled by oil burned both mammoths and men. The wights and the white walkers themselves broken through here, dousing the firewall Jon had made with body after body.

Here chaos reigned and somewhere within it, Jon had been lost.

Wun Wun had been the one to find him, the giant’s nose catching wind of Ghost and drawing them to where Jon and Ghost had been battling wights and Others.

By that time Bran had been in too many fights to count and suffered for it. Wun Wun’s body was covered in wounds and bleeding, his fur slick with sweat as well. His efforts had exhausted the giant to the point of breaking, yet when Bran saw Jon fighting the white walker alone none of that mattered.

_Jon!_

His scream had been a roar, his weapon a wight that he swung against the Other.

None of his attacks kept the monster down though and Wun Wun smelt more wights coming. When he’d been in the weirwoods, he’d watched a giant get killed by the Others and Bran knew he wouldn’t win this fight.

_I just need to get Jon away from here… I can get him back to the Wall._

Bran rushed forward and used his unbroken first to deliver an upwards blow into the Other. If it didn’t hurt so badly he might have laughed at how high the white walker flew in the air and away from him. Instead he turned to find Jon and carry him to safety.

What he saw froze him in place.

At first glance it looked like Jon and his friend Willem were helping each other stand. He could believe their battles tonight had tired them to the point of needing to hold each other. Bran remembered Jon and Robb would sometimes throw arms around one another when they wore each other out in the practice yard. Yet what he saw now wasn’t the same, for Robb had never wrapped his hands around Jon’s throat like Willem was doing now.

Then he saw what he feared. For even with Wun Wun’s weak eyes, Bran glimpsed the familiar blue glow in Ser Willem’s eyes. Those dead lights shining brightly meant that he was no longer the man who made Jon laugh.

 _He’s killing him_ , he realized, _he’s killing Jon._

He ran to Jon’s side, each step feeling like his legs were heavy and wooden. Jon had fallen to his knees, his arms limp at his sides and Bran saw red. Roaring, he brought his arm down between the two men, snapping the bones in the wight’s arms and freeing Jon from the stranglehold.

As enraged as he was Bran couldn’t stop there so he violently swatted the wight down to the ground into the cold, hard earth. Then he grabbed the man’s leg and dragged him up into the air to slam him down onto the ground.

He did that again.

And then again.

“No! Stop!” Jon shouted. “Leave him be!”

Bran could feel the wight writhing in his grasp and he wouldn’t give it a chance to hurt Jon again. So he found the closest oil fire and with a roar, he heaved the knight’s body into it.

“Will!” Jon tried to fight by and run at the fire but Bran grabbed hold of his shoulder and pulled him back. “Gods no, please! Not fire!”

Despite his pleas he didn’t let go of Jon for they were still in danger. The wight he’d just thrown in the fire staggered out, crooked and burning, but he was not the only threat. No white walkers were coming for them, from what he could see they were heading back towards the forest.

They weren’t the only ones trying to leave though. For all the wights who’d been attacking the Wall were now retreating. Hundreds of them were coming their way in a dead swarm.

That horde now stood between Bran and getting Jon back to the Wall.

_Wun Wun and I can get there. I can get Jon there._

_I have to._

Jon was still watching the knight burn when Bran lifted his brother up into his mighty arms, throwing him over his shoulder and beginning to run. Jon allowed all this without a struggle, his body limp save for the firm grip he held on his sword. He felt Jon weeping, the mournful sounds reminding Bran of Wun Wun trapped deep within his mind.

_Don’t cry Jon. I’ll get you away from here. Far away from here._

A giant press of wights was ahead and he braced himself for one last fight. Wun Wun and he would smash through them, just as they had before.

That’s what happened, for the first five or six wights. He swung his good arm this way and that, battering them away from his path. As their numbers grew and the wights packed together even tighter, his pace slowed. Their attacks worsened.

The wights’ clawing hands tore fur and flesh away from his body. Some jabbed at him with weapons. He cried out in pain when a sword cut at the side where he’d been stabbed earlier in the battle. Moaning then when a spear stabbed into the arm he shielded Jon with. An axe was suddenly buried into his back and the pain became unbearable.

He reached out to grab at the wights to help pull them forward through then, like he was swimming in an ocean of corpses. All their hands were tearing at him, trying to drag him down. It hurt more being able to see their rotting faces so up close. The darkness was lifting and light was returning to the world. To the east Bran saw the first glimmers of dawn.

 _I’m so close… I’m almost there… we can make it… I can make it…_  
  
Jon yelled in pain as a wight swung a maul at him that struck his leg. More raised other weapons and Bran realized they’d never make it. He was lashing out in every direction but he couldn’t make more than a step forward. He sought any help, any sign of hope nearby, fighting against the harsh knowledge the army was still far off.

Yet, with the light of dawn, he saw that hope. At the tail end of the wights’ march, a pile of the corpses rose high, a direwolf stained black with soot standing atop of it. Bran couldn’t reach Ghost, he could never reach that far as poorly as he was.

Jon could though, for Bran remembered how far he had thrown the Other and he knew he could do so again.

Roaring he lashed out, beating wights aside this way and that, clearing enough room to drop Jon into his arms. They looked at each other then, Jon’s face blackened and tear streaked, his grey eyes full of confusion and sorrow.

_I love you Jon. Tell the others I love them._

_That I miss them. I’m in the dark but bring them light._

_Bring them light._

Then, with all of Wun Wun’s remaining strength, Bran heaved his brother high in the air, his flailing body arcing over the wights. Ghost leapt from the pile of corpses as Jon hit it with a thud, rolling over the other side where Bran couldn’t follow his descent. Wights were moving nearby and he was seized with fear that he’d just thrown Jon to his death.

Until he saw some wights thrown aside as Ghost ran by, with Jon’s arm secured in his jaws, the massive wolf dragging the man behind him. Fleeing as the direwolf fled back towards the army.

_I did it… Meera, I did it…_

_He didn’t fall._

That was when Bran fell.

Some wights hacked away at the giant’s legs causing him to lurch backwards, his body crushing some as he hit the ground. He could feel them moving beneath him as more swarmed over top of his body, an intense, searing pain coming from his middle.

Wun Wun and he both screamed to see that a wight had torn open his stomach, shoving their hands within to his organs and driving them to new depths of pain. Bran’s mind was so clouded with pain that he barely heard Bloodraven’s urging.

_‘Flee Brandon Stark. You must flee.’_

He couldn’t flee. There were so many wights around him that he couldn’t even raise his arms.

_‘Remember what you are. A greenseer. The last greenseer.’_

Wun Wun’s body began to feel far away as more and more of it was torn away, the giant raging within the prison in his mind. Bran wanted to be anywhere else but here now. He wanted to be far from this pain and Wun Wun’s agony.

_‘Then escape now! Fly away dear boy! Fly!’_

_I’m sorry Wun Wun,_ he begged of the giant, _I’m so sorry…_

Wun Wun likely couldn’t feel his sorrow over his own pain. With the giant’s anguish bellowing forth, Bran slipped away. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun was freed and a moment later began to take out his rage at being imprisoned on all the wights around him. The giant smashed the head of a wight in his hand while hugging another so tightly to his chest, crushing its bones against him. While Wun Wun fought his last fight, Bran’s spirit flew high and away from the horde of wights bearing down on the fallen giant.

He sought a familiar safe haven. A body he’d already taken before but there were none. So he flew to the nearest life he could find. One who had been watching the whole battle with a detached interest from the branch of a tree.

The hawk bent to his will easily…

_… and he flapped his wings in surprise at the world he saw._

_The hawk’s eyes were far stronger than Wun Wun’s had been, it was like walking out of the cave of the three-eyed crow into the world above. The battlefield wasn’t bright, for night still held sway and thick, black smoke filled the air. Yet the details were finer and he could see all the farther._

_The tree he was perched in shook as a mammoth nudged against it. Wights of all kinds and white walkers were fleeing back into the darkness of the woods. As he beat his wings and flew upwards, he saw their reason for running even clearer._

_To the east, the sun breaking over the edge of the world was no longer a dream. Its golden light was filling the horizon, slowly lifting the hold of night over these lands. The sun’s rays streamed over the treetops, causing the Wall to gleam and Bran thought it was a beautiful sight._

_Not like the battlefield he now soared over. The smoke made it hard for him to see but the hawk’s sharp eyes pierced through most of the haze. For a league, all he could see was death, destruction, and fire._

_The corpses were strewn across the field like sand on a beach and more were falling to join them. As the light of a new day fought its way onto the battlefield, wights were dropping to the ground, like puppets whose strings had been cut._

_Hawks didn’t weep but if they could Bran’s would be weeping as they flew over top the place he’d left Wun Wun. The wights had fallen there as well, many piled around the prone and bloody form of a great giant. One who had been ready to fight in this battle and relished the freedom to do so. The chains Bran had thrown on Wun Wun hadn’t kept him from the battle but it had robbed the giant of something precious._

_He’d bent a giant to his will before the Wall._

_Just as Brandon the Builder had done to an army of Wun Wun’s ancestors to build the Wall itself._

_And Wun Wun had fallen just like his ancestors, under the control of a Stark._

_He flew on, finally finding the remains of the army he’d been hoping to find. To Bran, it was hard to imagine how a hundred men could have survived the hell he’d just fought through._

_Happy to be proven wrong, he found thousands gathering closer to the Wall. He saw men under the Stark and Umber banners, different groups of wildlings, and even men of the Night’s Watch. No longer divided by lines or loyalty, he only saw one great army, a smoke and blood stained collection of men who were helping each other to stand or carrying their wounded back towards the Wall._

_Some fighting was still going on, not all the wights had escaped or been driven low by the dawn yet. Men encircled the corpses with torches and brought each one low. Two catapults unloaded flaming pitch on a snow bear that endured despite the many burning spears protruding from it._

_He glided above all of this, over the smoke and the pockets of fighting. Searching the survivors for any sign of the man he loved as a brother._

_The hawk’s eyes found Summer’s brother first. Then they found Jon._

_Ghost was standing protectively over his body, having dragged him to shelter of a broken, abandoned catapult. Corpses lay all about him, burnt or trampled ones, sworn brothers and northmen. Laying still and looking as bloodied and blackened as he was, Jon blended in with other bodies so well that Bran’s fears took hold for a moment._

_Until he saw how Jon held the arm Ghost had dragged him by against his side. Or that he still clutched his sword desperately against this chest, a chest that was still rising and falling while all the other bodies lay cold around him._

_Bran found Jon’s grey eyes then, open and staring up at him. His gaze seemed far away though, more focused on the clouds of smoke and the brightening sky than the hawk flying above him._

_‘He’s alive.’_

_‘That’s all that matters. The Wall didn’t fall. He didn’t fall.’_

_‘I did it. Bloodraven was wrong. I changed his fate.’_

_Bran spotted a group of riders coming toward Jon’s position and he decided to act quickly. Bloodraven wasn’t with him now and Jon was alone save for Ghost. This was Bran’s chance to speak with him about everything that had happened. To share with him all that Bloodraven had shown him in the last few weeks._

_All he had to do was slip the hawk’s skin and journey into Jon’s. Not to control him, only to share their thoughts, to warn him of the power of the Others and the secrets of the Wall._

_Bloodraven had always stopped him from doing so before but this was his chance._

_‘Don’t be scared Jon. It’s not like Wun Wun or Hodor. You’ll be free. We’ll be able to talk…’_

_A warm wind suddenly blasted him and the hawk was thrown upwards. No explosion or fire had caused the heat and there was nothing to explain why the air suddenly grew so hot._

_Then hotter still._

_He felt like he had in Wun Wun at the end, when the wights were crawling all over him. Instead of their cold tearing hands, this felt like a burning choke hold closing in around this body. Over the wind he heard a woman’s chanting, words whispered on the breeze in a strange tongue. Words that made the heat so intense that he thought he was going to-_

Then the world became fire and pain.

The feathers were burned away and the hawk’s eyes seared to blindness.

In the darkness and agony that followed the hawk’s plummeting to the earth, Bran was lost in his burning prison.

Screaming and calling for help.

Begging for someone to stop the fire.

Begging someone to stop him from falling again.

**MELISANDRE**

Dawn had come to the battle and so had she.

Lady Mormont and Sigorn had allowed Samwell Tarly to leave long before the rest of them. The fat steward had journeyed down and through the Wall to greet the dawn that Melisandre had wanted to bless with a prayer.

Instead she’d had to wait until the commanders on the Wall descended themselves, after all the servants of the Great Others had fallen or fled. She walked with Devan at her side as the two commanders led their way through the wall. Travelling through a tunnel of dark, cold ice should have bothered her yet she could feel the power flowing through this marvel of men’s work.

There was something new here that she hadn’t sensed the last time she’d travelled through the tunnel with Stannis. Then it held power, but a cold, firm strength. Now she sensed the Wall pulsed with a life of its own. Melisandre believed that to mean that this grand structure had been blessed by the victory won at its base.

One won by fire and blood.

_Thousands burned in the most beautiful expression of the Lord of Light’s power I’ve ever seen._

_Even some of the Others had fallen, I feel that, their coming brought a deep cold and each time one fell my ruby burned hot._

When it had been her time to take part in this great battle, her ruby’s heat had grown intense. Sigorn and Lady Maege had been preparing to lead men down the Wall when her search for the servant of the Great Other hiding among their men had finally ended. As she’d gazed into a brazier near to her, R’hllor had sent a vision to her through the flames.

Of a the wolf boy enthroned beside the red eye in the dark. A child that began roaring as he towered tall above men. Who then took flight with wings of his own, disappearing into black smoke, so thick she lost sight of him.

Looking to the sky above the battlefield, becoming clearer in the dawn light, she saw no birds moving through the smoke.

Save for a hawk circling towards the edges of the army. One which moved lower and lower, a beast she sensed power emanating from. A dark power.

A rival to her own.

_They watch us in our hour of victory. The Great Other plots our downfall even now._

_Let them see what the Lord of Light would bring to their dark reign._

The spell she worked was the same she’d used against the skinchanger when Stannis had waged battle here. With R’hllor’s strength flowing through her, she engulfed the beast in His flames. She wanted to burn away every sign of the dark magic working within the hawk but she was thwarted. Just like it had been with the demon before, Melisandre felt the presence within the animal fleeing. It moved beyond the grip of her flames, beyond R’hllor’s grasp, and far away into the frozen northern hinterland.

_I thought I heard a boy screaming. Weeping as well._

_And the calls of ravens…_

Different calls greeted their arrival to the other side of the Wall.

The cries and shouts of the wounded were loudest of all. They’d passed many being brought back through the Wall as they journeyed without. The hurt had been gathered close to the gate, where men with torches had watched over them until stretcher-bearers could carry them through.

Men clutched at each other for warmth or seeking some sort of salvation from the pain their wounds inflicted. One man had deep claw marks around the dark holes where his eyes had been. Another did all he could to hold his insides where something had torn at his middle. There were hundreds more like them, some far worse off, for they lay still and unmoving in the snows.

_Soon to be burned, more for the flames._

_To rob the Others of more soldiers and to bless their sacrifices as they should._

Her eyes moved to two of the wounded she recognized, the worse off of them being the young squire Jon had set to spying on her.

“I don’t want to die.” Coll Lothien begged of the warrior kneeling with him, holding a bloody cloth to the boy’s side. “Aldred, I didn’t even see it there… it dragged me from the horse and… I don’t want to die…”

“You’re not going to die.”

Aldred Hilgard did not look like the comforting sort yet he spoke earnestly and laid a bandaged hand against the pale squire’s head, wincing to do so. From the thickness of the bundle of cloth around his limb and how bloodied it was, Melisandre did not hold much hope for it. The man bore other injuries as well but paid them no mind as he tended to the wounded boy who was looking down at his bloody side in fear.

“Don’t tell my father or my uncle that I was so stupid… please Al…”

“Shut it. The healers will patch you up.”

“My sisters… Cayllie… don’t tell Cayllie it happened like this… not like this…”

Melisandre left the boy to his fears, for his life meant little in the grand design before them. Perhaps he would die, perhaps not. She cared only that it was likely this squire would not be following her for some time, if ever again.

Further on the of bodies of the slain who were being dragged towards the center of the field. Wildlings carried sworn brothers, sworn brothers carried northmen, and northmen did the same for wildlings. They had only just begun but hundreds of men now lay in lines where others walked about, stewards she named them, marking parchments in a solemn manner.

_Taking count of their losses… or trying to put down who are lost._

While other stewards went about their work, the one she knew better than most was mourning beside one of the bodies. Samwell Tarly was on his knees, clutching the hand of the steward who’d left the Wall.

The young man named Pyp, who had the broken end of a spear sticking through his throat. Dead for some time from what she could tell, the fat steward appeared unwilling to accept that, rocking back and forth and weeping over his friend. Edd Tollett stood over them, his mouth open but no words coming forth, the man holding his black cloak tightly in his hands.

She saw other bodies as well. Ulmer the archer. Halleck, brother of Harma Hogshead. Devyn Sealskinner. All flames burnt out to see this great victory done.

A man very much alive sought her out now.

“My lady.”

Ser Richard came before her and bowed. He bore many marks of battle yet showed no sign of missing limbs or grievous injuries. Just as the visions from R’hllor had told her it would be.

“Ser Richard. Devan, honor the brave warrior.” She nodded to him as Devan bowed, the young man pale from viewing the truth of the battle they’d watched from on high. “A great victory for our cause on this night. You must feel honored to have fought and survived in this trial.”

“I nearly didn’t.” Richard’s harsh gaze faltered, his brow furrowing in memory. “They overwhelmed my men, most are dead or lost, and I was almost torn asunder when… well when…”

“When he came for you, as I said he would.”

Ser Richard nodded.

“I have faith my lady, great faith in the Lord of Light and your visions but to think Ser Jon, of all people, would come to my rescue. That he would save my flame after everything we said of him… of what the king thinks of him…”

She laid a hand on the knight’s gore covered shoulder, willing him to feel the strength flowing through her. Melisandre’s touch caused him to straighten, his jaw to clench.

_Why do their jaws always clench at my touch?_

“Words are wind. Our thoughts and prayers mean nothing compared to the will of R’hllor. You are a tool of his will in this war. The knight who saved you is much the same. He was acting to protect an instrument of the one true god. You too have a task ahead of you…”

She paused when a group of men rushed by them. Many more were following and grabbing at others to join them. Ser Richard moved his hand to his sword but she stayed it, for these men were not acting in fear. Nor were they preparing for a new attack. It was wonder, not fear on their faces, hope prevailing over terror.

Their excited chatter soon reached their ears.

“He lives! They found him and he’s fucking alive!”

“There’s no way! The mammoths rampaged right over him-”

“He slew an Other! Terrance saw it!”

“Ten! I heard it was ten!”

“Come on Mort! I’ll show you!”

Melisandre led Ser Richard and Devan in following the crowd, the men heading towards the part of the battlefield where she’d brought the hawk, and the dark creature within, down. Warriors from all the different factions were gathered around something she could not see. Ser Richard began shoving men aside but did not have to do so for long, for most began parting before her in fear and awe.

On the other side of the army stood the leaders of this fight.

Tormund Giantsbane was with his son Toregg, the older wildling having lost much of his beard and hair to flames, his face red and blotched from his burns. Lord Umber was there too, being supported by two large men, the lord favoring his one leg and cursing his helpers to bring him closer.

Men on horses were riding towards them slowly, from the direction where the fighting had been fiercest. Maege Mormont had been tearful when ordering the bombardment of those positions with the casks of oil. Melisandre had been full of joy, for the explosions had bathed the land in flames. While it had engulfed some of the men too close to the charging mammoths, it had helped destroy the mightiest of the dark thralls.

That was where the Others had breached, a final desperate act to break the defiance of their army. Something had brought that advance to a halt; the Others cautiously attacked only small isolated groups of men rather than the main ranks. Sigorn had been confused by it but she believed it was because the feared the power of R’hllor.

“There he is!” A man shouted to her right, pointing at the riders. “Next to that bloody wolf of his!”

“How the hell did he survive that? The white walkers were all over him!”

“Maybe he really is a dragon…”

Melisandre followed the excited shouts and gazed out to see the Lord-Commander leading a party toward them from the north. The crannogman, his face already grim, grew even grimmer when he saw her there. He rode to put himself protectively between Melisandre and the knight riding just behind him.

The one she’d seen so much of lately in her fires.

_He looks to have journeyed through the flames himself._

Jon rode as if in a daze, the knight leaning forward in his saddle, as filthy as the direwolf following at his side. Ghost was stained all over with blood and ash, just as Jon was. The knight’s arm had been thrown in a sling while the other was holding onto a sword lowered at his side, his fingers flexing on it often.

“Dragonwolf!” Tormund bellowed, laughing and slapping his son’s back. “You made it! I can’t believe any of you bastards at the front lived! I heard the Others had you put down, good and proper!”

“He killed a white walker!” Soren Shieldbreaker answered back a bloody mouth. “Seen it with my own eyes!”

Men began to repeat that among themselves excitedly and Melisandre had no doubt that it was true. Why else would R’hllor show her the knight so often other than to show him to her as an important tool in Azor Ahai’s cause.

“Your towers worked ser! You were right!” The Greatjon bellowed. “We burned thousands of the monsters! Thousands upon thousands!”

“More of them than they got of us!” Another shouted.

“We beat the Others!”

“They ran away! They ran like cowards!”

“A defeat! We gave the white walkers a defeat!”

Some of the giants began roaring as great cries of celebration went up in the army. The arrival of Jon Snow was like the spark that lit the explosion, for everywhere she looked, she saw men cheering. Their faces were exhausted, paled, dark with filth, yet their smiles broke through and some wept into their beards as they raised weapons high.

Devan was yelling as well, raising his arms up and staring at the returning knight with awe. Ser Richard was staring as well, a grin pulling at his usually sour face.

“Do you see ser?” She asked him over the din. “Do you feel the power our Lord of Light bestows on his instruments? On those meant to bring us all through the darkness?”

“Yes my lady.” The knight nodded, putting a hand to his heart. “I believe… I believe in R’hllor… we should have lost… just like at the Blackwater… but we won… we survived till dawn…”

“The true dawn is what we must worry on.” She grasped his wrist and pulled his attention completely to her. “I am shown his will for how it will come to pass. How it must come to pass. R’hllor has shown great favor in you ser…”

“I pray I am worthy of it. To win such victories, to fight in battles such as these… it is what I was born to do.”

“You will be a warrior of light and I ask you to heed me in what I bid of you. In what our god has tasked me to do.”

A chant began to grow among the celebrating men. A word they shouted out over and over again. They honored the young knight who had returned to their ranks, who sat upon his horse, appearing oblivious to all of this. His gaze locked on the rising sun to the east.

“Dragon!” The men chanted. “Dragon! Dragon!”

The Lord-Commander and Ser Richard both appeared taken back by this yet the men continued on, chanting all the louder.

“Dragon!”

“Dragon!”

She pulled Ser Richard’s ear to her mouth, her eyes still following the dazed Jon Snow as he now gazed down at the sword in his grasp. His eyes glistening in the dawn light.

“I have need of you ser. There is a deed you must perform for me. One which will set us on the path R’hllor wants of us.”

“I’m a warrior my lady. I am good for fighting and for killing… if that is what you have need of-”

“The flame of one life need be extinguished so that a far greater fire can light the way.” Melisandre whispered these words as she touched her ruby, willing Jon to see her then. “Can you do as I bid? Can you take a life to ensure a victory like this again?”

Jon met her gaze then, his grey eyes sad and lost. She pictured the sorrowful woman bathed in blood again. The great fire that was to come.

What must come to pass for that fire to be lit.

“I can.” Ser Richard answered. “I will.”

She smiled, clutching her ruby and watching the smoke rise from behind Jon’s steed. The fires had largely died away on the battlefield but she knew there would be others.

_Far greater ones._

_Ones I shall set myself._


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love, how it makes some and breaks others.

**ARYA**

 

“Look at our beautiful boys.” Anguy smirked as he leaned forward on the crenel beside her. “I guess I can’t lay claim on them like you can though.”

“Shutup.” Arya snapped. “They’re not my boys.”

The pair were standing on the bridge between the Armory and the Great Keep, watching the young men sparring in the training yard below. There were actually a great many using the yard today, for Rodwell had brought some of his guard boys into the castle to practice with spears and swords.

 _Might as well give them shovels_ , she thought, _or brooms maybe._

_At least they’d be of some use then. The yard could use a good cleaning._

She wasn’t trying to be mean. It was just so tempting to be down there, to show the clumsy, untrained boys what she could do with a sword. Some of those being put through drills had been her friends, well Yoren’s friends, and they looked utterly hopeless without her.

The brothers Rolf and Wat had the same horrible habit of swinging their weapons too hard and throwing themselves off balance. Hago couldn’t get a blunted spear by a shield if an old woman wielded it. An old, blind, gouty woman at that. Fenris, the bright one, he showed the most skill out of any of them. Sneakier, cagier, he’d beat every one of his friends yet he still couldn’t compare to her. Watching the town boys train had quickly become boring compared to the true warriors she came to watch.

The warriors included two lordlings, a knight, and a squire. Three of those men she named her dear friends.

_Even if two of them name me something else._

Anguy’s laughter interrupted those thoughts, which annoyed her more than anything, for the stupid archer knew too much about all this. He actually bragged to have known before her.

“Well, not a one of them boys ever travelled half the realm to see _me_ safely home.” Anguy pointed up to the dark grey sky. “The lot of them thought they had good reason to come to the North and it wasn’t this shit weather.”

“Shutup.” She mumbled again, lowering her chin to rest on her arms as she watched the four practicing. The wind flapped at the hood of her cloak. While it would be warmer to watch from ground, she liked this view better.

Broken Locke was overseeing this more experienced group of young swordsmen that included Ned, Pod, and Gendry, as well as a new addition. Ned was sparring with Beren Tallhart, who’d just arrived from Torrhen’s Square with Morgan Liddle a fortnight past. Beren was Brandon Tallhart’s younger brother, the same age as her, but appeared out of practice with his sword. She didn’t hold that against him though. The reavers probably hadn’t let him practice when his family was held prisoner.

Ned wasn’t making Beren suffer for it either. He was acting calm and patient, allowing the younger lordling the chance to actually use his sword for some attacks. Their bouts only lasted so long because Ned wanted them to, spurning chances to easily defeat Beren, even offering his opponent chances to beat him.

 _He’s always been kind_ , she thought, _caring for people whether they’re highborn or lowborn._

_He hardly ever argues with me, and when that happens, he figures out how wrong he is soon enough._

Gendry betrayed his own stubborn nature a moment later, cursing when he fumbled a backswing he’d been practicing for most of the morning. He’d been using a practice sword today, not his preferred warhammer, yet Arya was impressed at how well he wielded it. Especially since he was acting like Ned, holding back to spare his opponent. Pod was still far too pale and had only been out of his sick bed for over a week before heading back to the yard. Even though he was up and moving it didn’t stop Brienne and Arya from worrying about him. The fever had almost killed Pod and the weeks of bed rest had left him slower and weaker.

_Gendry won’t let him get hurt. He’ll take care of him. That’s what he does. He takes care of people the way he wishes someone had cared for him._

_He’s as noble as he is stubborn when it comes to stuff like that._

“It’s much warmer in Dorne you know.” Anguy continued to tease. “That’s where I wanted to go but nooo… the Lovelorn Star down there just had to see _the North_ , he said, and all of its _beauty_.”

Anguy winked at her, finally pushing her to her limit. Arya lashed out with her arm, catching all the snow along the crenel and sending it flying into the archer’s face.

“Hey!” He sputtered as a muffled laugh came from just behind them.

Brienne was doing her best to hide a smile as she watched Anguy wipe the snow from his face, dancing around to get it out of the neck of his clothes. When she spotted Arya watching she gave a little nod.

“You remembered our last lesson.” The lady smiled.

“Use what weapons your surroundings give you.” Arya pushed back her cloak to tap Needle’s pommel. “To add to the weapons you already carry.”

“Good girl.” Brienne brushed aside the grey cloak of the Sworn Guard to place a hand on Oathkeeper. “Though I would’ve tossed him off the bridge.”

“Oh that’s a good idea…”

“Bloody hell it is!” Anguy protested. “I’m only here as a favor! Marlen can’t make the girl’s archery lesson so I step in and this is what I get for my service? Abuse? I’m half tempted to…”

He paused as a pair of serving girls were walking by, both curtsying as they took notice of the diadem on Arya’s brow. On instinct she reached up to straighten it, for she always felt foolish when people saw it askew. Anguy straightened up as well, suddenly forgetting his outrage. He used some of the melted snow on his face to slick back his curly red hair but it started springing up again as he walked over to the serving girls, all smiles.

He managed to stop them at the far end of the bridge and Arya marveled at how easily he began talking with them, setting the girls to giggling a moment later.

_The idiot barely knows them but he came make them smile and laugh so easily._

_I can’t even talk to Ned or Gendry these days without making them upset and I’ve known them for years…_

“What troubles you Arya?” Brienne asked, taking Anguy’s place at her side to watch the boys spar below. “Is it Podrick’s thick-headedness in regards to his health? For that annoys me as well. I lectured him too sternly perhaps. Now he’s so eager to make up for his failings that he risks a fever again…”

_He didn’t fail… he protected me just like you wanted…_

_You should be proud of him._

“It’s not Pod… even if he is being thick, he’s the only one down there who’s still my friend.”

Down below, Rodwell had given a shout for his guard boys to stop what they were doing and the practice ended for them. Yoren’s friends were soon traipsing beneath the bridge towards the gate while Broken Locke’s group carried on, save for a change of partners. Now it was Gendry and Ned squaring off and she felt her chest tighten at the thought of them clashing. They hadn’t been on the best of terms lately and Arya worried what they might do. After a moment though she began to breathe more easily, watching as the two practiced honorably, not pushing too hard to test the other’s sword hand.

Arya couldn’t help biting her lip when the blades rang out though, nor could Brienne miss her doing so.

“Ah, I see.” The lady spoke quietly, leaning forward to join her on the crenel. “Things have been tense of late ever since you rejected Lord Edric’s proposal.”

“I didn’t reject it!” She said quickly, her cheeks aflame. “He never asked anything of me! Only Sansa and the others… how can I say no to something he’s never asked _me_? Ned didn’t even talk to me about… how can I speak about all of that when I didn’t even know he… how he…”

She couldn’t finish the thought for Arya and Brienne both winced as Beren landed a blow to Pod’s side. The squire jerked some in pain before dropping back and raising his sword once more.

“I saw that strike coming from a league away.” Brienne scowled. “He should be able to defend better than that.”

“Pod let Beren get the hit in.” Arya shrugged. “He does much better with Gendry and the other guardsmen. With Ned and Beren he holds back. He doesn’t feel proper beating on lords.”

“He told you this?”

“No. I just noticed. I’ve been watching him for awhile now.”

“Well that’s a fool thing to do!” The lady said before she regarded Arya closely. “Impressive of you to notice though. It baffles me that you can be so observant, so quick to notice things that I never would, yet you had no idea of Lord Edric’s true affections for you… nor Gendry’s.”

That annoyed Arya for it was almost exactly what Sansa had said during the meeting when they’d told her of Ned proposing a betrothal. To her of all people.

“Truly? You had no idea of Lord Edric’s feelings?” Sansa had asked while picking at Arya’s hair under her new crown. “He has gone to great lengths to see you Arya.”

“Because we’re friends!”

Lord Wyman had guffawed at that and shot the maester a look that set Medrick’s stupid square face to smiling.

“Lords and ladies can never truly be friends, princess. Not when castles, lands, and marriage prospects are all in play. It goes against the natural order of things, sometimes even leading to scandal-”

“You call yourself our friend.” Arya shot back, the lord acting startled to be interrupted. “The most loyal friend to the Starks, you like to say that a lot. We are ladies of Winterfell, you’re a lord, so you’re either lying about being our friend or you want to marry us!”

“I-how-I am not- Your grace, I am your bannerman and most fervent supporter!” Wyman’s chin had wagged about as he tried to explain himself but Sansa saved him from anymore blustering.

“Your worth is well known to our brother and ourselves Lord Wyman.” Sansa had spoken softly. “We’re not here to discuss the natural order of things or friendships. Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall has asked for Arya’s hand in marriage, that is the matter before us and the one which demands our attention.”

“Were you going to decide for me?” Arya asked, her heart falling to think that Sansa would do such a thing. “Sansa you can’t just-”

“I was going to send for you Arya.” Her sister placed a hand over top of hers. “I would not make this decision without hearing you out… I know the pain, the frustration of others deciding who you would marry, and I won’t bring that upon you as well. It wouldn’t be fair.”

 _Damned right it wouldn’t be_ , she thought, _Sansa’s got horrible taste in men._

_Except for Jon of course…_

At the time her mind was still reeling from hearing that Ned wanted to marry her. She began to think back on all their shared words and the time they spent together in a new light. When they’d parted at the Twins, he’d tried to hug her with such sad, desperate eyes. A look that reminded her of Gendry, for it was the same sadness that passed over his face in the hall just before. The wolf memory she had of Gendry and Pod talking in the godswood came back and mixed with the memories of Ned making her laugh while walking the walls. She thought of how hard Gendry had worked on her armor and the obvious care he’d put into her new crown.

It was a wave of understanding that left her mind struggling to stay afloat, her mouth opened but no words came out, leaving her gaping like a stupid fish. The maester had cleared his throat to speak in her stead.

“The lord is of impeccable bloodlines.” Medrick had tapped his fingers against the table. “His bravery and service in returning King Robb’s crown cannot be understated. Yet in these dread times, I fear House Stark needs more of suitors than just noble acts. The Kingdom in the North requires swords, food, strong allies and influential houses that we can bind to our cause.”

“None of which the Dornishman offers sadly.” Wyman had continued. “His castle is far away and his army marches for the feigned Aegon Targaryen. I believe any match made to Princess Arya, indeed to either of our princesses, must serve the same cause as young King Rickon’s betrothal to Shireen Baratheon does or Patrek Mallister’s to my own Wynafryd. A marriage that will build our strength-”

“You want to sell me to the highest bidder.” Arya had said bitterly. “Like I’m a piece of meat… like I’m not a direwolf.”

“You are a princess Arya.” Sansa had soothed her anger. “And I want you to be happy. I was forced to decide Rickon’s future wife… I could not bear forcing you as well. I won’t lie to you though, more help would be welcome, but that burden need not be yours to carry. So if you can see yourself loving Edric Dayne, speak to it now and I shall listen.”

Arya refused to speak to anything as long as Wyman and Medrick were listening though. Her face had already felt like it was aflame on them hearing about who she loved or didn’t. So Sansa had done her a kindness and asked them to leave the room. The two sisters had sat in silence, crowns upon their heads, worry borne across their faces.

“Why didn’t he ask me first?” Arya finally said, biting her lip again. “Why would he ask at all…”

“He acted honorably, not with guile. I am your older sister and Rickon’s regent. Proper decorum dictates seeking my approval before ever asking it of you.” Sansa smiled, her eyes far away as if in memory. “That’s all he asked for I would add, my approval, not permission to _take_ you. He swore to protect and care for you for all his days… it was actually quite gallant…”

“I would’ve belted him if he said that to me.” Arya had crossed her arms. “Especially if he dropped to a knee or something silly like that…”

“So you would reject his offer?” Her sister had wrung her hands some then. “Is it because of someone else… perhaps Ser Gendry?”

“What!?” Arya felt like every part of her was panicking, though it was a different panic from the one she felt whenever she was in danger.

“So you do not care for him?”

“I-I didn’t say that!”

“So the knight does hold your heart?”

“Him? That stubborn, stupid, stubborn, pigheaded, stubborn-”

Sansa had sighed tiredly then.

“Arya…”

“Oh bloody hell! I don’t know!” Arya had thrown herself against the table, resting her forehead against the oak and blocking the world out with her arms. “How do you know about that? I only figured out what was happening a few moments ago.”

“Well I have eyes sister.” Sansa’s muffled words had broken through. “To give credit where it’s due, I must say it wasn’t me who built the case for you having two suitors… Myranda actually made a list of all the times that Lord Edric or Ser Gendry would gaze after you…”

She’d peaked out from her arms to see Sansa looking quite forlorn at the mention of Myranda. Arya felt guilty for all the times she’d called Myranda names in her head for saying bawdy things about Gendry and Ned’s looks, often using the word “comely” in a way that set Arya to blushing. The lady would talk about other men all the time, but the moment she’d titter on about those two Arya would see red. For Gendry and Ned were hers, part of the pack she’d made and her friends besides.

Or at least they were supposed to be.

She’d felt foolish quickly, for while she sat there worrying on her two friends, Sansa mourned the loss of hers.

“Myranda was smart.” Arya offered. “Smarter than me I guess. I didn’t even know… well, I guess I kind of did… I just didn’t want to think about it…”

“Sometimes people hide their feelings well, other times we’re too scared to hope they feel the same as we do.”

“But I don’t know how I feel!” Her hand slapped down on the table, shocking Sansa. “They’re both my friends! Now I’m supposed to say I love one over the other? Why? I messed up earlier with Gendry and he looked so, so upset… what if Ned looks that upset if I… if I…”

“Arya-”

“What if Pod dies?” She’d asked tearfully. “He got sick because of me and Myranda died and I’m scared all the time. I need them both. I can’t have them hate me Sansa, I can’t… I just can’t…”

She’d started crying then. Remembering how Pod had saved her brought the fear of the raper touching her back and it mixed with all the grief and worry she had.

“Hush.” Sansa had pulled her into her arms, the two sisters holding each other tightly. “Hush now, no one will hate you. This was a bad time to do this… I should’ve waited to tell you but I thought you returned his feelings. I had hoped this was good news. I thought some good news would help…”

“I don’t know what to do.” Arya cried into Sansa’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to be a princess or deal with boys except with swords…”

“Then let me help you with both.” Her sister grasped Arya’s chin to look into her eyes, which she dabbed at with her sleeve. “Not the swords part though, I’m quite awful with them.”

“I know that at least.” She’d laughed through her whimpers and Sansa had too.

Sansa had been true to her words though, helping her with the problems that had followed Ned’s proposal. She’d feared learning to become a princess meant Sansa dressing her up in frilly dresses and insisting that she stop practicing swords and archery. The fears were for naught. Save for a lost lesson here and there for council meetings, and two new gown fittings, becoming a princess had meant becoming stronger rather than weaker.

To sit through council meetings and petitioners took a patience that Arya had to practice at as rigorously as swordplay. She’d almost fallen asleep the first few meetings, perking up only when there were tales of battle from the south.

“You are bored?” Sansa had asked one day and Arya hadn’t lied.

“Well it’s not very exciting. Hearing about this lord whining about this plot of land and that man saying we need more wool and the one next to him saying we need less…”

“It’s not always what they discuss or say that matters Arya. I learn more about Rickon’s bannermen by thinking on why they say certain things and how they react to others. You see lords droning on about wool but I see men trying to push their own agendas… most don’t watch for such…”

“Most men don’t look with their eyes right.” She’d said, thinking of Syrio Forel’s lessons. Sansa had smiled and nodded to hear it.

“If I can spot selfishness and personal motives among our allies it becomes all the easier for me to find it in our enemies.”

“Like how I train against my friends to get ready for a fight with some foe?”

“Precisely.” Sansa had adjusted Arya’s crown for her. “Pretend this is practice. Look beyond the numbers and words. Find the truth.”

Council and petitions had become much more interesting after that. Arya had even begun to think of it as a game. She asked if Sansa noticed that Lord Wyman was always trying to have the last word over the rest of the council. Or that Roger Ryswell would often try chipping away at Ronnel Stout’s ability at holding the Rills and Barrowlands. Or how nervous Ser Morton felt that Bronze Yohn was coming and that no one knew why.

Unfortunately, Sansa’s solution to dealing with Gendry and Ned hadn’t gone nearly as well. Whenever Ned asked her sister of his proposal, Sansa would say she was still considering it, and that she had sent word to Jon for his views. It was all to buy Arya time to sort out how to deal with her feelings.

It would’ve worked if it wasn’t for Morgan Liddle showing up with Beren Tallhart and another proposal. Apparently Beren’s mother wanted Arya to wed him, and the nitwit had offered to do so in front of everyone in the Great Hall where both Ned and Gendry had heard it. They had been talking amicably until then but at Beren’s announcement, both men froze with wide eyes.

The Dornish lordling acted first, leaping to his feet and proclaiming that he’d already offered the same, like she was some claim that he had rights to. Surprised voices had risen in excited chatter while Arya tried to sink into her chair and disappear, Rickon laughing and pointing at her the whole while. She’d avoided Ned’s gaze, only to see Gendry upturning his cup of wine and storming from the hall, shoving Quent aside as he tried to say something.

After that spectacle, who she would marry became a topic of talk for all in the castle, from every lord to the kitchen maids.

Which was why she merely watched her friends sparring below rather than joining them. It was easier to avoid all of the boys than to disappoint the ones who claimed to love her. Lya and her trained together most times now. Sometimes Osha joined them and taught them savage moves that Brienne frowned to watch.

Just as she frowned when Pod allowed another blow that cut his shoulder.

“He can’t allow himself to come to harm over some man’s pride!” Brienne clenched her fists. “Lord or not.”

“You should go and tell him then.” Arya said, thankfully noting that Ned and Gendry were continuing to spar like friends and not enemies. Few words passed between them yet neither struck a foul blow either.

“If we pry Anguy away from those girls we could all go. It is time for your lesson anyways, and Lady Lyanna should be joining us from her ride…”

“I don’t want to go yet.” Arya sighed. “You can if you want. I’ll just wait here with Anguy until they’re done down there.”

Brienne rose up from her position on the crenel to tower over Arya. Not in a threatening way though. While her protector was not pleased, she acted more concerned than anything.

“Things have been difficult lately… with the proposals and all the gossiping…”

“They act different when I’m around now.” She flicked some snow off the crenel. “Pod’s fine, he’s always fine, but I can’t even walk around with him like I used to without some fool watching us and whispering. I even heard one of the cooks saying that I have four suitors now instead of three. It’s better if I just stay away.”

“This is your castle Arya. That crown you wear means you need not hide within it. I’m surprised. I’ve never known you to hide from anything.”

“Everyone didn’t want to marry me before.”

It wasn’t fair. When Arya was younger, romance and boys and marriage were things that Sansa liked, things she was good at and Arya had been fine with things that way. She’d forged her own path and those young men down there had helped her do so. To join them, to spar against her friends, to have everything be normal again, she wanted that. Like it had been before Myranda was murdered. Before the raper had torn her clothes off. Before Arya realized how confused she was about what she felt for two young men that meant so much to her.

 _That’s a horrible thing to think of_ , she thought, _to compare Myranda’s death and that monster in the town to my feelings for Ned and Gendry._

_Wanting them to smile and be kind to me shouldn’t make me feel so bad… not wanting to choose between them shouldn’t make everything so hard…_

Brienne lightly brushed some snow from Arya’s shoulder then, somehow knowing that her tender touch helped push all the harsh thoughts away.

"I cannot pretend to know how you feel.” The lady closed her eyes to speak. “When I was young, I was prettier than I am now but far uglier than most girls-"

"You're not ugly!" She hated it when people would act like that, even Brienne herself. All of Brienne’s hurts had come from caring for others, and to Arya that could never be ugly. “You’re strong and brave and-”

"Arya, a princess would not interrupt." Brienne said sternly. "I was not blessed with the beauty that Lady Catelyn bestowed upon her children. Yet I was a girl still, filled with hope that a fine young man would come to Evenfall Hall and decide that I was his lady. That I would be his to love. To care for…"

Brienne ran her fingers down across her scar in a way that made Arya sad.

"Such was not mean to be. When my younger self realized that, I daresay it hurt as badly as when I earned this scar.” She shook her head. “I forsook that dream for swords, becoming the warrior in tales rather than the fair lady. But you Arya, you are skilled in swords, more so than I was at your age, and a beauty besides. I think of that girl I was, and I believe that if she’d had such fine men who cared for her as those two care for you, she wouldn’t have let fear get in the way of what could be some real happiness.”

“I want everyone to be happy… I don’t want to hurt anyone…”

“That is impossible Arya, I’m sorry, but more will be hurt if you continue to pretend that their feelings do not matter, rather than braving them and finding a way forward.” Brienne put her hand on Arya’s shoulder then, as gentle as ever. “Do not lose out on something because you fear what might happen. You’re better than that. Trust me when I say that I know more about what it is like to-to long after someone, to love them more than you’ve ever been loved. I do not wish such a fate for-"

"I love you." She gazed up into Brienne’s soft blue eyes. “Don’t say no one loves you because I do. I love you.”

"And I you my princess." The lady’s eyes glistened some as she squeezed Arya’s shoulder. "Yet you know that the love between us is far different than the one Gendry and Ned feel towards you. Different than how you feel for them…”

Their conversation was cut off by the sound of swords below, which had always been there in the background, yet now became louder. The fierce clashing came from the two foes Arya feared would be the source, for Ned and Gendry were no longer fighting in a calm, measured way. From Ned’s quick strikes and Gendry’s powerful swings, it looked like they were actually battling.

“Bugger me.” Anguy hurried up to their side, also watching the fight below. “Now it’s going to get interesting…”

“What happened?” Brienne asked. “Was offense given?”

“No, a reason to show off was.” Anguy gestured at Arya. “The Tallhart took notice of her royal unbetrothedness watching and shared it with the others. Between those two fools it suddenly became Rhaegar and Robert all over again…”

“Beren is acting just the same.” Brienne sighed.

She saw that was true as well. The youngest of the four swordsmen was doing his best to get the better of Pod and getting frustrated at the squire’s sudden ability.  Pod was clearly unwilling to let blows of such force get by him so he’d transformed back into the sparring partner Arya knew him to be. He held the Tallhart lordling at bay so easily that he was able to spare worried glances to the true battle beside him.

_A battle of fools._

_A battle of bloody, thick, stupid, pigheaded…_

Ned was faster and more practiced with a sword, scoring blows here and there about Gendry’s mail. The lord needed his quickness though to stay barely a step ahead of Gendry’s powerful swings. If any one of them landed, she knew Ned wouldn’t be able to shrug it away like Gendry did with his.

Rather than putting a stop to this, Broken Locke was actually laughing, cheering them on even. Ned scored another strike to Gendry’s shoulder but he chose the wrong one, for a moment later the larger youth slammed his other shoulder into the lord. Stumbling backwards Ned barely kept his stance and was forced to duck quickly to avoid Gendry’s two-handed swing of the practice sword.

Instead of backing away further, to give them both a chance to breath and see reason, Ned angered her. For he launched himself beneath Gendry’s attack and began one of his own. Pod and her shouts of warning were drowned out in the yell of pain that followed. Ned had brought his sword down in a vicious cut to the back of Gendry’s leg, causing him to buckle forward in agony. Had it not been a blunted blade Arya had no doubt her friend would have lost a leg and likely wished for such with the pain such a blow would have caused.

Agony that fueled rather than weakened, for the knight was apparently ready to seek vengeance.

Basking in his victory, Ned was almost caught by his foe’s backswing, blocking the strike with great strain. So tall and strong was Gendry that even on one knee he was able to free one hand from his own blade to deliver a powerful fist straight across Ned’s chin. As Ned fell back to the ground, Pod lowered his sword to try and break them up.

Beren’s blade was already moving through the air and the lordling realized too late that Pod was not prepared. To his credit, he jerked the blade upwards at the last second, clipping the top of Pod’s head rather than cracking his skull open.

“Podrick!”

“Enough!”

“Stop it!”

Their voices and Pod clutching at his bleeding head were not enough to stop Ned and Gendry, for they’d foregone fighting with swords in favor of fists.

The three witnesses to this idiocy ran from the bridge down to the yard, Anguy giving voice to all the curses Arya had spilling forth in her head. By the time they left the armory and reached the others, Broken Locke had finally stepped in, holding the dirt-covered, bleeding young men at arm’s length. Beren was holding a reddened cloth to Pod’s head which caused Arya’s world to become blurred with rage.

“Idiots! Fucking idiots!” She raged as she drew Needle and drove the Sworn Guard back, moving between Ned and Gendry. “How could you?”

“It was a fight princess.” Broken Locke shrugged. “Spilling blood calms the beast inside. Good for young men to do once in a while-”

“Yeah, on a battlefield!” Anguy scowled as he inspected Ned’s bleeding nose and mouth. The lord’s whole face was flushed and filled with rage as he glared by her at Gendry.

“I could stand for another go.” Gendry spat blood from his own mouth while putting his fists up. “Blades or not.”

“Fine by me!” Ned shouted, pushing Anguy aside.

“Shut it!” Arya snapped, raising Needle up and cutting through the air fiercely. “The next one of you who makes to fight will face me-”

“And I!” Brienne left Podrick’s side to join Arya in glaring at the two fools. “How could you ever let things become so barbaric? You could have killed each other!”

“It was just a fight.” Gendry grumbled.

“In Dorne men fight duels all the time.” Ned wiped at his mouth. “For honor, for pride, for love…”

“If it’s a duel for love you want, I’m ready whenever-”

“That’s it!” Arya raised her fists to the sky screaming. “Godsdammit that’s enough!”

Three of her friends were bleeding and it hadn’t even mattered that she’d kept her distance. All it took was mentioning her name for this to start. Pod said she needed to be a princess, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be Arya sometimes too.

_Sansa said I’m a She-Wolf and she was right._

_Brienne’s right too, I’m not hiding in my own bloody castle anymore._

_I’m a Stark of Winterfell! They’re my guests! My idiots! They will listen to me!_

“I don’t care who wants to marry me! I don’t care who says they love me! I don’t fucking care!” She yelled. “This is my home and you’re all welcome here because I said so! So the first one of you stupid sots who start a fight, who hit one another or argue over me or do anything else arse-like, so help me I’ll… um… I’ll banish you!”

“Banish us?” Ned repeated, confused all of a sudden. “You’d make me leave?”

“Yes! I’d make you leave! I’d have Nymeria chase you out!” She lied, spinning around to point at Gendry. “You too! I’ll toss you off the walls onto that thick head of yours!”

Arya didn’t spare Beren her wrath either, just to be safe. The lordling jumped as her eyes found him.

“And you… well, I don’t know you very well yet, but I’ll think of something to scare you with!” When Anguy started laughing Arya’s gaze fell on the archer and his laughs choked off. “Now, all of you will get Pod to the maester! Ned, you will see to Pod and Brienne’s horses until he’s better! Gendry will scour Brienne’s armor until then too… no wait, do the opposite, Gendry you take care of the horses and Ned you scour Brienne’s armor!”

Arya knew Gendry wasn’t as comfortable around horses and Ned had shared with her that he hated scouring armor.

“Arya, I’m sorry.” Gendry whispered as he wiped blood from his lip.

“It was a mistake Arya.” Ned pleaded. “Please don’t be mad…”

“Shutup! Get out! Get out of my yard!” Arya pointed the way out of the practice yard and challenged any to argue further. “Everyone but Brienne, get out!”

“What’d I do?” Anguy asked but raised his hands up when she took a step forward with Needle. “Gods, what a charmer… fine. Hey you fools wait up! I’ve got some questions about your taste in women…”

As the men all left them, both Gendry and Ned shot her desperate glances on their way out. Her fear for their hurt feelings was gone though. Watching them actually hurt one another had driven it away and replaced it with a firm resolve. She glared at them both until their sad eyes turned from her.

Which bothered her somewhat for they both had nice eyes.

_Gentle eyes… they wouldn’t hurt me… maybe each other but not me…_

“You handled that well.”

Arya was shocked to hear Sansa’s voice coming from towards the armory. Her sister was walking towards her with Marlen close behind.

“How long were you-”

“You were not the only one watching.” Sansa looked up at a window in the Great Keep. “Had you not scolded them all, I would have. How badly was Podrick hurt?”

“Not very.” Brienne answered, glancing at the drops of blood on the snow-covered ground. “Perhaps some stitches, but I think not.”

“I am glad.” Sansa nodded. “My lady, if Marlen and you could give us a moment, I’d have a private discussion with my sister.”

Brienne bowed and made to join the crannogman in standing watch from the side of the yard. Arya was still shaking with anger and feared that Sansa had only been kind for appearances. That a lecture for cursing and yelling was coming her way.

It never came. All her sister did instead was step forward and begin to straighten Arya’s small crown with her soft fingers.

“I yelled.” Arya said to break the silence.

“I heard.”

“I cursed.”

“Yes, I heard the cursing while you were yelling.”

“You’re not mad?” She asked, backing away and raising an eyebrow. “Princesses can yell and curse?”

“They shouldn’t.” Sansa gestured to the sword in Arya’s hand and she sheepishly sheathed it once more. “I’ll be honest with you though, I’ve done much the same to Jon several times. If men behave in such a way that yelling and cursing is warranted, well then feeling bad about it would be silly.”

“Jon has acted that stupid before?” Arya shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh several times.” Sansa smiled sadly. “He’s a fool. My brave fool.”

“Yeah, well, I have two fools to worry about.”

“I assume you mean Ser Gendry. You’ve admitted it then? That he’s a suitor as well?”

“I don’t know… about Ned or Gendry.” Arya shifted her stance and looked up to sky, as if hoping for an answer in the grey clouds. “This is stupid and complicated… I mean, why can’t it be simple? You love Jon, right? How’d you know it?”

Sansa changed then. For months she’d been a patient and wise-looking queen, then a princess, but suddenly she was the daydreaming girl again that Arya remembered from childhood. Her cheeks blushed and she looked away to the ground, smiling brightly.

“It didn’t happen right away. He was gentle with me in a way that made me feel safe. He started believing in me even when I couldn’t. The feeling only grew when I learned about Jon’s truth, though I still didn’t recognize it as love.” Her smiles turned into a different look then, one that Arya usually saw in men and it made her want to retch. “I think my heart knew it first. It would beat faster when he was near, when we would talk or touch, even just lightly. You’ll know after the first time you’re separated. If being apart pains you, if not seeing him every day opens a hole in your soul itself, then that’s love Arya. It’s a blessing and a curse…”

That didn’t help like she’d hoped. Keeping a distance from Ned and Gendry had been hard, really hard. She’d break her fast in the Great Hall because that’s where Ned would eat and she could watch him from afar. She’d watch the comings and goings of the East Gate because that was where Gendry would ride out from each day.

_I could’ve gone for a ride with Lyanna today but I wanted to watch the boys spar._

_I wanted to see them…maybe even fight over me a little but not like that._

“What if I still don’t know?” She asked and Sansa did not act surprised at all.

“Then take your time. Give your heart a chance to choose. Trust me, every time I’ve rushed into what I thought was love I only found pain. There is no need to hurry Arya, you are not even flowered yet.” Sansa took her hands in hers. “Do not feel guilty about your indecision either. Young ladies often have several suitors. Princesses especially. Why, when Rhaenrya Targaryen was young she had half the realm chasing after her. You only have half a practice yard.”

“Sansa! It’s not half…” She urged but Sansa laughed anyways.

“Your threatening them was a good touch.” Her sister added with respect. “Should they act poorly, I will help you follow up with the banishment. Lord Edric could be sent to Castle Cerwyn or Ser Gendry ordered to find lodgings in the Winter Town.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Arya grinned. “I wouldn’t really send them away. I care for them both too much to let them leave…”

As soon as she said the words Arya wished to slap herself for being so stupid. They’d only been speaking of Jon moments before and throwing his departure in Sansa’s face was a cruel thing to do. Her sister did not bear it well either. Her face became somber and her hands fell away from hers. Now they wrung with worry and Arya felt guilty for hurting Sansa then.

“Jon’s fine. I know he is.” She tried to ease her sister’s worries, trying to meet her gaze that was looking away from her towards the bridge. “Truly Sansa, there’s been storms to the north, that’s why there’s been no letters, but that doesn’t mean-”

“It’s Medrick.” Sansa interrupted, still wringing her hands. “If it is good word he’ll have sent someone to fetch me… if its dark word though…”

“What?”

Arya turned to follow Sansa’s gaze and indeed saw the maester approaching, hunched over and clutching what looked to be a letter in his old hands. The man’s eyes were on the ground, avoiding their gaze, and his expression was not happy. When he came close enough, he began hacking in an effort to clear his throat of some sort of foulness.

“A raven has come from Castle Black your grace.” Medrick unfolded the letter to glance at it.

“From Jon?” She asked. Her hopes were crushed when the maester shook his head.

“From a Samwell Tarly, in service to the Night’s Watch.” Medrick glanced over to where Brienne and Marlen now approached. “He writes that there has been a great battle against the Others, a battle that the combined forces won. Thousands upon thousands of wights destroyed and even some white walkers killed...”

“Huzzah!” Marlen called out happily but no one else joined him.

_If this is good news then why is Medrick so unhappy?_

_Why isn’t Jon writing? If there was a battle then Jon would’ve fought in it…_

_So why isn’t Jon the one writing?_

“The losses were grievous.” Medrick continued, his hand shaking some as Sansa’s found her own, clutching it in desperate grip.

“Jon?” Sansa asked, her voice quaking some. “What of Jon?”

“He lives.” The maester sounded relieved to speak to it but nowhere near how relieved Sansa and Arya felt.

They both laughed and hugged away the terrible fear that had just clutched them. Jon was alive, they had a victory. Jon was alive. Jon was alive. Jon was alive. She pictured him standing on a mountain of dead foes, with Howland Reed and Willem Royce standing to either side of him, his sword raised high up in the air as men cheered him for the hero that he was.

The maester continued.

“Hundreds of the northmen who marched from Winterfell were killed however.” Medrick glanced to Brienne and Marlen then. “Some of their allies as well. Men of note… sworn to protect-”

“No.” Sansa clasped a hand over her mouth, choking off the rest, understanding something that was lost on Arya. Brienne and Marlen lowered their eyes, the crannogman cursing softly.

_Who? Who are they worried about?_

_An ally who was sworn to protect…_

Arya’s soft plea to the gods was ignored as Medrick handed the parchment to Sansa.

“A new First of the Guard will need to be named.”

**SANSA**

She stared at the stick in her hand, watching the tiny flame flicker at the end of it.

 _You would not last a moment outside in the cold_ , she thought. _You’re too fragile, too weak for the harsh winds without._

_Even the strongest of us are being lost to this winter._

_The best of us… the most noble… those I care for…_

Mya’s eyes glinted in the weak light, her friend watching the flame with a sadness that likely reflected Sansa’s own.

Their breathing caused the flame to struggle then, as if the dread within them both sought to douse its brightness. Raising the tip up, Sansa set about her work, listening to the wind whip about Winterfell’s small sept all the while. The repairs to it had been finished moons ago, many Vale men having lent their own strength to the work so they would have a place to pray while fighting here in the North.

Most of those men had left Winterfell some time ago but they’d left scores of melted candles along the sept ledges, a lingering sign of their devotion and prayers to the Seven. Few followers of the Faith remained at Winterfell now, and no candles burned in the dark sept this morning, hence why Mya and Sansa had come so early. Wyman and Wylla often prayed after they broke their fast each morning while Ser Evan would come only once a week.

Myranda’s own prayers had been far more erratic.

“Randa came here so irregularly.” Sansa said as she began lighting one of the many candles. “Always at different times, morning, midday, night, it did not matter.”

“She did the same at the Gates.” Mya whispered, mimicking Sansa’s movements with a small stick of her own, lighting candles at the far end of the ledge. “She always talked about keeping the Seven guessing. She aimed to come before them with a different sin to atone for each time… always making a game of how wicked she could be…”

“There was mischief in Myranda but she was wrong to call herself wicked.” She backed away as the last of the candles were finally alight. “She was a fine lady, a brave woman…”

“A true friend.” Mya took a place beside her. “The liar that she was… I miss her lies. Her jests… she could make me furious and laugh all at once… she said it was a Royce trait. When I’d say her father and brother were not like that, she’d always point to her cousin as proof… the poor man.”

_Oh Willem._

Sansa’s silent grief for the dear knight brought her gaze to the candle she’d lit for him below the image of the Warrior. She prayed that it would guide the infuriating, loyal, and beloved man who’d done so much for them.

_I will miss you Willem… far more than you can know. I pray that you find the peace and happiness you were denied in this life._

_May you see your wife and little boy again… your Tess… your Jon…_

To her side, Mya was offering silent prayers of her own, hands clutched to her chest and lips moving without giving voice. Sansa had many more prayers herself to offer this morning. Willem and Myranda’s candles were only the newest she tended to beneath the likenesses of the Seven.

Those two came at the end of a long row of other candles she’d been lighting for some time. Two were for Lady Roslin and her little babe Edgar at Riverrun, where Sansa prayed to the Mother and the Crone that they be protected and warm. The next pair was for her missing uncles, Edmure and Brynden, whom she prayed to the Father and the Warrior that they still drew breath despite all the odds against such. Two more had a great amount of wax collected, for Sansa had been lighting them every day since the sept had been first rebuilt.

One was for Robb’s wife, poor Jeyne Westerling, the Queen in the North who died to deliver Sansa her crown. History might forget such a quiet young woman but Sansa wouldn’t, for Robb had loved her and she’d been so brave in the end, far braver than Sansa would’ve been in her place. The last was the one she always lit first. To honor the person this sept had been built for. The woman who had brought Sansa into this world and was the reason she could pray so comfortably before the Seven.

 _Mother_. _I wish you were here with me now. We need you. I need you._

_There’s so much evil in the world and I’m doing my best to keep it from Arya and Rickon but I’m failing._

_I’ve lost so many mother… I can’t lose any more…_

They prayed in silence like that for sometime. There were others prayers that Sansa would save for when she went with Jeyne before the heart tree. Quiet urgings for the safety and care of Jon, Arya, Rickon and many others. Pleas for Bran to be alive and returned safely to them. She would pray for her father and her brother’s peaceful rest and for guidance to see her through these dark days.

_It grows darker each passing day, the night stretches on longer and longer while the light dies away earlier and earlier._

_Soon there will be no light at all… only these candles will be left to light our way._

“They aren’t bright enough.”

“What?” Mya shot her a confused look.

“It’s nothing… just giving voice to thoughts I shouldn’t.” Sansa shook her head, for many of her worries were not for Mya’s ears. Her friend was far too wary to take her word for it though and spoke her mind then.

“Things are bad… everybody’s acting like they are at least.” Mya frowned as she gathered up the lighting sticks and placed them in a cup to the corner. “Maybe not so bad here in the North, but I hear people talking Sansa. All know that a bunch of ravens have come from the south and none of your lords have been happy since.”

_Unhappiness doesn’t begin to describe it._

_Nor will Stannis be merely unhappy to hear of what has happened. He was wroth already, distrustful and full of venom when I offered him armies, the support of great houses._

_When he hears of what we have lost… of whom we have lost it all to…_

“You can’t tell me can you?” Mya asked, turning to face her, pulling on a strand of dark hair. “About what’s happening to my home? Well… where I grew up… it was never truly my home. Only when Myranda was there and welcomed me into the Gates of the Moon. After my mother died she cared for me…”

“Winterfell is your home now Mya.” She took her friend’s arms in hand, rubbing them with care. “With Myranda gone, I shall love you in her stead. Do not doubt that I will do so. Even if I may not be able to share all we speak of in council with you and I’m sorry for that. It’s the burden a ruler must carry sometimes…”

“I think my mules had an easier load to bear than you.” Mya said. “Don’t let it pull you down Sansa. If you ever need someone to share in it, I’m here for you too.”

The two friends embraced after that, surrounded by the burning memories of those lost and those in danger still. Over Mya’s shoulder, Sansa found herself staring at the two candles burning for the Royces and felt her insides roll. For today would be the day Bronze Yohn arrived at Winterfell at long last.

_He will have heard of Myranda when he stopped at Castle Cerwyn._

_Telling him of Willem, that duty shall fall to me._

After finishing their prayers, they found two warriors waiting without the sept for her, two of the newest members of the Stark’s Sworn Guard. Both were Northmen through and through, their rugged features betraying their harsh lives.

Duncan Snow was the younger of them, the natural born half-brother to Lord Forrester, recommended to her by Robett Glover. His close-cropped beard was the color of pine yet flecked with auburn here and there. An able swordsman and an amiable enough man, he took special delight in tormenting Ser Evan in the practice yard and beyond. The grudge between House Forrester and House Whitehill went back many generations, and Ser Evan had not taken kindly to sharing the grey cloak with a rival, nor a bastard rival at that. Sansa enjoyed the discomfort Duncan caused the knight, for he still eyed her far too eagerly at times.

Ser Calem Weirgrave was the larger of the two, taller and wider of shoulder, with sharp-features and a balding head of dark hair. He was also the warrior who kept the most distance from the sept. The bone white weirwood shield he held that was surrounded by iron, displayed his fierce devotion to the Old Gods for all to see. A hedge knight in service to the Hornwoods, Ser Calem had found himself part of Rodrik Cassel’s force when Ramsay Snow massacred it. Afterwards the knight had led some survivors to the Wolfswood and joined Stannis’s march against the Freys. She was sure Larence had need of Ser Calem back at Hornwood, yet the young lord had beseeched Sansa to take the knight’s sword as his own and she was thankful.

After what happened to Myranda, she was in no position to turn down able, strong men. Especially after losing a knight as important to her as Willem.

With her most important knight being so far away still.

Thinking on the men knighted by Bronze Yohn acted as a sort of spell, for the lord proved himself a man of impeccable timing soon after. Horns sounded from the gates as watchers sighted the Royce party approaching in the distance. Sansa enlisted Mya in seeking out Arya before she too would head to the Great Hall for the lord’s reception.

Rickon would attend that welcome along with all the highborn of the castle, right after a more private affair was conducted elsewhere. Lord Yohn, Arya, and a trusted few would join Sansa in the dimly lit gallery attached to the hall itself. She refused to break the news of Willem’s death at some grand affair, nor hear the lord’s explanation for his visit in such a way either.

Arya appeared in the gallery first, her sister looking little different from when she’d come that morning to brush Sansa’s hair. While she missed Myranda terribly and could never replace her, having Arya act so kindly had been a blessing. Arya would always come before Jeyne and Wylla saw to Sansa’s dressing, and the sisters would often take that time to talk about anything and everything.

_Why does it feel like we’ve never truly talked until now? Arya’s been my little sister since she came into this world screaming._

_I should be ashamed that it’s taken us twelve years to finally act as sisters._

_That it took such suffering and loss to bring us together._

As they came together, Sansa went to adjust the only new thing about Arya’s appearance from this morning. There was nothing wrong with how Arya wore her slim crown but she liked having the excuse to be able to touch her sister. To run her fingers through Arya’s hair and take in the pretty young woman she was becoming. Rickon would allow Sansa to hug him until his face turned red, but Arya was much like Nymeria. Sansa had to trick her with a treat to be allowed to pet her.

“What if Lord Royce tells us something bad?” Arya asked in a hushed tone. “Is he even still our friend after everything that happened in the south?”

She cupped Arya’s face in her hands and prayed she would sound as calming as she wanted to.

“Lord Royce was our first true friend after the Red Wedding. Without him, Jon would never have found me and we might both be prisoners still in the Vale. I put as much faith in him as I do Howland Reed.”

“Lord Reed left us though.” Arya said with certainty. “He joined the Night’s Watch and can’t fight for the Starks anymore. If this lord listens to what the ravens said than neither can-”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Rodwell, Brienne, and a good number of Stark men-at-arms. Following them came more warriors bearing the bronze tunics of House Royce. All stood aside for the coming of the tall, weathered lord, armored in the gleaming bronze plate of his ancestors. The runes emblazoned across the ancient armor shone brightly in the torchlight yet it was the lord’s warm eyes that Sansa felt a mix of joy and sorrow to see.

_I can still smile for occasions like this. No matter what else has happened, this man has acted as a dear friend to us._

Bronze Yohn grinned widely to see the two princesses standing before him, the lines of his face deepening as he did so. He opened up his large hands and bowed before them, the lord acting as gallant as a knight half his age.

“Lord Royce.” She stepped forward, offering her hands for the lord to take in hers. “I have missed you dearly.”

“You are even more beautiful than I remember your grace.” Bronze Yohn’s words and lips were warm as he kissed her upturned hand. “Were I a younger man, my arrival would have been timelier for sure.”

“That you arrived at all is a gift to me my lord. I have lost too many friends of late…”

The worry in her voice was heard by Bronze Yohn, the lord looking upon her with a caring expression.

“My cousin’s daughter… she was a force of nature herself! Nary a hall she graced was not better for it.” Yohn’s expression hardened. “Myranda will be avenged. If it is as Lady Cerwyn said, that that bitch Cersei Lannister is responsible...”

Bronze Yohn paused then, taking note of Arya standing behind her and suddenly acting abashed.

“My apologies, it appears I have been in rough company for too long to speak so crudely in front of noble maidens-”

“Don’t worry.” Arya shrugged. “Cersei is a bitch.”

Brienne and her own hiss at Arya’s language was drowned out by a surprised burst of laughter from Duncan and some of Bronze Yohn’s men. The lord himself chuckled after his shock wore off. He bowed again to Arya and she did her best to curtsy with a sword strapped to her side.

“Princess Arya I take it?” Yohn gave her sister an appraising look. “Willem wrote to me of you. With such a bold tongue, I can see why that no good cousin my mine took a liking to you. Willem probably encouraged it the lout!”

Yohn and his men took to laughing again but the lord’s laughter died away quickly, for he took notice that none of his hosts joined him in his mirth. Sansa was wringing her hands, trying to think of how to put poor Willem’s death to words, when Yohn turned his slate-grey gaze to her. A knowing expression crossed his face and a pained breath escaped him.

“I’ve lost more kin I take it?” He asked, lowering his head. “Don’t spare me any hurt your grace, I’ve supped on it several times before and I know better than most the distasteful offerings the gods can put on a man’s table.”

“He fell nobly.” Sansa fought back tears. “There was a battle Beyond-the-Wall… all told that Willem fell fighting the Others themselves, that he killed a few before his end. He fell fighting for the Starks… he fell protecting Ser Jon… doing as I bid him. Forgive me my lord.”

“Nothing to forgive.” Yohn coughed into his hand, blinking several times. “He died well you say? I can take comfort in that. Insolent little snot was the best squire I ever had. When I made Willem an insolent little knight, I had high hopes for him… then that tragedy with his wife and boy happened and, well, for a time I worried that I’d find him dead in a Gulltown gutter one day. It’s a poor thing to say, but I’m glad he died serving a good cause. Acting as a knight… when Willem found sense to shut his bloody mouth he was a fine one indeed.”

“A true knight.” Sansa added and Arya repeated the same soon after.

“A true knight.”

“A true knight.” Brienne and most of the men in the room also took up the declaration. After the moment passed, Bronze Yohn grunted and rubbed his chin.

“Protecting Jon eh? The bastard Stark I raised to knighthood, only to hear that he was a dragon all along?” The lord smirked. “Barely believed it when I got the raven at the Dreadfort. If Willem himself hadn’t put his word to it, I probably would’ve been hard-pressed to accept it. He knew Ser Jon as well, if not better than me, and he’d even seen Rhaegar up close so…”

“Did he truly?” She asked, thinking back and remembering that Willem had indeed spoken of the prince in some manner. “Willem said he saw him fight…”

“That he did. Once at a tourney at Storm’s End and then again as my squire during the Battle of the Trident. Little fool was so eager to die that he got away from me and ended up one of those to watch Robert and Rhaegar duel. Bragged about seeing Rhaegar fall bloodily for years, even got himself a fine ruby out of it, or so he claimed.” Yohn shook his head before raising a bushy eyebrow. “Rhaegar never seemed all that bad to me. I even harbored hopes that he would take the throne from Aerys sooner rather than later. When word came that he stole Lyanna Stark and that my brother Kyle died at Aerys’s command… well I had a good deal of hate for the dragons after that-”

“You can’t hate Jon for what Rhaegar did!” Arya protested before Yohn waved her off.

“How could I hate the lad who brought me my boy’s sword? I have knighted many in my life but few as brave and honest as that somber lad. No matter his birth, I take pride that it was I who knighted him. If there was ever a dragon I could put my faith in, it be Ser Jon the Wolf, now lord of the Dreadfort it seems.”

Arya seized on Lord Royce’s words as well, the sisters sharing a worried glance. The lord had not missed it yet was interrupted from speaking to it as more arrived to the smaller audience. Ser Kyle, freshly arrived from Castle Cerwyn, entered first, followed by Maester Medrick and then the girth of Lord Wyman. The Manderly lord gave a loud laugh to see Bronze Yohn standing there, waddling forth with his hand outstretched.

“Dear Lord Royce! Always good to see you! I trust our northern winter has not turned you off from our fine lands.”

“Your lands are harsh, I’ll admit it.” Yohn shook hands with Wyman. “I’ve lost more men to this cold than I did in all my years in the Vale and I have seen many winters. As trying as our journey was, getting away from the Dreadfort was a respite I must admit. I looked forward to seeing some brighter sights…”

“How does the Dreadfort fare?” Lord Wyman asked, betraying a hint of annoyance that Lord Royce did not seem eager to return to his far away command.

_With the Greatjon and Howland away from us, Bronze Yohn is the only man in Winterfell that can rival Wyman in power and standing._

_I shall have to make use of that, Lord Manderly has been a tad too pushy lately._

“The Dreadfort was well in hand when I left. My goodson Mychel holds it now. It is amply supplied and strongly manned but…” He paused and looked about to her. “Blasted castle just doesn’t feel right. What we found in those dungeons and in some side rooms of the castle… I can’t say I envy Jon taking up lordship of it.”

 _Surely it is not so foul as that,_ she hoped _, for it shall be my home as well as Jon’s._

_Together we can make it a proper home, just as we restored Winterfell._

Arya proved her boldness again, her sister clearly becoming impatient with all the niceties while questions burned within.

“Is that why you came here?” Arya asked sharply, interrupting Wyman and Yohn’s talk. “To Winterfell? You came because you didn’t like the Dreadfort?”

 _Too eager, she’s far too eager_ , she thought, _Arya is doing well enough by my side in council but we must work on her diplomacy._

_Bronze Yohn is not a man to be challenged by a young girl._

Indeed the lord’s pleasant expression darkened some, chin held high.

“I have never abandoned a duty because I did not _like_ it.” Yohn answered, moving his eyes around the room before falling on Sansa. “I came because it was necessary to. As the man who helped forge the alliance between Houses Arryn and Stark, I could not stand idly by while the links binding it set to breaking.”

If the lord expected the castle dwellers to be shocked by his words he was sorely disappointed. Wyman did not even bat an eye and Arya still kept her challenging pose. As far as Sansa could tell, she was the only one to react by exhaling in a relieved way, for the lord had betrayed his goal here as securing their friendship.

Not abandoning it.

Bronze Yohn continued on despite his confusion at the odd reception his declaration had earned.

“For months now I’ve been demanding more men from the Vale after I heard the reports from the Wall and heard from those who have sailed south from Eastwatch. Men who claim to have seen the Others themselves. I do not have to be a maester to know the North alone cannot hold back such a menace. A few thousand more men would do the effort well…”

“Especially with the losses of late.” Wyman added, earning a sharp look from both Yohn and herself for interrupting. “Pray forgive me, do go on.”

“Nothing.” Yohn spoke through gritted teeth. “They’ve offered nothing but excuses. All their eyes are on the march for King’s Landing and dealing with the clan raiders in the hills. I asked for their dungeons to be emptied, the poorhouses and gutters of Gulltown to be rallied, for any man they can put to holding a spear and I got nothing! No word at all! Some even had the gall to question whether the reports of Others were real! Fools!”

With that the lord took notice of a pitcher and goblets on the table near to them. A quick nod from Sansa and Yohn’s squire rushed forward to begin filling a cup for his lord who was grateful for it.

“Nestor is a good man.” The lord continued, cup in hand. “A finer High Steward we could not ask for, yet I fear he’s let himself be led astray by the others. Corbray and Hunter perhaps, likely that sunken arse Grafton too. They smell glory and power in resting control of the south and the Iron Throne for themselves. As hated as the Lannisters are in the Vale, I have to say Stannis is not well-loved either. Nestor wrote that many feel the Starks have used our strength to gain a kingdom only to turn around and sell our fealty to the highest bidder…”

“My lord.” Sansa was shocked to hear so. “I would never! Lord Nestor himself admitted that Stannis was the only claimant they could support…”

“At the time that was true.” Yohn growled. “I take it you’ve heard of the other dragon returned to the realm? Besides Jon? This resurrected Aegon Targaryen… little pretender shit that he is.”

“He has won many victories in the Stormlands.” She spared a glance to Wyman who also took notice of which dragon Yohn had not mentioned. “Bronzegate and Blackhaven have fallen, the last holdouts to his power in those lands. Not all the stormlords have gone over to his banners but all the ones who saw fit to fight his invasion have, though it is worse than that. He extends his power even farther it would seem. We’ve heard he’s taken Grassfield Keep in the Reach and has sent envoys into the Riverlands asking for fealty…”

“And ravens to the Vale as well.” Yohn said, draining his cup and holding it out to be refilled by his squire. “Declaring the usual garbage; he’s the one true king and has need for loyal lords, bah! A farce I call it but enough for some cowards in the Vale to begin whispering. Those who care little for Stannis and remember the good times under the Targaryens. Hell, the dragon kings even took a bride from House Arryn a time or two if I remember. When Nestor warned me of it, I knew I had to act. Whatever our issues with Stannis, we have allies in the Kingdom of the North and I would not have the Vale abandon such a thing because of a bunch of tittering-”

“You are a good man.” She spoke suddenly, her resolve breaking and going forward to embrace the surprised lord. Her arms could not get around Yohn’s armored form fully but she tried her best, holding him as tightly as she could. “I had feared you came to abandon us… to issue us ultimatums or threats…”

“What?” Yohn jerked some in surprise. Gently taking hold of her, the lord urged her back so he could gaze at her in worry. “Threaten this queen I helped make? You might be a princess now but in my eyes I still see a queen. How could you think such a thing of me?”

As touched as she was by Yohn’s words, it fell to Wyman to give voice to all the Vale lord had missed during his travels.

“My lord, I fear your journey has been for naught.” Wyman gestured to the maester who held several parchments in hand. As the old man came forward to hand Yohn those letters, Wyman continued. “For the Vale has already foresworn fealty to Stannis Baratheon. Lord Robert Arryn declares that House Arryn and its bannermen will now fight under the Targaryen banner…

“Tell me you’re jesting!” Yohn gaped at Wyman and the parchments with a rare expression of weakness. “Nestor said he would buy me time! He didn’t want to follow that mummer’s Aegon any more than I did. How could he allow such-”

“Not Aegon.” Sansa shook her head just as she had when the word had first come days past. “My cousin has bent the knee to _Queen_ Daenerys Targaryen. The Vale lords have abandoned Stannis Baratheon to support the claim of a different dragon, one whose parentage does not come into question.”

The shock she now saw on Yohn’s face had been the same borne across Rickon’s bannermen at the news. With the good tidings from the Riverlands and Torrhen’s Square, they’d all been lulled into some false sense of security. Word had come from the Mallisters that the lions had scorned renewing their attack upon the Riverlands. Apparently they’d divided their large army, with some heading towards the capital and the rest staying put along the western shores.

Snows had closed the passes at the Golden Tooth and the Gold Road, which freed Jason Mallister’s men to move south and garrison the towns and castles their foes would have to pass through to get to Riverrun. It seemed Daven Lannister had no stomach for fighting a series of bloody battles to ravage an already ravaged land in winter.

The man had other threats to address anyway, for the ironmen had attacked the heart of Lannister power itself. Ronnel Stout had finally discovered the truth of why Lord Rodrik Harlaw and his allies were so desperate for ships and had written to her of it.

To hear a reaver force had attacked Casterly Rock had been like a dream at first. Theon’s uncle, Aeron Greyjoy, a man Ronnel referred to as the Damphair, had cobbled together a small armada and struck at the place none thought to. The longships had sailed into the cavernous ports beneath the great fortress by night, surprising the defenders and gaining access to the docks. It was a bloody massacre as far as they’d heard, with most of the longships sunk and the reavers killed. Yet rumor was a token force had escaped, including this Damphair man. The blow to Lannister confidence must have been great indeed for many of the lords with seats along the coast, fearing future raids, now returned to them. What warships the Westerlands had command of were gathering at Fair Isle and such was why Lord Rodrik sought to strengthen his own position by making alliance with the North.

Hearing that their enemies were divided and falling upon one another had been such joyous news. To hear of what happened next made all their hopes flood away.

The fall of Maidenpool to the Dragon Queen had ruined Lord Nestor’s plans for storming it himself. With the mountain passes cut off, sending men and supplies from Gulltown was the only way to strength the Vale army in the south. To reach them they needed a safe port and Maidenpool had seemed a likely option. Lord Grafton had even been preparing an invasion fleet when the dragon had struck.

Or dragons she should say.

Many tales of the siege mentioned beasts of legend having returned, doing the bidding of the Targaryen woman and bringing flame to the town. Sansa might not have believed it if not for all that happened afterward. First came word of Gulltown closing itself to ships from White Harbor, sailors there speaking of seeing strange ships in the port flying dragon banners. Others claimed to have seen an actual dragon flying above the walled city. A black beast whose leathery wings carried it to the Grafton castle while White Harbor’s ships were forced to sail away from the port. That had worried her, for Myranda’s body was being sent back to her family and would have to travel through Gulltown to do so.

It had proven to be the least of her worries compared to what came next. Lord Nestor’s letter had not been written in anger or fear as far as she could tell, but compared to their normal correspondence, his words sounded oddly detached. In hindsight that made sense, for the lord had set forth how and why House Arryn was abandoning the Baratheon cause for that of Daenerys Targaryen.

“It was the dragon.” Sansa said simply, concerned at how much color was draining away from Yohn’s face in hearing all this. “Lord Nestor wrote that the Targaryen woman flew with her black monster all the way to the Gates of the Moon. Circling about them and loosing a terrifying flame. She could have burned the castle and all within but instead she landed and bid them to grant her an audience...”

“He bent the knee out of fear?” Yohn asked incredulously. “The craven! I thought he had more courage than that! I’ll march down there myself and-”

“Lord Nestor is not at fault.” Wyman waddled forward. “We believe he counseled against changing loyalties but young Lord Robert was so taken with this dragon queen and her mount that he would not hear otherwise. Nor would many of his bannermen… look at the top letter there my lord.”

As Yohn did so, Sansa felt anger all over again, for she knew exactly whose words he was reading and could not help but hear the selfish little boy’s voice in her head as she did so.

_‘I don’t like Stannis Baratheon. He was mean and rude and scary. I don’t want him to be my king. Daenerys is beautiful and kind and reads to me every night. She has a dragon and I wanted to fly so she took me! She calls me the Winged Lord and says that I’ll be as strong as the Winged Knight when I am older. Queens are supposed to be beautiful, like in the stories you read me Alayne. So she is my queen now._

_Lord Robert Arryn.’_

“A boy?” Yohn almost crumpled the letter in his hands. “He let a mewling boy decide such a thing?”

“He had little choice I believe.” Wyman said. “From what we’ve heard, she visited the seats of House Corbray, Hunter, and Waynwood first. When Daenerys secured the favor of young Lord Arryn, she may have already had half the Vale supporting her.”

Sansa went to Lord Yohn and gently lowered the letters away from his eyes, which looked upon her with great shame.

“I should have come sooner.” Yohn said. “There were things that could’ve been done, we could’ve arranged more matches between our lords and yours… I even thought a match between Stark and Arryn…”

That took Sansa aback, for there was only one Arryn available to be married off and matching Sweetrobin and her had been the plan of her mad aunt Lysa. Wyman and Medrick both scoffed at the thought as well.

“Princess Sansa must marry a Northman.” Wyman declared with Medrick nodding.

“Whatever husband her royal regent would take must be a man with the North’s best interests at heart, one who would not divide loyalties between the Vale and-”

“Not Sansa.” Yohn shoved the parchments back at the maester, turning his gaze to Arya. “To cement our bonds I thought to unite cousins together. I came here to arrange a betrothal between Lord Robert and Princess Arya, to make her the Lady of the Vale.”

“Oh come on!” Arya cried out, her shoulders slumping and arms falling to her side. “Not another one… find another bloody princess to sell…”

Yohn appeared at a loss and if the mood was not so tense she imagined it would be hard to hold back a laugh at her sister’s expense. Picturing Arya and Sweetrobin together was ridiculous, no matter the potential benefits it could offer them.

 _They wouldn’t last a week together. Not even that long unless Sweetrobin was gagged and Arya robbed of Needle._  
  
Some matches could never work… some alliances too strained to survive…

She waved Arya to her and placed a comforting arm around her sister.

“Even if we accepted that union I doubt Queen Daenerys would allow such a thing now.” Sansa looked to Yohn then. “Lord Nestor writes that she wants your men here in the North to prepare for pressing her rights to these lands.”

“We feared you came to do so.” Wyman added. “That you’d tell us the Dreadfort was being fortified as a staging ground for a Targaryen invasion…”

“Not bloody likely!” Yohn shouted. “That woman has not earned my fealty! Tricking a child and threatening good people does not a queen make! I was given command of our northern army and I’ll be damned if I accept anything less than Nestor standing before me telling to do otherwise. Until that happens, and I know these letters were not written under threat, my men and I will continue to fight alongside House Stark! I will stand with our allies. Our friends! The friends my kin have died serving!”

Yohn dropped to a knee before them, the storied lord lowering his head in obeisance, a grand gesture considering all he’d just learned. With everything else she’d lost recently the loss of the lord would have been a brutal blow to endure.

“Rise my lord.” Sansa took hold of Yohn and bid him to stand once more. “To hear House Stark can still name House Royce a friend, that Bronze Yohn himself remains beside us… it is a gift in such dark times…”

She released both Yohn and Arya to walk towards the center of the room, so that all could hear the true threat the Vale's actions posed to them.

“Lord Yohn stands with us still but I doubt Stannis Baratheon will take much consolation in that.” Sansa touched her crown and eyed Wyman and Medrick making noises of agreement.

“The regent is right.” Wyman said. “Since we refused to recognize Stannis as king over the North, the fealty of the Vale was key to our alliance with the man.”

“An alliance that was strained already.” The maester added. “The refusal of hostages was taken badly enough, the misfortune of revealing Ser Jon as the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen only added-”

“Hey!” Arya sprang forward and snapped at the maester. “Don’t call Jon a misfortune! He’s a hero! It doesn’t matter who his father is!”

“I’m afraid it does matter. To Stannis it will at least. Targaryens, real or not, are returning to the realm. The fates were against us in the timing of Ser Jon’s announcement as a relation of House Targaryen.”

 _I made him do that… don’t blame Jon for it… he did it for us… for me…_  
  
“But Jon’s at the Wall.” Arya argued. “None of what’s going on in the south is his fault. He doesn’t even know these people, he’s too far away to be-”

“Far away from us Arya.” She wrung her hands. “Jon’s far away from us but close to Stannis… much too close…”

They’d kept the Vale’s submission to Daenerys Targaryen as quiet as they could but soon word would surely reach the Wall of it. While the Nightfort responded to few if any of their ravens she knew Stannis likely received them and there would be little she could offer in a letter that would forego his rage. Cersei’s mad quest for vengeance had reached within the walls of Winterfell itself, and she feared what could happen if Stannis felt so betrayed. For he was a man of action, a leader of men and thought little of Sansa, save that she was a silly girl playing at the game of thrones.

A game Wyman was eager to play himself.

“Ser Jon’s nearness to Stannis might offer us an opportunity.” Wyman tapped his fingers together. “If he wants assurances of our keeping the faith, of our loyalty… then I say we offer him what he originally wanted, a hostage. One with both Targaryen and Stark blood and in good standing with the royal family.”

“No!” Brienne shouted, clearly aghast at what the lord had just proposed. Arya and Sansa both stood speechless at the gall of the man while Brienne knelt before them both.

“Sansa, Arya… your graces please, heed me in this. I serve you, I will do what you will of me and I have stomached your friendship with Stannis Baratheon because of my loyalty to you, but do not trust that man! Not with Ser Jon! I believe he murdered his own brother and to hand over the good ser to such a man would be a death warrant.”

“Please my lady.” Wyman raised an eyebrow at her. “You may be overstating your case. He has more sense-”

“You should have more sense!” Arya yelled at the fat lord. “Stannis cannot have Jon!”

“Never.” Sansa almost yelled herself. “I would never permit such a thing-”

“It was only an idea!” Wyman held up his hands. “A way to show Stannis we still keep the faith. For unless we are willing to switch which claimant to the Iron Throne we support, we must act to reassure the man…”

“I am sick of reassuring him!” She snapped. “Gods, if my father had not meant to proclaim the man king I’d be tempted to drive him from the North myself! No wonder the Vale lords were so easily won over by the Dragon Queen! The stormlords by the Aegon pretender! What does Stannis offer other than headaches?”

Her fury unleashed, Sansa could see Stannis in her mind’s eye, sitting across from her at a table grinding his teeth. Unhappy with all she offered him, showing no gratitude for the offer of Rickon as a goodson, threatening her more than inspiring her. Brooding up at the Nightfort while Jon and her men fought and held Castle Black against the night.

_His army stood by while my people bled, he remained idle while Willem died._

_And he is the king I wanted the Vale to name their own._

_I’ve lost powerful allies for a man I may even hate._

_I’ve lost too much. I can lose no more… no more…_

“I’m ordering Ser Jon back to Winterfell.” Sansa proclaimed giving in to the desire she’d had since the Samwell Tarly’s letter had arrived. “With all this uncertainty in the realm, and issues with Stannis Baratheon, I want Ser Jon here. By our side. As soon as it can be done.”

Only Arya acted happy with her announcement, her sister positively giddy while the esteemed men among them were taken aback. She knew Wyman had grown quite content becoming Sansa’s closest counselor since Jon’s departure while the maester muttered something about abandoning a task half finished. Yohn showed himself to be the bravest by being the first to protest openly.

“I heard the ser was doing well there, Ser Kyle told me the victory at Castle Black was a magnificent one but that the Others were not completely defeated. One battle does not make a war and if the ser is rallying a proper defense…”

“Let Lord-Commander Reed and my lords do so in his stead.” She replied. “We need him here.”

“Your grace.” Wyman patted at his sweaty forehead. “Ser Jon has marked himself a man of ability and leadership at the Wall! To rob those armies of such a skilled leader in these dark times-”

“Will rob Stannis of a Targaryen knight within his grasp!” She saw the reasoning before her now and ran with it. “That is how we reassure Stannis, yes! We force him to take the lead in defending the Wall! He will see it as an honor, that we are stopping Jon from stealing more glory from him. Let Stannis lead men to battle again, yes, he never had more esteem than when he was on the march! He was winning glory for his brother against Mace Tyrell and the Greyjoys. Jon takes such glory from Stannis so-so he must return…”

“Forgive me.” The maester pulled on his chain some. “Forgive me princess, but I believe Ser Jon is best off where he is… and to remove him from his position would appear as an admonishment for one who has performed so admirably. It may also be seen as convenient timing considering all that has happened to the south… to risk such for one knight’s well being…”

“He’s not just one knight! He’s _my_ knight!”

Her heart was pounding and her mind was racing. Everyone was staring at her like she was mad but she had to make them see. She’d made Jon a lord to raise his stature, she’d let him go to the Wall to earn great esteem, and they’d waited to announce their love so he could do all that. Now that her bannermen testified to Jon’s worth, they used it all as a reason he couldn’t return.

_He went to set Castle Black to rights and it’s been done!_

_Willem and Howland went with him and now Jon’s the only one who can return to me!_

_No longer… I can wait no longer… Myranda waited to get married and look what happened to her…_

Wyman coughed into his hand to hide his waving Ser Kyle forward, apparently thinking his words on the matter would be of more worth.

“Um… well, Ser Jon is a fine knight princess.” Ser Kyle scratched his head and gestured to Ser Calem. “In truth though you have many knights…”

“But only one that I intend to marry!”

The words came out of her mouth as if someone else had said it, the wave of relief washing over her to speak to it crashed against those around her. For each man’s face fell in its own way, some gaping, other’s shaking their heads. Brienne herself paled and stared at her wide-eyed while Arya put a hand to the pommel of her sword and swore.

“Shit Sansa… there had to be better timing…”

“The time is now and I’m not willing to wait a moment longer.” She clenched her fists and forced herself to meet the gaze of each man, some far more disapproving than the next. “I have just declared my intent to marry Ser Jon and it is a _royal_ decree now. As is his return from the Wall! For when he does, we shall be wed and I will become Lady of the Dreadfort-”

“A mistake, you must see it.” Wyman’s chins quivered.

“How so?” Sansa asked. “You yourself sang Jon’s praises only a moment ago, did you not? The maester and you wished me to marry a northman? Well I choose my cousin. Blood of the dragon and a Stark besides! Show me a better match for a princess!”

“Incest.” Ser Kyle declared mournfully. “No matter what we believe, many in the North will name it so…”

“Words are wind!” Sansa answered back. “The most powerful lords in the North now testify to Jon’s heritage and his ability. Samwell Tarly wrote that they’re chanting “Dragon” at Jon wherever he goes! I challenge any of you to think a match for me in this kingdom that would not show too much favor to one lord or another…”

“He has no backing.” Medrick spoke up. “None to support his match to you.”

Before Sansa could answer Bronze Yohn stepped forward, his arms crossed and smiling as widely as he did before he walked into the room.

“Oh I wouldn’t say no backing.” The lord winked back at her. “Any here who doubt the knight’s worth question the blade which knighted him. _My blade_. If you’re all so worried of how people will react then hire a damned bard. Get him to sing the true tale of Ser Jon and the princess here. How a knight rescued a beautiful maiden from a horrible fiend then helped her avenge the wrongs done to her family and even returned her to her home. Make it catchy enough and they’ll be singing it in every hall and tavern from the Wall to White Harbor. The smallfolk love tales like that, and I bet you Gulltown will start asking questions why such a just knight and his princess have been abandoned by their lords.”

 “Like Aemon the Dragonknight.” Arya piped up, not flinching before the gaze of the others. “All say he loved his sister but people still love him…”

“Exactly.”

Sansa was heartened by Arya and Yohn’s support in this, she liked to think she would have persevered without it but it was welcome all the same. For news of her betrothal was still not being welcomed by the others.

“Songs won’t soothe all the worries.” Wyman said. “There are questions upon questions on what this shall mean.”

“Then let them be answered.” She declared, gesturing to the maester. “After word is sent for Jon to return to me. To Winterfell. I want it put to parchment and sent by raven before night falls.”

 _It’s happening_ , she realized, _I’m finally making this happen._

_Jon’s coming home to me… we’re going to be married…_

_Oh Myranda you’re going to miss planning my wedding… you wanted that so…_

Yohn took a step to tower above her then, holding out a hand which she laid her own upon gently.

“Thank you my lord…”

“Don’t thank me yet.” A rumbling laugh burst forth. “For I have one question I’d have answered before any other.”

“Anything Lord Yohn. For all you’ve done. For all I hope you will do.”

“Why do all you beautiful Tully women go to such somber men?”

**DAVOS**

  

“The Turncloak must die!”

Godry’s voice echoed down the dark corridor. From the darkness, it sounded like many voices were calling out for the same.

_No doubt they will be when word of this gets out._

Davos shook his head at the thought of dealing with such a rabble. The idea was almost as frightening as state of the corpse before them. Ser Brus Buckler had been the one to find the dead man in these chambers, half bent over a desk with his head split open like a melon. Davos had been saddened to see him murdered in such a violent way, for he’d been a fine healer and a decent man.

Godry had been enraged yet for less noble reasons.

“This is the last one! The last one he kills!” Godry shouted as he barreled into the room. “I swear I’ll see Greyjoy burned myself-”

“Has someone raised you up to king and not told me?” Davos snapped, his exhaustion and anger finally getting to him. “Do you now act as Hand of the King?”

Godry stopped mid-step and turned an even deeper shade of red, puffing up to glare at him. Davos denied the knight the chance to try and intimidate him, turning back to the murdered body of the healer and waving at one of the many guardsmen in the room.

“Please cover the poor man up. He always did so for our dead.”

“That’s what you care about? Niceties?” Godry fumed. “If you hadn’t defended his murderer in the first place this man would still be alive!”

Pyrik’s murder was only the most recent of several at the Nightfort in the past few weeks. Not only were they still losing men to the gray plague but now there was an assassin picking them off one by one. The victims had all been good men in Stannis’s service, not like Godry or his ilk, sadly. Davos had depended on Pyrik and the other two murder victims to help keep order with the situation at the Nightfort deteriorating rapidly.

The first man had been a steward in service to House Florent and a surprisingly able one. They’d found him stabbed to death by the well, an expression of shock frozen upon his dead face. The second victim had been a Grandison guardsman, one of Greyjoy’s guards, found with a slit throat near the lad’s chambers.

That had been enough for Godry and many others to point the finger at “the Turncloak” as culprit. An accusation that Davos refuted and not without cause.

Just as he did so again.

“I am not the only person to point out the foolishness of blaming Theon Greyjoy for these murders.” He pointed to the corpse of the healer. “Pyrik himself spoke to his innocence. So you believe Greyjoy repaid that kindness with murder? ”

As Godry sputtered in anger, Davos went to collect the bloodied weapon sitting by Ser Brus’s feet. He hefted the axe up  awkwardly with his maimed fingers. It was large and cumbersome, a heavy weapon meant to be wielded with two hands. One of the many the northern clansmen had left it in their possession. The blade was crusted in gore when he held it towards Godry, urging the knight to take hold of it.

Which he did with murder in his eyes.

“Theon Greyjoy was brutalized by the Boltons-”

“He deserves to be burned.” Godry interrupted, eyeing Davos like he intended to use the axe on him.

“Whoever did this deserves to die, on that we agree. Someone who could wield an axe as heavy and unwieldy as that.” Davos raised his maimed hand then to his eyebrow. “I certainly could not. Neither could Theon Greyjoy. The man can barely use a meat knife and spoon with the few fingers he has left.”

Ser Brus, nodding, took that statement in stride but Godry refused to back down. He’d been trying to get the Greyjoy captive burned for moons now.

“He is a turncloak. They live in shadows and are clever in their trickery…”

“Not so clever. Else he never would have become our prisoner, our hostage.”

_And he’d be far away from this forsaken place._

To Davos there was no worse place in the world than the Nightfort. And for someone who had been to Skagos that was saying something.

Almost a third of their army had fallen to the grey plague, which had spread to all areas of the Nightfort despite their best efforts to keep the sickness contained. The disease had even travelled to the sentry posts, carried there by sick men attempting to desert Stannis’s cause. None had been successful in their escape though. Even when they slipped past the guards, winter had seen to them. Their frozen corpses were often being found the next morning.

The sentries were quite motivated in their duties. For the king had threatened that any incursion or escape from their cordon would be dealt with the same severity that desertion was. Stannis had devised a new form of punishment for his men, one that even Godry had sided with Davos in arguing against. As Stannis had watched the deserters being bound to poles in the courtyard, Davos and Godry stayed united in trying to lead their king away from such folly, for very different reasons.

“They are meant for the flames!” Godry had hissed, with others nodding in agreement. “We need to burn them!”

“Your grace, I beg you, these men have proven themselves craven but use a headsman if they must be-”

“Silence.” Their gaunt king had replied, his eyes only for the shivering and naked condemned men. “They sought escape to the cold, so let the cold deliver them from the great burden that it is to stay loyal and true to their king. Fair is fair… let them get what they deserve… someone should.”

Davos soon found this manner of execution as distasteful as Stannis’s previous one. The screams of men burning were ghastly and haunting to hear but he had no love for the pathetic pleadings and rambling of men slowly freezing to death. All in all, five and twenty men had suffered such fates, stripped naked and left to the harsh Northern elements, their dying words echoing off the stone walls of the Nightfort and even the frozen Wall itself.

None had been pleased with that particular punishment, especially those who claimed fervent faith in the red god like Godry. Yet even the blustering knight was fearful to protest too loudly, less the king’s anger be turned upon him. Only two men appeared to enjoy the new execution methods. Patchface, the mad simpleton, would dance about the strung up men, singing about doom until someone would push him away. The other fan was Ser Clayton Suggs. The cruel knight could be counted on to start a fire just out reach of the freezing men, warming himself loudly as he enjoyed some wine and listened to condemned men’s pleading.

Witnessing the suffering of others had become routine here at the Nightfort. Princess Shireen’s death haunted Davos still, the loss of that sweet child leaving a void that could not be filled. Beyond being the king’s only heir Shireen had represented hope, hope that one day all these trials could lead to seeing that sad little girl happy and sitting atop the Iron Throne. The thought of her laying dead and cold instead had caused Davos to weep as he prayed to the Seven to guide her way.                                 

Stannis had been included in those prayers, for his king’s pain was one all too familiar.

A deep and horrible grief known only to a select few. That of a father mourning his child.

_Dale. Allard. Matthos. Maric._

_My boys... my dear boys…_

_Before the Nightfort, I could remember you as the young miracles you were to me._

_Now you all haunt my dreams as pale shadows, bidding me to join you with your icy calls in the dark._

It was strange to dream of his boys here, for they had met their end long ago and far away on the Blackwater, washed away to the seas most like. While having their bodies to bury might have been little comfort in truth, Davos would’ve been thankful for the chance.

Seeing Stannis’s treatment of his daughter’s body felt worrisome.

For the king had not seen to the princess’s body as he had with Queen Selyse’s or many of the others who’d died soon after their arrival. All those had been burned while Shireen’s went unburied in an ice cellar built within the Wall. Stannis had stopped burning the bodies of the plague victims after that, citing how much wood it stole from the work underway at the Nightfort, building a curtain wall that protected their approaches from the south.

Now all the new bodies were placed in great uncovered pits rather than in individual graves below the Wall. Though the graves were uncovered, the cold of the Wall seemed to preserve the corpses from rotting, so it was a burial of sorts, even if an unseemly one. Davos wished his king could offer Shireen a proper burial yet he refused steadfastly.

“I will not put my girl- my daughter in the ground.” Stannis had said while scorning another meal, staring out his solar window at the Wall once more. “She deserves better than that. Shireen was a princess, my heir. I owe her a throne, not some dark hole in the ground. She doesn’t want…”

The king had paused then, his jaw clenching beneath his taut skin. Grief had not been kind to him. He’d lost so much weight that his skull was visible beneath this pale skin and his hands had become like gnarled claws. Yet his voice still rung with authority and strength and he was no less active in his movements about the castle.

His journeys to the top to the Wall had become routine. As far as Davos could tell, not a single night had passed without Stannis seeking the Wall first.

That was where he would have to go to inform his king of this new murder. As soon as he finished with Godry’s vendetta against Theon Greyjoy.

“I will take this to the king!” Godry raged, pointing out into the corridor. “I see the Turncloak walking about this castle as free as can be! Free at your say so Onion Knight!”

“Onion Lord.” He corrected, shaking his head. “Seek the king if you wish, as I will set Ser Brus and Ser Lyn to seeking the true killer. Remember ser, it is King Stannis who permits Theon Greyjoy and Ser Alliser freedom of movement within the Nightfort. I might also remind you that it was the king who decided that your claims against Greyjoy for these murders were false.”

“Not on this one!”

“Then put it before the king.” Davos had tired of the knight by then, turning to the other men in the room. “See that Pyrik’s body is shown every respect. You three, see that Greyjoy is taken to his room and put under guard. The king’s captive must be protected.”

He looked to Godry then.

“There is a _killer_ about.”

As he left the room Godry hissed one final bit of bile at him.

“A kraken backer as well as a dragon lover. What a fine Hand we have.”

Davos pretended he hadn’t heard it. If he responded to every insult Godry and Lyn Corbray sent his way, he’d have no time left to freeze his breeches off. No matter what they did to improve its building, the Nightfort always felt damnably cold, though not as cold as the steps that led up to the top of the Wall. Night had fallen and the torch in his hand offered less warmth than light on this night.

The gleam of the firelight along the ice of the Wall made it appear all the brighter, which was an unfortunate reminder of a subject he’d been plagued by of late.

 _Dragons_ , he thought, _we’re dealing with the grey plague here while bloody dragons plague the realm._

That wasn’t entirely true and he knew it, for there were only three dragons they knew of for sure. Two of them were far away while another was so near they could ride to him in but a day with good weather.

Many had wanted to do just that when word came of the fall of Dragonstone to yet another Targaryen claimant to the Iron Throne. Not to be outdone by the mummer’s Aegon Targaryen who stole Storm’s End and many of Stannis’s Stormlands bannermen, this Daenerys Targaryen had taken the castle Stannis had ruled for close to twenty years. When word of that had come from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, his king had clenched his teeth and his knights had raged.

“Another one!? More dragonspawn!?” Godry had declared. “I name it a plot! A conspiracy!”

Ser Brus and Ser Clayton had agreed with the large knight’s accusation but it had been Ser Lyn to lead the charge on how they should respond.

“My family fought for the Targaryens during Robert’s Rebellion but we bent the knee and swore fealty to the Baratheon throne. I’ve no love for these mummer’s dragons and I trust that few others in the Vale do as well. My brother will do his best to set the Vale to war against this dragon bitch but House Arryn is ruled by old men and women and a feeble boy, words alone will not lead them to keeping the faith. You must act decisively against this threat your grace, to show the Vale and the Starks who their true king really is.”

“You are a younger brother so you do not have authority to speak for your own house’s actions, let alone the Vale.” Davos had countered and the knight did not deign to look upon him when he responded.

“I am a knight who has killed better men than you. One who has ridden beside the Starks and can say truthfully that they do not love King Stannis, nor do they truly respect him.” Ser Lyn padded the pommel of Lady Forlorn, his Valyrian steel sword. “I am not some smuggler who accomplished one bit of treachery that should have earned him a noose rather than a knighthood. I earned this sword in battle against the Mad King, slaying one of his Kingsguard no less, and just as I helped lead King Robert’s army against the dragons, so too again should I be the one to lead King Stannis’s army. I should be Hand of the King.”

Davos was still disquieted by how many men cheered at Ser Lyn’s proclamation, even men who were not of House Corbray’s retinue. Godry however had a scowl on his face that Davos was sure matched his own.

_Yet perhaps he should be Hand. I’m so tired, and I was not meant to rise so high._

_But no, King Stannis gave me this role and I must do as I see right for him._

“You question me?” Stannis asked. His face had been turned away from them but his voice was edged with steel. “You would question my decision to raise Ser Davos to knighthood all those years ago Ser Lyn? Of my choice in making him Hand now?”

“I say simply that our benevolent king was too kind for his own good.” Ser Lyn answered, unheeding Stannis’s tone and the ridiculousness of his claim that their king ever acted in anything out of kindness.

_Stannis only ever cares about justice._

“I say that perhaps Ser Davos would be an adequate Hand in peaceful times. After all, when the king is strong and firm, all he needs in a Hand is a servant to carry out his orders.” Lyn had finally looked at Davos to sneer in insult. “Yet we are at war, have no doubt about that, and war needs a Hand of strength. Let me lead us to victory once more over this dragonspawn. Make me your Hand and I will bring glory to your cause my king, glory that will eclipse any that that bastard and his bog devil pet may have _claimed_ to have taken part in.”

Word of the great victory at Castle Black had not been received warmly by the king nor his bannermen. To hear that the Others had not only been defeated but actually driven back into the wilderness was surely something to celebrate, Davos had thought. Yet the ravens had also spoken high praise for Ser Jon’s role in that victory, of how the army had rallied to him in its aftermath and how the knight was credited with slaying several white walkers himself. Soon Ser Jon became the only focus of the news.

“Bastards are born of lies and lust and this one is plotting your grace.” Ser Lyn had continued. “The pretender builds support for the Targaryen cause here in the North while his kin steal lands and lords rightly claimed by you in the south.”

“It should not be suffered!” Ser Godry had added.

“Ours horses are wasted here.” Ser Brus took up the cause, starved for a battle himself. “The men are eager for a fight. Let us give them one. Take this dragon prisoner and if there is any plot we would have a hostage against it.”

“What are you proposing sers? To add to our list of enemies?” Davos had chided them, not liking the faraway look in Stannis’s eyes. “The enemy is beyond the Wall, not holding it! We have an alliance-”

“One that weakens us more than anything.” Ser Lyn snapped back. “Every day Jon Snow’s army grows stronger while we grow weaker. Unless we strike first we could be overwhelmed-”

“By the Others!” Davos had been astonished that all these men could forget the true threat. “That’s who Ser Jon and Ser Richard fought at Castle Black, who they weakened for the sake of us all. Right now Ser Justin seeks to rebuild our strength! He is doing the king’s work and rallying an army from across the Narrow Sea-”

“They’ll get here too late!”

“There’s no guarantee!”

“My army will come.” Stannis spoke with a quiet certainty, far quieter than it usually was, as if he was struggling to remember what he spoke to. “A great army, loyal, fierce, willing to endure the long march to see me returned to my throne. An army that serves rather than squabbles, obedient and without fault … or soft hearts…”

The king’s words, full of confidence, had filled Davos with a ray of hope. For in that small moment in the solar, Davos saw the Stannis Baratheon he had known back at Dragonstone, the king he would gladly give his life for.

“We have suffered setbacks recently… great losses, yet losses that can be replaced. Our enemies will weaken and we shall grow stronger.” Stannis thrust out his fist as he gazed down at a map of the realm. “No Ser Lyn, Lord Seaworth will remain my Hand for now. Don’t think I don’t see you, grasping at power for your own selfish gain, just as I see this Ser Jon for what he truly is. A dragon…”

Ser Lyn had scowled and once more Davos readied his sword, in case this was the day the knight decided to lash out in anger. Yet Godry put a hand on the knight’s shoulder and Lyn finally sat, knowing he was defeated in the face of Stannis’s will.

“Dragons cannot stand against the army we shall raise here… all the pretenders will fall…”

Davos had supported his king’s newfound hopes, as much to argue against Ser Lyn’s ambition as to encourage Stannis to escape the darkness he’d shrouded himself in here at the Nightfort.

When he reached the top of the Wall that’s exactly what he found Stannis submerged in.

Dark clouds blocked the half moon above them and while there were torches along this part of the Wall, Stannis had found a spot near several that the wind had put out. His king stood as he always did, tall and stiff as an old oak, staring out into the dark wilderness Beyond-the-Wall. How the man did not freeze in such conditions both puzzled and impressed Davos, for his own cloak fell far short of warming him properly.

“Your grace.” Davos hailed quietly, shivering to come alongside his king. “You should not come here unguarded…”

Stannis’s head snapped about quickly towards the end of his words, as if he hadn’t truly heard them at first. He could not see the king’s eyes in the dark, but his brow was furrowed, like he hadn’t quite understood the words Davos had just spoken.

“Ser Davos?” Stannis asked in a soft tone, one he had only heard the king speak a few times before.

_When he would deign to hold Shireen as a babe._

_When she became sick with the grey scale and almost lost her._

_Only then has Stannis ever been so tender._

“My Onion Knight.” Stannis beckoned him forward, still oddly serene as the wind blew about them. “Come and listen… she sings so well. I never told her so, I never had time to listen. A lord has duties I would tell her, a king responsibilities. At Dragonstone, sometimes her voice would carry and I would hear it and find myself listening more intently than I should… it reminds me of my mother’s singing…”

“Princess Shireen?”

He pieced together all Stannis was speaking of at once, feeling foolish for not doing so earlier. For half a moment, he thought the king was speaking of someone singing now, even though all he heard was the wind and the cracking of ice, sounds of the Wall settling.

“My daughter, yes.” Stannis turned back to face the darkness. “I felt foolish to listen so closely at Dragonstone, to strain to hear her from afar. Strange how well it carries at the Wall…”

“I’ve heard many say her voice carried from the tower.” Davos remembered the sad tales men told of Shireen’s captivity in the tower. “That it would climb the Wall itself, lifting the men’s spirits with it. Princess Shireen sang well your grace. I miss her. I pray for her.”

“My girl.” Stannis closed his eyes. “Eager yet patient… far too patient for what should be hers.”

_What should have been hers._

He almost corrected his king but thought better of it, for he was here to deliver foul tidings. It was best not to begin such by focusing on such frivolity like grammar, or to draw out his king’s grief once more.

Stannis was as calm as he could be as Davos delivered the news. Speaking to Pyrik’s murder had gone easily enough for the details were few in truth. The man was murdered at some point after midday, Ser Brus only discovering the body because he’d gone to fetch herbs for the king. Pyrik had been aiding Stannis in sleeping since Shireen’s death. Many spoke of seeing the king wander the castle at the latest hours, spurning rest to gaze up at the Wall.

Some even swore he spoke to ice but Davos was hard pressed to believe that, for he knew his king was not one to waste words. Nonetheless, Pyrik’s herbs had led to several nights of peaceful slumber for his king and Davos lamented that the man had not left directions on making more of his potions.

Stannis had listened in stoic silence, nodding here and there at Davos’s words. Showing no grief at the loss of Pyrik, the king appeared keener to hear if there was a culprit they could punish for the act.

“I believe whoever this is to be some deserter, too fearful to attempt escape yet disgruntled enough to strike at loyal men.” Davos answered before performing his duty as Hand and speaking to other suspicions. “Ser Godry has another suspect in mind, a familiar one…”

He spoke to Godry’s accusations against Theon Greyjoy first, for his own arguments against that theory came soon after. He believed Stannis’s hostage was innocent for more reasons than just his maimed state. In truth it would be quite inconvenient if the Turncloak was the perpetrator, for he was their tool in getting sway over the Iron Islands one day.

To his shame, Davos had grown fond of Greyjoy. Besides Stannis, the ruined lordling was the closest thing he had to a friend here at the Nightfort. The fact that Theon was likely innocent in the murders, that Godry only wished for a chance to burn a highborn man to appease his red god, only helped matters for him.

Stannis appeared to agree with Davos’s arguments, waving away Godry’s accusations with disinterest, which was quite unusual for him.

“Theon Greyjoy has uses beyond being that dullard’s kindling.” The king looked down into the frozen lands before the Wall. “My knights, if only they all took after you… the man always at my side. Shireen saw the truth of that more than her mother. You are a man of ability… loyal… firm in resolve… yet she spoke to me on fears that you wouldn’t have the heart for what is to come. That you may weaken my own resolve.”

“I will always be at your side my king. I will never do anything to hurt you.” Davos argued, hurt at the idea of Shireen sharing foul feelings for him with her father. Confused as to when she would’ve done so. “Whatever must be done, I will serve the one true king…”

His voice fell away as the clouds moved then, allowing the light of the moon to shine down on the snow-covered grounds beneath them. The woods were as dark and thick as they’d ever been, yet it was what stood at their edge that drew his eye. The figures illuminated in the moonlight, causing Davos’s blood to turn to ice water.

There were three of them.

Three pale, lithe figures standing below the Wall, so still that they looked like statues. From the tales told to him as a child in pot shops in King’s Landing, he’d expected them to be huge, glowing monstrosities, with sharp icy teeth meant to drain the blood from babes. These creatures, while terrifying to behold, had graceful physiques and looked beautiful in a terrible way.

He had no doubt that these were the fearsome white walkers that had been waging war against the wildlings and the Night’s Watch. The Others who commanded great undead hordes to attack the Wall. Their dark enemy, standing within arrow range, as if they had no care in the world at being seen here.

A darker thought crept into his mind then.

_They don’t care that we’re watching because they are watching us…_

_These demons are staring at Stannis... their eyes are for my king…_

“Your grace.” He warned as a cold wind blew up and clawed at his flesh and soul. “Stannis… please, I would have you away from here…”

“There is power here.” Stannis answered in a queer tone. “When I first saw this castle, I thought it a pile of rubble, an exile worthy of a man with as many failures as me. Yet this was the first castle of the Night’s Watch.  An order which established a reign lasting thousands of years here at the Wall… to have my dynasty last for so long, to have the realm so ordered…”

Another blast of wind came, which to Davos felt like it blew straight up from the Others themselves and it doused his torch completely. Bathed in darkness, he dared to grab at his king’s arm, fearful for his liege and himself all the same.

“We must go. Please. King Stannis, please. Those things… I would have you away from them! They are evil!”

His touch on Stannis’s arm caused the man to start, as if shaking him free from some dream. The king acted confused for a moment, cocking his head to listen for something that wasn’t there, for Davos heard nothing but the wind and his own pleading. Stannis responded to them by making a quick glance down to the Others and then back to Davos’s terrified face. With a curt nod the king jerked free of his hold but made to leave the Wall nonetheless, with Davos following behind.

Their entire time travelling down the ice stair, Stannis did not speak of what they’d seen. He wondered if the king was as unnerved by the sight of the white walkers as he was. Davos had known monsters in his life but those were of a kind with men and those creatures below the Wall were something far different. Surely he could understand Stannis being rattled by the appearance of the Others so near to them.

When they reached the bottom he made to speak to his king on whether they should bring some archers up to the Wall but Stannis waved him off. His king clasped his hands behind his back and offered only a nod before striding off towards the ice-cells. The place his daughter was laid at rest.

_Let him find his peace with all this._

_The man deserves that much at least. We all deserve some peace._

With that in mind Davos decided to seek his chambers but only after he dropped by Theon Greyjoy’s. The men he’d ordered to stand guard outside of it were all fast asleep, with an empty skin of wine between them. The hour as late as it was, and with a man sprawled out in front of the chamber door, Davos figured no one would be entering our leaving unnoticed. So he continued on his way, disdaining how the cold corridors of the Nightfort made him almost eager for his chambers.

_I wonder how cold my keep is back in the Stormlands…_

_The wind off Cape Wrath could send some bitter gusts across the water. Marya’s feet would be blocks of ice on those nights._

He chuckled to himself, eager for any pleasant memory to drive away the thought of the Others standing out there watching Stannis. His laughter came out as a white mist before him and he rubbed his hands together for warmth. He imagined if the night was this bitter cold back home then his wife would have both their young sons sharing a bed with her. His wife had never been a proper lady but she’d given him seven good boys over their years together. To think of Marya with their two youngest in bed with her made Davos feel warm somehow.

As Davos pushed at the door of his darkened chambers, he wished he was there with them. He couldn’t allow himself to wish Marya and their boys here at the Nightfort. It was too foul a place.

_I hope Castle Black is warmer than here. I know Devan is safer there at least._

_Ser Richard was kind to write of my boy, to tell me he is well and asks after his father._

_Such a beautiful boy… Marya, we made such good sons…_

Finding his chambers so dark was not new to him. The better stewards had all fallen to the grey plague and most in this part of the castle had succumbed as well. Those who would tend the hearths often forgot him all the way down here by himself so his fire usually went unlit. Davos could have complained and gotten someone else to see to it but he had not been born a lord and could see to his own fire.

_I’m not such a fool to forget that… I forgot to grab a new torch though._

_I’ll have to strike up some sparks with my flint._

He shrugged off his cloak and was almost to the hearth when he heard a sound off in the corner.

The slight scrape of a foot on the stone floor. The jingle of a bell.

“Who-”

Davos had only just turned towards the sound when something slammed into his stomach. The impact was so hard, so jarringly painful, that his legs were lost to him. He pitched backwards, falling down and collapsing within his unlit hearth. He landed hard on the ash and coals, the blackness of the room clashing with how bright the pain flashed in his mind’s eye.

For how long he lay there moaning before his senses returned he could not say. A scratching sound filled the empty room, barely audible over his gasps and moans. Sparks appeared nearby and soon after, a candle lit, driving away the darkness.

In the weak glow he saw his sword laying on the ground just beyond his reach. He looked to his gut and saw the end of a crossbow bolt sticking through it. It was deep, the agony so great that Davos knew he would not be able to survive pulling it out.

The candle was raised some and his killer’s face was lit up in a ghastly way, the grin stretching across his mottled face like a demon’s.

Patchface giggled with terrifying glee as he tossed the crossbow he carried onto Davos’s bed.

 _“In the dark I can spy, in the dark you may die.”_ The fat fool pranced as he sang but paid Davos little heed except to reach for his sword. “ _I know, I know, oh, oh, oh!”_

“What have you done?” He coughed, trying to find the strength to yell but his breath couldn’t push through the blood that was filling his lungs. “Why did you-”

 _“So many things! So many reasons! Oh ho ho!”_ Patchface giggled, jingling his bells and patting his large belly. _“Her blood is royal, her blood is tainted, the dour ser didn’t laugh, now grey he is painted!”_

“Dour ser?”

 _Does he mean Ser Dorden,_ Davos thought, _the first man to become sick with the plague?_

A spasm of pain racked his body then, sending Davos tumbling from the hearth and out onto the floor. He hacked again, his blood spraying out across the cold floor. Davos tried to crawl to his sword, his maimed fingers scrambling.

_“They sing in the night, no need for the light, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh!”_

“You’re mad…” He grasped the sword hilt but couldn’t find the strength to lift it. “Patchface… you mad bastard… get a healer…”

 _“Dead dead dead, whack whack whack.”_ The fool sang as he mimicked striking something with two hands. _“The king must dream, old man must scream! Thwack, thwack, thwack, I then went, crack, crack, crack, his skull went!”_

Even through the pain, Davos began to piece the madman’s words together. The whole time Godry and he had been arguing over who to blame for the murders, the culprit had been wearing bells and dancing about the castle.  

_By the Seven, he’s been wearing fucking bells!_

_How did you not see it?_

His anger at himself somehow fueled Davos to lift the sword and point the blade at the fat fool’s obese gut.

 _“Oh ho!”_ Patchface giggled before kicking the blade away and doing an ugly little jig. _“They all sing in the night, the knights with eyes so bright! Some grey blood in the well, dark castle becomes hell!”_

“Stannis will kill you for this… they should have left you drowned…”

Patchface stopped dancing then, becoming so still he could have been made of stone. Slowly, menacingly, the fool turned his dark gaze down upon Davos’s dying body.  His eyes were aglow from the candle that he raised up to his face.

“There is no jester here, he died long ago… no hope for him… no hope for you… the king will come this night but he will find no onion knight… like they found no singer on the beach… just a dead man…”

With that Patchface pulled something from behind him, brandishing a vicious looking dagger that shone in the candlelight. He waved it left to right as his foul grin returned.

_“The king will find a fool alone… fools will reap what they have sewn…”_

The wind blasted the darkened window of his room then, rattling the window so hard that he thought it was cracking. As Patchface took a step towards him, Davos reached for his fingerbones that weren’t there.

_Marya…I’m sorry…our sons…_

_Our beautiful sons…_

The wind came again but the candle was blown out by Patchface himself.

Darkness swallowed him, as black as the sail he’d sailed into Storm’s End with during the siege. He’d been rewarded for that service with the edge of a knife as well.

Yet this blade was far worse.

Its bite so cold and unforgiving, he thought of his king.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks are bound in a common cause. None truly grasping the threat before them.

**JON**

A biting breeze snuck in through the open door of the armoury. The weapons piled around them could not defend against the chill which followed.  

Yet the cold could not dampen the warmth of Sam's smile. 

“Thank you Jon. I’ve no right to ask you for this, but I thank you…”

“There’s no need Sam.” Jon replied idly, watching Coll count the rows of spear-torches laid against the wall. The squire’s brow was furrowed in concentration, taking all care to get the proper count they needed. Jon was making sure to note how the boy still favored his injured side. Many had succumbed to their grievous injuries from the battle and he’d been fearful Coll would as well, yet he was gladdened to see the boy looking healthier every day.

“What’s the count Coll?”

“Same as the steward’s ser.” Coll answered, resting his hand on the last weapon. “Five and fifty spears. That’s much less than the hundred you wanted to send to Sable Hall, I think the spear makers will need to work faster.”

“Yes, yes. Much faster…” Sam grumbled while taking a quill to parchment. The steward had been taking stock of their supplies for the past hour, Jon and Coll only recently joining him. At one time the armory had been stocked with iron and steel weapons, collected over a great many years. Now those had been mostly replaced with wooden sticks and dragonglass.

Hardly a man walked the Wall or throughout the castle without a torch strapped to his belt and a flint in his pocket to light it. The dragonglass shipments from Winterfell were being distributed all along the Wall, but much of the smithing of such weapons was done here at Castle Black. There was little smithing about it truly; the work mostly came down to carving and shaping the brittle rock.

There were now hundreds of dragonglass spear points, arrows heads, and daggers being handed out amongst the forces holding the Wall, and Jon had been sure to sing the Starks praises for giving them such weapons. While there was nowhere near enough to arm every man no one force was allotted more than the other. Night’s Watch, Northmen, free folk, whoever was most likely to meet a foe, they were armed accordingly. Since Stannis was still isolating himself at the Nightfort, and Jon had no reason to antagonize the man, they’d been shipping weapons and supplies to the western castles of the Wall through the mountain clans.

_That will change soon enough I hope. If anything good can come from me leaving, I pray that it is Stannis rejoining this fight._

The thought of leaving pulled him back to Sam’s words.

“You’re sure the babe is able enough?” He asked, knowing Sam harbored a personal affection for the child in question. “It will be a long cold ride that we’re embarking on, and I’d rather not put the him at risk needlessly.”

“Gilly says that free folk babes are strong.” Sam smiled. “And he certainly sounds strong enough ser. The last couple of times I’ve gone to see them, the little babe was wailing so much that I could hardly hear my own thoughts…”

The steward’s smile died away towards the end.

“I’ll miss that I think.”

“Better to miss it than to lose them.” Jon said simply. He did not mean to sound so harsh but following the battle Beyond-the-Wall, he wished for no innocents to be near this fight. “The finest warriors in the realm are not even safe here Sam. To keep mothers and babes near this threat would be madness.”

“I know and I’m ashamed.” Sam nodded. “When Gilly first asked me if she and her son should leave, I wanted to say no… sending them away was a hard thing to think on after everything we’ve been through here. It hurt some to think she wanted to leave but I was being selfish… after everything that’s happened at the Wall how could I say no? So when the summons came for you to depart, it felt fated and I knew the choice was made. Gilly has been so quiet after the battle. I mean, she was always sort of quiet but I think… she won’t admit it, but she’s scared, and- and I promised her when I first met her that I would keep her safe.”

Jon chose to politely ignore the look of affection that passed over Sam’s face then.

_We’re all allowed our secret loves I suppose._

“They’ll be safe with the Starks, I believe that.” Sam added with a nod, seeming to reassure himself more than anything.

“We will, that is to say the Starks will find a place for Gilly, I promise. That good woman and her child will want for nothing if I have any say in it.”

_It will be nice to have the child with me. To arrive at Winterfell with new life, Sansa might like that._

_Far better than returning with relics of the dead._

He glanced down to the sword upon his belt then, cringing again to see Willem’s blade hanging from his hip. He felt like a thief for carrying a sword that rightly belonged to his friend. The guilt was worse though, to walk about each day with Willem’s sword while his friend’s body couldn’t even be found after the battle.

_I’m sorry Will… I looked and I looked… I went to corpse after corpse, each more charred than the last…_

_I couldn’t see your smirking face among them… I couldn’t find you, the man who found me at the Saltpans…_

_The man who gave me purpose again._

So lost in thought and grief, Jon didn’t notice that Sam had been speaking. He begged forgiveness and asked the steward to repeat himself.

“I said that Val promised me much the same. I was quite surprised by it actually. She’s never really liked me I think, but she said she’d look after Gilly and her boy at Winterfell. She acts so strangely sometimes, especially of late. I don’t know when she’s threatening me or complimenting me. I still can’t believe the Lord-Commander is permitting her to leave with you.”

“Things have changed.” Jon answered, holding back a chuckle. “And Val can be quite convincing when she wants to be.”

No sooner had Sansa’s letter arrived than did Val kick in Howland’s door and demand to join his party set for Winterfell. Such was how the crannogman told the tale anyway. Jon thought that Howland was having a rare moment of jest, until later he saw some stewards fixing the hinges on the solar door.

What surprised Jon more than Val wanting to go to Winterfell though was Howland allowing it.

“Things have changed.” Howland had said to him a few days past.

After watching Leathers train some new recruits for the Watch they’d sought the top of the Wall together. Many of the new faces had come from amongst the wildlings themselves while others were freshly arrived from Winterfell. Leathers fought savagely but he was a good teacher with a patient and friendly disposition. Some of the new men feared the rough-looking raider but Jon thought that was a good thing. Learning to deal with fear would be necessary for the coming battles.

Just as Jon dealt with his own fear when they journeyed up the Wall. The specter of seeing the battlefield in daylight was a hard one for him. The lands beyond had been blanketed by several fresh snowfalls since, masking the carnage which they’d unleashed below, but the image of those fields seared black with fire and littered with thousands of corpses wouldn’t leave Jon’s mind. He was glad when Howland distracted him with talk of politics at the Wall.

As stressful as they could be, politics didn’t bid him to wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

“I haven’t noticed much a change in Val myself.” Jon had answered back and Howland grunted in amusement.

“Her nature is not the issue, her worth is. I kept Val from leaving for Karhold because she was a symbol to my men, that I had control over the free folk. An important thing to have at the time, for my sworn brothers feared our new allies would break, run, or even betray them. After the battle things changed, the wildlings fought well and saved many lives, some have even taken the black. We’ve spread out the hostages taken from them throughout the castles holding the Wall, and the need for Val to act as a symbol has waned. I’m fairly content to let Mance Rayder serve in that role for now while Val plays a more important one at Winterfell.”

“Val at Winterfell… I can’t see how-”

“The Others lost a battle Jon, but it was just that; a single battle. We may hold the Wall but they control the vast lands beyond. Our new allies can’t return to their homes until this threat is defeated outright. So the free folk are here to stay, perhaps for quite some time, and their people cannot shelter at the Wall forever. They will need lands to settle, with promises that they will be safe when doing so… they need the North to welcome them in the New Gift.”

“Welcome them to the New Gift” He’d shivered in the wind. “I’ll be surprised if the Northern Houses even allow it…”

Despite his words, Jon saw the wisdom in moving the wildlings away from the front. His father had once spoken of settling lords on the Gift, to help support the Night’s Watch by feeding its men and perhaps even helping them man the Wall in times of emergency. The wildlings were not northern lords though, and the New Gift was far closer to the Kingdom of the North than Eddard Stark would have preferred.

_Then again, he never expected the Others would return as well._

_I can’t see the man who raised me content in allowing women and babes living so close to this fight…_

The rough lands of the New Gift were likely more hospitable than what the free folk were used to, and there were enough lakes to fish and game to hunt to support small groups of them. Jon could foresee the rough people thriving there, becoming a force that would help the Watch return to its former glory and a great boon for the North itself. Yet to act so hopeful was foolish, for he saw problems in Howland’s proposal as well. Specifically from the lords of the North, like the Umbers, the Mormonts, and the mountain clans, just to name a few. They had always experienced the worst the wildlings had to offer, most viewing the free folk as raiders and rapers. The thousands of years of bad blood could not be washed away by one victory.

When Jon put that to words, Howland had answered his worries.

“You’re right. That’s why this plan needs the support of the King in the North.” Howland held up his black cloak then. “I command the Watch and lord over the lands of the New Gift. I could settle the free folk there without anyone’s permission, as is my right, but good relations between neighbors is desirable to say the least, and approval from the Starks would go a long way in helping. I believe we can gain that support by having some of the wildling leaders join you in going south. Let the regent and her council see their worth. Sansa may appreciate Val’s strength… and perhaps she can even find a match for our wildling princess among the northern nobility. Seeing what many consider wildling royalty married to a lord of the North would help relations considerably…”

“Not if she slits her husband’s throat in their bridal bed.” Jon had almost laughed at the thought of Val being paired to the likes of Roger Ryswell or even Ronnel Stout. “Val’s too wild to be paired off, but if I can keep her from threatening anyone I think her beauty will help set some of the lords at ease.”

Jon had seen Val act courteous and charming when it was needed of her, though he was wary of it being a way to lure enemies into underestimating her. Like Val’s adept nature with a blade, her charm was just another skill she had developed to survive.

_Like when Sansa would play the innocent wide-eyed girl before friends and foes alike…_

_Perhaps she might appreciate Val some._

“It’s a good idea though, the marriages.” Jon had said in thought, trying to think of other options. “Binding the free folk and North together before the heart tree could help. Not too many of the wildling men would make tempting suitors but as to brides… what of Gerrick’s daughters?”

“Gerrick Kingsblood?” Howland asked and he nodded.

“As Tormund tells it there’s little royalty in the man’s blood, but Gerrick is still a leader among their people. His three daughters are of a gentler kind than Val and Gerrick is clearly eager to marry them off-”

“Hasn’t he offered one to you?” Howland had offered a rare smile at Jon’s discomfort. “Or was it two?”

“All three at one point or another.” He’d frowned.

The last time Gerrick had attempted such a thing he’d done so quite publicly. Everyone in the hall had watched as the man brought his youngest daughter before Jon’s table, presenting the girl as if she was his next serving of meat. He’d felt sorry for her, for Gylda was only barely older than Arya, and a pretty thing besides. All Gerrick’s daughters shared the same long, straight red hair, kissed by fire as the free folk called it, with comely faces and fine forms as far as he could tell. The youngest would surely grow into a beauty like her older sisters but that mattered not to Jon, for his heart belonged to another…

He could not speak to that though and his polite refusal of Gylda left Gerrick grunting in annoyance. The girl had seemed relieved, for she’d been almost trembling in fear the whole while. At first Jon believed it inspired by her father, or perhaps even the prospect of wedding a dragon. Following her gaze though, he found what truly scared the girl. For Val was glaring at the poor girl from the far end of his table, her eyes narrowed in an unspoken threat. Jon had seen that look a few times before, the last being when a minor lord of House Umber had offered to wed Val in such a way. Just before she’d broken his arm.

While Gylda was frozen by fear, Jon stood to shield her and frown at Val. Her menacing glare had quickly changed to a smile at his challenge. The same flush crossing her face as when they grappled in Howland’s solar. He still expected that Val would come to his chambers one night, slip under his furs and bury a dagger in his stomach over that affair. Val tried to provoke him often now, as if goading him into a confrontation but he’d disappointed her each time. 

_She better not try anything on the ride… tying a wildling woman up and dragging her about a frozen land  is something I’d rather not do._

“Gerrick it is then.” Howland had crossed his arms. “Yet I want a true leader to represent the free folk at Winterfell, not just some man with some blood claims. A man they can fear at first but appreciate over time. A loud one at that…”

“Tormund?”

“Tormund.” Howland nodded. “Soren and Sigorn can fill the gap in leadership in his wake. I keep his youngest as a page, but he can take his eldest Toregg on the journey. If things go well at Winterfell he can become Rickon’s… guest.”

 _His hostage,_ it went unspoken.

“I’m gathering quite an escort for my ride of shame.” Jon had shaken his head, still struggling to understand how he’d made such a mess of things here at the Wall.

_So much so that even the woman I love could not allow me to continue here._

“There is no shame in this Jon. I tell you now there are none here at the Wall as esteemed or respected as you are. That battle would not have been won without your insights, and your slaying of the Others gave many of the men hope…”

“The losses were too great Howland. Sansa must have realized that… she sent me here to help and I repay her trust by leading a thousand men to their deaths…”

“I would say you were wrong but you will argue with me anyway.” Howland had sighed, patting his back. “In that I see my friend Eddard. As much as I miss him, we will miss you here at the Wall even more. I am happy you are leaving nonetheless.”

“But you just said-”

“I never wanted you to come to the Wall in the first place, but I knew the lords would not trust me to come here alone… and I had to come… I had to…” The Lord-Commander had looked out to the vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness once more. “For the sake of the daughter I have now foresworn.”

Howland grabbed at his arm then and bid Jon to join him in gazing north yet he saw nothing out there that demanded such urgency.

“I lost my son out there Jon.” The crannogman’s voice shook some. “I felt it when Jojen passed… it told me when he died…”

“It?”

“A power, a great power, old and knowing. Far more powerful than my dreams or your family’s skinchanging. It speaks to me through those dreams… through the heart tree at Winterfell. Somewhere in that wilderness, it sits in the dark with Meera… and Bran. They are alive Jon, alive and at its side.”

“What!?” Jon had shaken free of his hold and stared at the man in shock. “You’ve known where Bran is since Winterfell? And you’ve said nothing?”

Howland had shaken his head and placed two fingers forcefully against his temple.

“I know without knowing! Whatever the red eye is, it will not tell me where they are! No matter how I beg! Only that they are safe… it said if I came to the Wall and took the black, if I allowed you to join me, then they would be safe. There was no guile in its words, and rarely has it led me astray, though in truth it says little…”

Hearing Howland speak of a red eye in the dark had sent a wave of terror through him. Jon and Ghost had both dreamed of such a thing, of a terribly old voice speaking to them. He could not rightly recall its words once he woke, only that they scared him. Despite that fear, and knowing that such a dark thing could be real and was communicating with Howland, a ray of hope had broken through.

“Bran’s alive?” He’d asked desperately. “Out there? You’re sure of it?”

Howland had smiled sadly in reply, turning his eyes back north.

“Meera too.” The Lord-Commander clenched his fists. “We have no hope of reaching them Jon… not through all of that. Like I said, we hold the Wall, the Others hold the rest. If we want to see them again, we must do more than win one battle. We must vanquish our enemy…”

In a selfish way, he wished Howland hadn’t told him any of this. It made following Sansa’s order and returning to Winterfell all the more difficult. When he proposed writing to Sansa of what Howland spoke of the lord had coldly forbidden it.

“Sansa would surely demand a rescue mission, one that would be doomed as soon as it set foot outside the Wall.” Howland gazed down at the ring of torches they’d posted around the gate. “We have not seen the Others since the battle, and my rangers report only small forces of wights moving through the forest at night. We burn those we find yet more await us out there, we are not safe.”

Jon had nodded, feeling further shame to be leaving while this war continued on without him.

“And how would we explain my knowledge of Bran’s survival to my brothers? Were my men ever to catch wind of my dreams, or that I somehow commune with a dark power, how long would it be before I suffered the same fate as Jeor Mormont?”

Howland had looked pained to speak to all of this yet he pressed on anyways. The Lord-Commander was casting away the selfish feelings of Howland Reed to better serve the realm, and Jon admired that strength. Yet when he spoke again, a brief glimpse of the man Jon had journeyed north with broke through.

“Besides, you would try and use this as an excuse to stay at the Wall, to lead that ill-fated rescue yourself. I cannot allow that. My dreams have shown a foul fate for you Jon… I saw men plotting in a cold, dark place, feasting on a white dragon with your name upon their blood soaked lips...”

“You think that place is where the red eye keeps Bran and Meera?”

“I don’t believe so… but I cannot say for certain.” Howland had turned away from him again, once more staring off into the snowy lands. “I was forced to allow your coming here Jon so I will not hinder your leaving. Sansa ordered you home for a reason, so go to her. I’d ask you to wed her there but, forgive me this, my dreams showed Sansa on my arm the day of her wedding. She was wearing a bridal gown as I led her to the godswood, tears in her eyes… I am certain that means I am to be there, so I cannot be sure-”

“Please Howland.” He’d interrupted. “I’ve had enough of your dreams for now… I have things to tend to before I leave my post and return to my king.”

His head had been spinning and he was annoyed with Howland’s mysterious words yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave the lord angrily. This wasn’t their final farewell, he knew that, yet he couldn’t allow harsh feelings to fester between them while he was gone. They’d been through so much together and Jon had so few friends left.

“Hold the Wall my lord.” Jon had offered his hand to Howland. “As happy as I would be to have you at my wedding, if it is a choice between the Wall standing and my selfish wants being fulfilled, I know which I prefer.”

“As do I.” Howland shook his hand firmly. “I fear sometimes that this world will forget Ned and his honorable ways. Somehow you manage to ease those fears. As long as you live, so does his memory. Keep his family safe ser. Protect our home.”

Jon took as much solace in those words as he could. Being unable to fight alongside Howland and the other brave men at the Wall had been a hard thing to swallow. When he had first received Sansa’s letter, it had been confusing, and later when re-reading it, he still didn’t understand.

_‘Ser Jon,_

_The king commends you for your service at the Wall. In his name, you are summoned back to Winterfell to continue your duties here. Lord Umber and Lady Maege will henceforth take command in your stead. You are ordered to return to Winterfell with the utmost haste._

_Princess Sansa Stark, the Royal Regent.’_

The idea that Sansa had lost faith in him stung deeply, yet a part of him was glad and yearned to see her once more. He’d done his best to hide those conflicting feelings from Howland and Sam when he’d first read the letter in front of them. Sam, while clearly upset to hear the news, had tried to put a positive light on things. He suggested it as an opportunity for Jon to spread word of what was happening at the Wall in person, to encourage more men to take the black and convince their southron allies to send aid as well.

_With all the people I’m bringing with me, I can’t see how that message would go unnoticed._

_I still can’t believe the group I’ve cobbled together to join this ride…_

“Ser!” Coll called out, snapping up from counting so quickly that he clutched at his wound in pain.  “Gods- I mean, look ser… a ser!”

The squire was pointing at a new visitor to the armory, one who did not lack for armor or weapons himself. Ser Richard’s face was as grim at it always was.

“Yes Coll, I see him.” Jon patted his squire’s shoulder, bidding the young to man to sit and cutting him off from announcing another’s coming within the armory. “I see Aldred too.”

His sworn man was indeed following a few paces behind Ser Richard, hugging his maimed arm against his chest. Aldred had been forced to abandon his two-handed axe after that the battle for, unlike Coll, his injuries had not healed so well. Jon himself had volunteered to hold Aldred down so the healer could saw off his ruined left hand but the young man would hear none of it.

“I won’t sit here and let any man claim he took a hand from me.” Aldred had growled before laying his left arm down upon a block. With a roar that set Jon’s hair to standing on end, he cleaved the ruined limb in one stroke.

The sheer bravery of that act more than made up for the man’s tears as Jon held him steady, for the healer still had to press a hot iron against his stump to cauterize the blood. Aldred had sobbed the whole while, clutching the bloodied axe in his right hand tightly.

“I can fight…” He’d wept. “I can still fight… I’m still a warrior…”

He surely acted the part, following after Ser Richard as he did. Jon had actually put a stop to watching the knight for treachery shortly after the battle. His men needed time to heal, and Richard had fought nobly alongside them, proving himself savage yet trustworthy ally. Nonetheless, Aldred had taken up duties following the knight once he was able, wearing the very axe he’d taken his own hand with.

“Ser Jon.” Richard nodded, stopping to glower at Coll and Sam.

“Ser Richard asks an audience my lord.” Aldred grunted from behind the knight, gesturing to him with a wave of his stump. “Or so I guess. I can’t read the man’s mind.”

_Willem would say you’re stumped._

“I can speak for myself.” Richard growled without looking back at Aldred. “I have considered your proposal ser. I accept.”

“I am glad.” Jon said, quite surprised to hear so. “King Stannis must have complete confidence in our alliance if we are to work together. With the free folk envoys going to Winterfell, he must know that he has naught to fear from it.”

“King Stannis does not fear.” The knight answered simply. “I cannot speak for the king so I will not deign to try, but I can report to him what I see and hear.”

_Likely what you were sent here to do in the first place._

“Then I welcome your company on the journey south.” Jon offered his hand which Richard stared at a moment before grasping it with his own.

“The Lord of Light has bid me to do so.” Richard said simply. “My path is set. When do we leave?”

“First light on the morrow. Is there anything you’d have us make ready?”

“I will be taking Devan Seaworth with me.” Richard spoke curtly.

The man left armory without another word. While Jon lamented leaving the Wall, he had hopes that his departure would help mend the rift between House Stark and Stannis. Inviting Richard along for the trip south was an attempt to rebuild some faith between them, the knight acting as an envoy alongside Tormund, Gerrick, and Val. While not the most pleasant of company Jon was glad Richard had agreed to come.

From the looks on Sam and Aldred’s faces, he was quite alone in welcoming Ser Richard’s decision.

“Forgive me my lord, but I think this is a bad idea.” Aldred tapped his axe absently. “I saw that man fight. Even with both my hands, I doubt I could’ve matched him.”

“And now Al’s only got the one.” Coll added, pointing at the stump and earning a cuff from Aldred for it. “What? I’m helping!”

“Ser Richard comes as an envoy, not an enemy.” Jon said to quiet them. “Besides, there will be almost fifty northmen in our party. He’d be foolish to try anything against such numbers. Nor can I think of a reason he would.”

“He’s a follower of the red god ser.” Sam folded his parchment in a worried manner. “People of that faith value blood sacrifices. The burning of kingsblood before any other, and being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, descended from a line of kings and dragonlords from Old Valyria itself makes you a valuable offering indeed. Just as Maester Aemon was…”

He frowned. Jon was glad that Sam was finding the courage to speak in front of Aldred’s fierce manner, but was annoyed that he used that newfound courage to disagree with him. 

“Ser Richard did not take part in my great uncle’s murder Sam. The guilty party is far from here-”

“We hope.” Sam added with a shiver.

His statement caused Coll to look about the shadowy armory in fear, as if expecting to Melisandre to pop out at any moment.

_She despises the shadows. She prefers the light and the fire and the burning that comes with it._

_So look to the fires Coll, if you seek her. She’d likely counsel the same._

The red sorceress’s disappearance from Castle Black had been a great mystery for some time now. Not a day after the battle, Melisandre had sent Devan Seaworth to collect more wood for her fire and she was seen leaving her tower not long after by some guardsmen, before moving out of sight between some buildings. When her squire grew worried at the length of her absence he’d sought out Jon. That had sparked a search where Howland and Tormund sent men all over the castle looking for Melisandre.

His first thought had been to seek the fires that burned at the edges of the Castle Black. Following the battle many wounded and sickly had succumbed to their wounds and for days and nights afterwards the bodies had been burned, a grim beacon in the darkness. He believed that a perfect place to find Melisandre.

Yet they found nothing there, or anywhere else. Ghost had never been able to track the sorceress properly for some strange reason, and both Richard and Devan claimed to have no idea about her whereabouts. Days of searching left them with no sign of the woman they sought and the mystery endured even now.

Most had been cheerful that the red witch had disappeared and Jon had heard men say that they finally felt safe around fires.

 _Yet you remain troubled_ , he thought, _Melisandre knew I’d be summoned back to Winterfell and she asked to join me._

_Now I’m going and she is nowhere to be found… it makes no sense…_

“My lord, have good sense.” Aldred asked then. “You set me to following that man for a reason.”

“He’s a killer!” Coll rose to his feet, doing his best to sound older than he was. “Ser Willem named him such and he was a wise knight! He taught me the Old Tongue-”

“My friend’s worth is not lost on me!” Jon snapped angrily, causing Coll to take a step back. “Enough! Both of you! I have made my decision! If you have enough energy to argue with me then I’m sure there’s other work you could be doing right now! I want our sleighs and saddles ready by first light, so see it done!

With that he turned to leave, assured that Sam could complete the weapon inventory without him. He had only been there to distract himself, but Coll and Aldred had brought the ghosts back. The people who died, he didn’t want to think about them right now.

The only ghost he welcomed was resting at the entrance of the armory. The direwolf rose as he passed, coming to Jon’s side, where he was needed. Walking side by side, he reached out to pet Ghost’s head and the soft feel of his fur beneath Jon’s gloved hand was welcome.

 _Always there when I need you_ , he thought, _how long until I fail you too Ghost?_

“You have no worries about heading home, do you?” He asked the wolf. “Reuniting with your brother and sister again, joining them in playing with Arya and Rickon. I know you dream about Sansa too old friend… don’t think I never noticed how she would sneak you extra food off her plate in the Great Hall…”

“Jon!” He turned to see Sam chasing after him. “Jon, wait!”

“Sam, if you’re going to tell me to be wary of Richard-”

“I’m not!” Sam wheezed. “Though you should be.”

“I said-”

“It’s about Ser Willem.” The steward raised his hands up in surrender and looked to the tower that Willem and Jon had made their chambers. “Your squire’s words reminded me, and I’m sorry to bring it up, I know you grieve still-”

“What about Willem?” He liked Sam speaking of his grief as much as he enjoyed thinking about it himself.

“His chambers, they haven’t been cleaned out. I saw a steward preparing to do so but I stopped them, out of respect for the good ser. I thought… I thought you would prefer to have someone who knew him take care of it. A friend perhaps.”

_What kind of true friend am I? I completely forgot about Willem’s effects._

“Thank you Sam.” He grasped Sam’s arm and shook it slightly. “I shall see to it myself. Willem would’ve thanked you as well.”

“He would’ve told me to call him ser.” Sam smiled good-naturedly.

He left Sam’s side and headed straight to Willem’s chambers. It felt like there were more stairs than he remembered, and Jon worried at what he would find. They had journeyed here to fight, not for a pleasure stay, and he knew his friend had brought little with him. Yet a foolish fear filled Jon’s head, that when he opened the door, Willem’s spirit would be there waiting for him.

Cursing Jon for letting him die. Cursing him that his body hadn’t been given a proper burial, that he’d let him burn out in that cold darkness. Alone.

When he did open the door there was no angry spirit waiting for him. He found only a shockingly messy room, with clothing and refuse dotting the floor.

“By the gods Willem.” He shook his head as he kicked one of the many empty wine bottles strewn across the floor. “Who drinks so much alone in their rooms?”

 _You did once_ , he thought, _back at the Twins, when your scars still hurt._

_When I believed Sansa had spurned me… when I thought her lost to me…_

There was little enough of note in the piles of rags and bottles. Some rough spun woolen clothing here and there, some riding leathers, a spare pair of boots, nothing he knew Willem would attach much value to. He decided to allow the Watch to take most of it, likely some of the free folk could be helped using Willem’s garments.

He smiled to see signs that his friend had been helping himself to some of wildling wears himself. Among the piles of clothing, he saw what he knew to be the undergarments worn by women north of the Wall. Different sizes for each too and, lifting one up with his boot and taking note it was made of beaver fur, he chuckled to remember something Willem had said to him one morning.

 _‘What odds would you lay that some of those spearwives use beaver fur to hide their-”_  
  
“You’re a filthy man.” Jon repeated once more, his words heard by none but him in the dark cold room. “A filthy man… I miss you Will.”

Running a hand over his neck, he made to take his leave when he noticed some scuff marks at the bottom of the bed. Drag marks cutting through the dust on the floor. Bending down, he peered beneath and saw a satchel tucked away for safekeeping. When he’d pulled it out, Jon sat on the bed and rummaged through it.

There was a coin purse with a good amount of gold and silvers, enough to buy a new suit of armor and a fine steed to go with it. He tried to ignore how much of the coin was marked by muck and blood. The next thing he pulled free looked to be the torn remnants of a tunic, bearing a sigil much like that of House Royce but not one he recognized.

The bronze background was there, the black runes adorning the edges, but in the center, instead of the black iron studs of the Runestone Royces were two black iron swords crossed.

_Willem had a sigil? Why didn’t he ever show it to me?_

_I only ever saw him wearing Bronze Yohn’s standard or the Stark direwolf…_

His questions only deepened when he pulled the last treasure from the satchel. A bundle of cloth tied with string, with a simple bit of parchment rolled beneath the bindings. A message with a lone name scrawled across it.

Jon’s name.

He stared at the parchment for a long time, afraid of what it would say. When he found the nerve he began to carefully unwind the string. Once he opened the bundle however, he was baffled at what lay within. The first item was simple enough, a thick lock of honey-colored hair, tied together by a long red ribbon. The next was a small knitted boot of bronze-dyed wool, a child’s garment to be sure, singed about the edges.

As odd as all this was, it compared little to the last object, which stood apart from all the others. The bright red ruby was only just smaller than his palm and Jon marveled at its beauty. The stone had been intricately carved and looked like something out of a story, a beautiful treasure that only a king would wear.

_Why did Willem keep such a valuable thing next to some hair and a child’s bootie?_

_Contrary to the end my friend… contrary to the end…_

Clutching the ruby, he finally turned his attention to the parchment baring his name, wondering at how Willem could’ve known he’d be the one to come here. As he began to read, it became clear.

For Willem had done what Jon had before the battle. He’d written a letter of farewell to his loved ones.

A letter to Jon.

_‘Either this is Jon or someone is a snooping pile of shit._

_But if this is Jon, and you're reading this, then I'm dead._

_If that’s the case, well, first things first, stop blaming yourself. I know you lad, you sullen arse, and there are better things to dwell on than me so stop your brooding._

_I’d rather you cry over some spilt wine, which is a true crime indeed. Don’t turn back to wine to feel better though, you’ve been doing good with the drink. Want my advice on how to deal with your woes?_

_Go back to Winterfell. Marry that girl and let her take your pain away. She's the type that'll do it with a smile, so damn well let her. Make that sweet thing happy and give her some pretty babes or I’ll come back and haunt your privy._

_I mean it. I don’t want to see your pale arse so damn well do as I say._

_Speaking of ghosts, I better explain that ruby. Long story short, it’s your father’s, Prince Rhaegar’s. I plucked it from the ford after he fell at the Trident. I’m sorry I never had the guts to tell you how I watched your father die. I’m ashamed that I cheered to see it, and prided myself on looting one of his rubies. I didn’t know then what I know now. I never sold it off though, and it was the one of the few things to survive the fire. I figured that meant something, and finding you was damn well fated._

_So don’t sell it Jon. And don’t hide it away. Take it and wear the thing with pride. If your father is the man we all think he is, if he had even half of your honor, I know that he’d be proud of you. I know that I am._

_About the rest, ask Sansa about it. I’d rather not weep before battle, won’t be good for Coll’s morale. I ask you to take it all back to Winterfell one day and bury it in your godswood. I liked that place. It was peaceful._

_I think that’s it. Thank you for giving me something to fight for again. People die, and you shouldn’t forget them, but don’t let them become burdens on your soul. That’s not doing anyone any good, trust me. Remember them as they were. Don’t let grief keep you from loving. Or forgetting how to hope._

_I love you Jon._

_Oh make sure Morton Waynwood pays back that coin he owes me. Buy Sansa something worthwhile with it, maybe some soap to cover up the smell of you._

_Ser Willem Royce, Knight of the Runetower, First of the Guard, Taller-than-you-think.’_

Willem’s signature was smudged from Jon’s tear and the parchment crumpled in his hands as he shook. He wished then that Willem’s ghost was there, just so he could talk to him again.

_He said to not let grieving keep me from loving… but most of people that I’ve loved are dead._

_How many… how many more…_

He saw his father smiling down at him, helping him with a scraped knee while Jon cried. He saw Robb, cursing at him happily as they pelted each other with snowballs in the godswood. He saw Robar, laughing and twirling his sword as they sparred together in the lands of summer.Then he saw Willem, giving Jon a push into Sansa’s chambers while she held her arms open in welcome for him.

More names and faces came at him in a torrent. Jeyne Stark. Galbart Glover. Jon Redfort. Hallis Mollen. Grenn. Pyp. Ulmer.

Even Wun Wun, who’d died saving him and Jon still didn’t understand why.

_He threw me away from the battle. He didn’t want me there, like Willem. He wanted me to have hope…_

Thinking of hope could only made Jon picture Winterfell. Rickon would be playing among the trees in the godswood, with Shaggydog chasing behind. Arya would be in the practice yard, her face full of glee as she danced about with Needle. He saw Sansa in the Great Hall with someone playing music for her. She and Myranda could share a dance together and Sansa would be smiling that bright smile he had come to love.

_I don’t grieve them. I love them. I hope for them._

_Eddard Stark forbade me from staying at the Wall._

_Willem asked me to go to Winterfell._

_Sansa calls me home._

“I wanted to serve here, to defend the realm, and honor your sacrifice my friend.” He said to no one but ghosts and shadows. “But the world is not about what we want. It is about what we must do.”

“My watch here has ended.”

“It is time to go home.”

**THE VOICE ON THE WIND**

_He’d had a body once._

_Hands that were his own to touch with. A mouth that spoke his thoughts._

_Eyes that beheld the world around him._

_Now he could still see the world, but there was no him. Not after the pain and screaming. Not after the fire._

_Adrift as he was, he had spent untold years remembering that pain, feeling so lost. There was no way to know how long his spirit wandered the lands. How many years, how many thousands of years, had it travelled through?_

_Sometimes a weirwood tree would play host to him, in warm lands from days long past, in colder lands as time wore on. He stayed so long in one tree that the seasons changed around him as white branches and red leaves grew and shriveled and grew again._

_It was a happy thing when young lovers would come before the trees. Their garb and languages changed over the years, from rough spun wools to garments of linen, swords of bronze changing to iron, then steel. Some would be surrounded by friends and family in the light of day. Others came at night and in secret, with only the gods and him to bear witness to their love._

_One such couple had stolen away before him, to bind their love with an eagerness that set them both to laughing. The man had been dressed in rough spun wool and bronze armor, the woman a gown of white wool, with wildflowers tied into her hair. They’d both shed their clothing quickly, making love at the foot of his roots. He’d allowed the wind to take many of his leaves then, watching them glide back and forth like crimson dancers as they fell gently upon the lovers._

_Their laughter and words of love made him think of a green-eyed girl. One who called to him from outside the vastness of land and time, the girl he could not find his way back to._

_He couldn’t even remember her name. His grief at that shed bitter tears through ages._

_Even more so when happiness and life turned to sorrow and death._

_Not all those who came before the weirwoods did so willingly. He saw many weeping young maidens dragged to their knees by rough, older men, callous to the unwillingness of their partners. In the older times, there were as many weddings as killings. Blood sacrifices made to the trees._

_He could not count the number of men, women, and even children that were killed as offerings to him. So much blood, it was enough to flood the whole world._

_Once, when he’d been a tree quite close to the power of the Wall, it had been the black cloaks of the Night’s Watch doing the killing. Under the cold, uncaring gaze of a man who sat upon a white steed, hundreds of naked northern villagers had their throats slit and their bodies thrown upon the roots of the tree. The bodies piled so high that he could no longer see his roots. The dark lord watched unflinching, and even though torches lit up the night all around him, the man cast no shadow to be seen._

_His spirit left that place of blood and evil. His mind went north, much farther north, staying in this ancient time._

_He was not bound to trees alone. His wanderings… his blind search for the girl calling to him… they brought him to many different bodies._

_Most had been welcoming to his spirit. They’d been used by others like him, willing to share their bodies and eyes with the seers. Familiar to their power. Servants of the greensight._

_It was one of these familiars who hosted him Beyond-the-Wall, far to the north, where a great frozen mountain range rose into the sky. The eagle flew over a snow-covered valley nestled in between the mountains, a valley which played host to strangers as well._

_Men intent on slaughtering one another._

_The snow had been painted red and was dotted  with the bodies of the fallen. A black-cloaked army, hundreds strong, had encircled a smaller force of wild men in bronze and iron. The slaughter was one-sided and ruthless, yet the wild men fought on. Not a man tried to flee the ring of death around them._

_For their battle drew attention away from others who already fled, an escape he watched with interest. They were two figures farther up the valley, struggling through the snows. Drawn to them, he flew lower._

_Like he’d done when the fire came._

_In this body, in this time, he was more likely to freeze than burn as gusts of cold wind battered him. Nearing the fleeing pair, he saw one to be a child, a young boy being dragged away by a man. The eagle saw only a fearful man protecting his child, while the greenseer glimpsed someone he knew from before he became lost._

_In a different time, his body would be pale and rotted. His hands black and cold. In this time, thousands of years to the past, the man was still alive and there was a flushed color to his cheeks._

_Joramun… Joramun was his name._

_Somewhere in the haze of who he once was, he saw this Joramun holding a horn above his head while fierce men chanted his name. He’d been brave and fearsome to behold then but much had changed._

_His eyes were wild with fear and his breathing was labored and panicked. Constantly looking over his shoulder at the battle behind them, Joramun dragged the young boy with one arm while the other clutched something to his chest tightly._

_The horn he’d once held with pride, he now gripped with desperation._

_“Almost there.” Joramun rasped to the boy weeping at his side. “We’re almost there… just a little farther son…”_

_“I can’t…” The boy cried, stumbling in the snow. “Father, I’m so tired…”_

_“You can do it. You have to.” He yanked the child up. “Be brave boy, be like your mother was… strong and brave…”_

_“She’s dead!” The boy pointed back at the battle. “They killed her! The Night’s King took her! You said she’d be safe! You said-”_

_“She was brave until the end! She died for us, for you! I won’t let you die, I will not… just a little more and you’ll be safe…”_

_The eagle was ahead of them now and saw no safe haven for the child in the distance. The valley came to an abrupt end, not a few hundred feet ahead of them. A massive collection of rock stretched in front of them, an unnatural barrier in the otherwise untouched wilds of these mountains. Flapping along it, he saw no holes for those two to escape within, no hidden rescue party waiting to spirit them to safety._

_Instead he saw their enemies growing closer. A number of black-cloaked riders had detached from the main battle and now rode after the father and son. The horses struggled in the thick snow but still moved at a pace which would overtake their prey long before Joramun could reach the end of the valley._

_Joramun had noticed the same, suddenly coming to an abrupt stop and cursing to see the riders bearing down on them._

_“Gods, let this be close enough.” He said, releasing his son and dropping to a knee in the snow. Laying the horn down gently, Joramun pulled free a dagger. “Son, do you remember what I told you? Of what must be done?”_

_“Yes, but you said you’d do it!” The boy protested. “That someone else would blow the horn and you’d be the one to control-”_

_“There’s no one but us now!” Joramun grabbed hold of the boy. “I’ve been fighting this fight since before you were born and I knew this day could come… that I might fall to see the Night’s King brought low. He must be stopped. Him, his bloody army, and the Others fighting with him. For that, I would die gladly, to give you a chance. To give men a chance…”_

_The child began sobbing even more as the riders drew nearer. The lost memory of whom he was thought to perhaps buy them time by attacking their foes, but there was no point. There was no help for the father and son here, only ice and death._

_“After this, you find Torr, your grandfather.” Joramun cupped the boy’s cheek. “He’s eager enough to get vengeance for your mother. Find his army and together you can take the fight back south! If you can push the Night’s King back to the Wall the Starks of Winterfell might make common cause with you. Get the wolves to push from the south and  together you might have a chance…”_

_“They won’t listen to me…”_

_“They will.” The father kissed his son’s forehead. “With this power they will, they will have to. Your mother named you so that one day men would follow you. The free folk don’t bow to just any man and neither did she. Yet I claimed her as I did her people, and she saw the same greatness in you… there is power in a name my son. Say it now. Say your name with strength and pride. A man must always remember his name… say it!”_

_The boy wiped at his tears and stared back at the riders. They were calling curses and threats at them._

_“Joramun.” He whispered, reaching for the man’s hand. “After my father…”_

_“Good. Say it again.”_

_“Joramun. My name is Joramun.” The boy sounded stronger. “The son of a king.”_

_“Good… good…”_

_The father took the boy’s hand in his, holding it gently and closing his eyes with a look of pain. When he opened them again, he laid the sharp edge of a dagger against his son’s palm and sliced a bloody line across it. The boy’s cry was ignored by Joramun as he threw the dagger aside and lifted the horn to catch the blood dripping from the open wound. He even went so far as to press his son’s hand against the bronze, cracked bandings, smearing it until the brown metal was colored red._

_“Enough… that’s enough… it’s bound to you now.” Joramun released his son and rose back to his feet, horn in hand. “The Builder cursed his ice harvesters here; we will free them from those bonds.”_

_“Father… I can’t.” The son reached for his father, trying to drag the arm holding the black horn down and away. “Not without you… don’t leave me…”_

_“I will be with you.” A single tear slipped free from Joramun’s hard face then. “I was never meant to have you. I took an oath, and an oathbreaker has no right to life… I’ve lost everything else, but I won’t lose you. With this the Night’s Watch will be saved… the Wall will be set to rights… and you will live. We’ve no other choice.”_

_“No! Please, we can run! I’ll make it, I swear…”_

_“We have nothing left…”_

_With that Joramun brought the horn up his lips, shutting his eyes as he sucked in a great breath. The sounds of horses, men, and the screaming of the boy did nothing to dampen the loud blast of the horn. It was a mournful thing to hear, like the sorrow of a thousand souls moaning all at once, in one deep voice. A sudden wind had blown up and battered the eagle the very moment the horn sounded. The deep bellow echoed off the mountains all around them. Within this beast, he felt something change in the air, but saw nothing that spoke to it._

_Save the dying man below._

_Joramun had paled horribly in the short time since sounding the horn, which fell from his shaking hands and into the snow below. The man fell too, dropping to his knees and holding his hands to his chest, pounding it like he wished to free some hold upon his heart. Then, with a great heaving, a cloud of frost broke free from the man’s mouth, high into the air above. The eagle’s eyes spotted flecks of snow among that cloud and he knew no warmth would be found in Joramun’s final breath._

_That was King-Beyond-the-Wall’s last act before pitching forward, falling face first into the deep snow. His son was on the ground too, screaming and crying at his father’s side. The boy began pounding upon the frozen body, willing the man to rise again._

_The pounding of the boy’s fists were nothing compared to what came next though._

_The mountains themselves began to shake as some great force awoke within them. Something that pounded away from deep within them, a power with the strength to move mountains.. Sheets of snow, ice, and rock tumbled down from the mountains as the party of riders stopped their pursuit, startled at the world crumbling around them. The source of the power was shown to be a great barrier at the end of the valley. It was shaking with such intensity that the whole thing was falling to ruin. Massive boulders broke free as ice and rock was torn forcefully from their resting place. Land and snow crashed and broke like dry kindling, as something raged from behind the barrier._

_The pounding became deafening, like something was forging the mountain into something anew._

_When the valley end finally burst forward in a great explosion of frost and debris, the power of it sent the eagle tumbling through the air. Shards of ice tore through its wings, sending it hurtling to the ground._

_The last thing he saw was the younger Joramun rising to his feet, holding the bloody horn and staring into newly made hole at the end of the valley. It was a dark abyss at the foot of the mountains, where shadowy monsters moved in the dark._

_An ancient power seeing light once more._

_His spirit did not stay to endure the eagle’s death. Dying was what caused him to be lost in the first place and he would not allow that to happen again._

_When he fled, there were a countless number of familiars he could seek, spread out across great distances and times. Great beasts like mammoths and snow bears, smaller creatures like stags and foxes, far rarer were the giants and the singers who welcomed his coming._

_Men were fewer still._

_At times it felt like he could see through a thousand eyes but there was only one set he sought now._

_The memory of Joramun made him remember a creature that had been named Coldhands by a wise, reedy voice. That memory led him to another, where he had flown above another battlefield in a different place, closer to where he wanted to be._

_Where the green-eyed girl sang and touched a boy’s face with care._

_The familiar he sought now was one still very much alive and flying, just as he liked it. He was at the Wall again, soaring above it in the body of a raven that knew him. The bird remembered him more than he remembered himself._

_The raven showed him their destination. The night sky above them was blocked out by thick clouds but their eyes were sharp. He could see the huge, dark castle resting at the foot of the Wall, even with so few torches lighting it._

_The raven soared down over the outlines of a palisade wall that was being built around the castle. There were pits filled with bodies beneath those walls, all unburied, preserved by the cold. Within the castle grounds, he saw the dark shapes of horses being led about the yard, saddled and foddered. As they flew at one tower in particular, with one window perfectly framed by light, he noticed how the air grew colder the closer the raven flew toward the castle. It was a biting, harsh cold, with little to no wind. It made him think this place was held in the dark, icy grip of something far colder indeed._

_The only wind he felt was when they landed on the window’s ledge, for this tower, more than any other part of castle, was bearing the brunt of gusts coming down from the Wall._

_When he peered through the filthy window he saw a number of men standing within but could hear little of what they said. The cries of pain came through clear enough, shaking the window more than the wind. Those sad sounds came from a skinny mess of a man, cowering on the floor under the brutal feet of two tormentors._

_Both men standing over him were armored. The large, red-faced one drew back his foot and kicked into the prisoner’s gut._

_“Admit it!” His bark barely carried forth through the glass. “Turncloak…treacherous… to die…killed the onion…”_

_“No… a friend… no more…”_

_The other man, a skinnier, cruel-looking one, followed that up by pressing a foot down on the prisoner’s hand, grinding his boot over bleeding fingers. This one sneered as the prisoner screamed, his mouth was filled with ugly teeth._

_“Do we … burn… leave to freeze…”_

_That was when the raven took notice of others in the room. A thin, handsome knight watched all of this with a smile on his face while a stern, gaunt man wearing a crown ground his teeth and held a bloodied dagger in his hands. The knight crossed his arms before walking closer to the prisoner and the window. His words were clearer._

_“It doesn’t matter… do it quickly… be leaving soon… we have a dragon to burn…”_

_Another kick from the large man caused the prisoner to howl in pain, but the sounds of ice cracking filled the air around the raven, drowning out the cries. A moment later, the king jerked his head, as if he’d heard the same. He said something that bid the torturers to halt their treatment of the broken man._

_“Enough… decided… sacrifice…” With that the king strode forward and pointed to the three armored men. “You are to… left Castle Black… Jon Snow’s reckoning…”_

_“I will… your regards.” The smiling knight bowed before waving the other two to join him in departing the room. With them gone, only two guards remained, standing at the door until beckoned forth by their king to lift the prisoner to his feet._

_The wind rattled the window again and more ice cracking rang out around the raven. The coldness deepened as he took note of the king moving away from the small fire burning in the hearth. The light from it was so weak that the shadow he cast against the wall was a small one. Gazing at it more he saw this shadow did not move as it should, not mimicking his movements at all. Indeed there was no sign of a shadow that did so, as if the king had left his behind somewhere. Instead this smaller one, slighter and shorter of stature, stayed beside him wherever he moved. When the ice cracked loudest the king would even look to this shadow, once nodding as if in reply._

_Like it was speaking to him._

_The shambling wreck of a prisoner was raised up to his feet between the arms of the two guards. His face was bloody and bruised yet ruined far worse than that. His hair was white, his teeth were ruined, but the raven saw him as a young man._

_One his forgotten-self recognized from a life led long ago. A smirking young man with a bow in hand came to his mind. Then an angry prince shouting at a cowered people he’d known as well. A last memory came forth, of the ruin that the prisoner now was standing before a weirwood, with tears in his eyes, praying for death._

_He’d spoken the man’s name then. He knew the man’s name now. He spoke it again._

_‘Theon.’_

_The guardsmen jerked in surprise and looked to the window. What should have been a raven’s cry came out as a word, a name. The guards glanced at each other in fear._

_‘Theon.’ He said it again, but the wind was driving him away, pushing him from the ledge before he could see if Theon had heard him. Joramun had said there was power in a name, and Theon needed strength now more than ever._

_Saying the name brought back other memories. Of a home lost to him. Faces of friends and loved ones who were dead. Their names came along with their faces. Robb. Mikken. Luwin. Rodrik. Jojen._

_As the raven was blown from the ledge, more faces and names flooded his mind. But these were the people who were still alive. The ones there was still hope for._

_Rickon… my brother… Sansa… Arya… my sisters…_

_Jon… I love him… I love them all…_

_I love her too… Meera… Meera!_

_‘Bran…’ A sweet voice called in the distance as the raven righted itself in the air. A voice carried not by the wind, but through the haze of the green beyond. ‘Bran, I hear you… come back to me…’_

_Bran._

_Hearing that name changed everything. He remembered his name was Bran. He wasn’t a spirit… he wasn’t lost… he was Bran. Son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the Blood of House Stark, the Broken Boy, the Prince of Winterfell, the Last Greenseer._

_The boy who loved Meera Reed with all his heart._

_‘Bran, follow my voice! I’m here, waiting! Please don’t go away again!’_

_‘Meera! I can’t find you! Where are you?’_

_‘Follow my voice Bran! I’m here! We’re all here!’_

_He struggled to remember where he needed to be but when he tried to remember, all that came back was burning and fire. The sweet voice of his love was not the only thing that sought him in the darkness. A presence found the raven then, one it knew well, one it trusted. It was an old power that pulled his spirit from the familiar and into the dark sky above._

_‘Now we’ve found you…’ The dark voice spoke. ‘You’ve wandered too long young Brandon…’_

_He was pulled higher and higher until the Wall below became a tiny white line and the stars above shone like bright torches, welcoming him home. That brightness became so powerful that it blinded him, the world became a blur and he couldn’t see properly…_

Then a bright haze began to lift and a pretty face took shape before him. One that held green eyes, glistening as the girl wept and smiled all at the same time.

“Bran?” Meera asked, her warm hands clutching his face desperately. “Bran, speak to me, please… say my name… say anything, just don’t disappear…”

“Meera.” Bran moved his mouth to remember what it felt like, becoming startled to realize that the voice he heard belonged to him. He’d forgotten he had a voice. It sounded deeper than he remembered. “Meera… I’m Bran… Brandon Stark…”

She startled him by crying out happily, wrapping her arms around his body and pulling Bran into a tight embrace. His back and neck ached, and the rest of his body felt numb, but her embrace filled Bran with warmth. His memories came back to him slowly. Still seated on his weirwood throne, Bran was bundled with furs and strewn with strange talismans. White weirwood branches were strung together with roots in complicated designs all about his lap. He felt something tickling his forehead and reached up to find a wreath of red leaves there.

“Hodor! Hodor!”

The cries came from the stableboy practically jumping up and down to see Bran moving and speaking. The children around him did not celebrate as enthusiastically, but they smiled and clasped their hands together as if in thanks.

“I missed you too Hodor.”

“I was afraid you’d never find us again.” Meera pulled away to kiss his forehead several times. “Gods Bran, it was weeks this time! Not days! Weeks!”

“Lost… everything was burning, and then I was lost…”

A rasping beside him made Bran turn and see Bloodraven eyeing him with as much concern as his red eye could allow. That expression was the same one that the old greenseer had given Bran right before he began his journey to save Jon from the Others. Before he sought Wun Wun and led the poor giant to his death, a death he’d forgotten about until now.

“Death and suffering.” Bloodraven spoke, pointing a gnarled hand at him. “I warned you. All you would find at that battle was fire and blood…”

“Stop it!” Meera snapped. “He’s only just found us! Leave him be you-”

“It was he who left us.” The ancient man replied. “He who became so lost that it took me this long to find him and bring him back, time better spent preparing for…”

“Meera found me.” Bran spoke up, smiling at her as he remembered the kisses upon his forehead. “I heard you calling me… I heard your singing…”

“Did you? I almost wished you hadn’t, I have a terrible singing voice.” Meera blushed and smiled before her face became serious again. “But I had to try something. I wanted to take you out into the sun, but Brynden said that moving you from the throne might make it so you’d never find us. So I moved your legs and your arms about to keep away sores. I fed you honey and acorn paste, gave you water, took care of you. I prayed so hard Bran… Hodor did too…”

“Hodor.” Hodor nodded.

“Thank you.” He smiled at his friends, then at the Children around him. “All of you. I forgot who I was. For years… it felt like years and years. I only remembered it because of…”

Theon’s battered face shot to the fore of his mind then. That and all the strange things he’d seen at the Nightfort. Of the things he’d heard said and the name that the gaunt king had spoken.

“Jon.” He turned to Bloodraven. “I saved Jon but I couldn’t talk to him! I was burned before-”

“Yes, by the fire priestess.” Bloodraven grimaced. “For one with such power, she wields it as foolishly as a child with their first wooden sword. Had you not escaped that familiar just before its death, I fear your spirit might have wandered far beyond my reach. I have tried to reach her but she blocks me, and now she hides herself with a glamour, following our kin in the guise of another…”

“Our kin?” He asked, remembering then how Bloodraven and Jon shared a bloodline. “You mean Jon? Melisandre is with him?”

His teacher nodded and fear gripped Bran’s heart. Even before she’d tried to kill him, Bran had already taken a dislike to the woman during his time at Castle Black. Wun Wun had been afraid of her and he’d felt her watching him when he was inside the Lord-Commander’s pet raven. To hear that Melisandre was with Jon made his own mind race with dark possibilities.

“Where are they going?” Bran asked Bloodraven but Meera answered instead.

“South. To Winterfell.” She sighed sadly. “Brynden told me that my father stays at the Wall for me… but that Jon goes back to your home.”

“Much has changed.” Bloodraven added. “Things are moving quickly. The Others are marching, not just their thralls, but the white walkers themselves. In numbers that men have not seen since the Long Night. They have found what we sought to hide from them on the Fist. I had thought the old magics there might protect it until my former brothers could find it, but alas. If only we could have kept it here, but the chance of the Others breaking through the protections in search of it was too great…”

“Summer’s gone.” Meera broke in, grabbing at his unfeeling legs. “He and his pack left days ago. I was worried that it meant you weren’t coming back at first but now I think they were following Joramun.”

Worrying after Summer made him reach for his friend. While he didn’t slip into the direwolf’s skin, he could feel that the bond between them was still strong which meant Summer still lived. He had no such bond with Jon though, and while Meera seemed upset that Coldhands was missing, he had other worries. He couldn’t shake his fear of the red witch being with Jon, following him to Winterfell.

Where his family was.

“Why?” Bran rubbed at the ache in his temples. “Why is Melisandre with him?”

“Perhaps she senses what is to come.” Bloodraven answered. “Of what is to befall your cousin.”

“What? No! Nothing’s going to happen to Jon!” He clenched his fists before him and sought Meera. “Jon went to the Wall and he was supposed to fall but he didn’t! I stopped it! The Wall didn’t fall either! They won the battle! I saved Jon! Wun Wun died so I could!”

“It’s alright Bran.” Meera tried to soothe him but Bloodraven’s glare did the opposite. He looked at Bran like he was a fool.

“You said if he went to the Wall that he’d fall…”

“I did, yet not that he would fall there.” Bloodraven sounded tired. “You might have delayed that for some time, but even now, his fate is still sealed Brandon. You cannot change what is meant to be, no matter the evil the future holds. Some events must come to pass for-”

“Yes I can!” He shouted. “I can fly! I can hunt as a direwolf! I can fight as a giant! I can save my family!”

_I didn’t kill Wun Wun for no reason. I didn’t go through that fiery hell for no reason._

_Coldhands might not have been able to save his family but I can save mine._

_I am the Prince of Winterfell, the last greenseer, and I must do something._

Bran didn’t feel strong enough to do much of anything though, and his head rang with a horrible ache. Even the dim lighting of the cave hurt his eyes. Bloodraven acted stern then, his ancient hands clenching into fists.

“You have not the strength to do so. Heed me in this, the priestess will sense your coming as she did before and burn some other poor innocent to dispatch you. All for nothing.”

The thought of burning again gave him pause and he worried that Bloodraven was right, that he was too weak to journey so far again. Yet going to Jon himself was not his only option. There were others who were closer to him that he could warn; those far from the red witch but who might reach Jon in his stead.

As he made to speak to it, his head suddenly throbbed in agony. So much so that he cried out and Meera pressed her hand against his head again.

“Bran? Bran, what is it?”

“Summer… it’s Summer.” He winced, feeling his friend’s fear through their bond. “He’s in danger. Something’s happening and- ah!”

Even as it felt like a hundred tiny swords were stabbing into his mind, Bran sought Summer, just as the direwolf would seek him if he was in trouble.

“It is in their grasp.” Bloodraven’s voice sounded distant. “May he wield my gift to him well in this fight… he did not have to go, this is not a battle we can win…”

Bran had to go though. Meera was pleading with him but there was no choice…

_… and no escape._

_The undead were all around him and his pack. They’d tracked the cold one here, through the dark woods to this place in the shadow of a great up thrust of rock. The winds had not been with them and they’d lost sight of the cold one as he moved through the trees._

_Instead they’d found other things moving through the trees. The undead men all wore the black cloaks of the men on the Wall. Their eyes shone blue and their weapons were frosted in the cold. They ringed his pack in every direction he looked, save for ahead, so that was where he ran to. One Eye, Stalker, and Sly fell in behind him and they darted between the trees as fast as they could._

_Until that escape proved to be no escape at all._

_He’d led them away from the hordes of undead into the path of white walkers themselves. The cold creatures had somehow hidden themselves from view, their coverings shifting and changing so they blended in with the dark woods around them. There was one for every member of their pack and two more besides. They all held their shimmering swords at the ready, barring his way and keeping the wolves from interrupting the digging of a lone undead man behind their number._

_From what he saw, the earth was being thrown aside so some filthy bundle could be pulled to the surface._

_Then they were under attack._

_The white walkers struck at once, two darting in from the sides while the others fanned out in their advance. His fangs and claws would do little to them so he leapt back from their assault. As did Sly and Stalker._

_One Eye tried to get between their enemy and paid dearly for it. The thin blades slashed through the air and blood sprayed out soon after. The wolf did not even get the chance to yelp as its hind leg was severed and its head fell away from its body._

_Sly began to whine loudly at the loss of their pack member and the oncoming white walkers. He growled himself at the one closing in on him, trying to decide whether to attack its sword hand or its legs._

_The choice was not his to make. A glint of steel flashed through the night and cut through the white walker like it wasn’t even there. The shrill scream that followed hurt his ears horribly but left the creature of darkness a shimmering pool on the ground. The cold one stood in his place, his black cloak blowing in the wind, the sword in his hands steaming with a deep cold._

_This blade was a fine one, even the wolf understood that. It was glimmering with power. Its silver handle was slim and surrounded by barbs wending upwards into two arcs. The pommel was made in the same fashion, but encrusted with bright red rubies. The cold one raised it high as icy cries from the remaining white walkers rose up in the night._

_“This sword, belongs to the dragons.” He declared, slicing it through the air. “That horn was my son’s, and the Builder’s before him. It is not meant for your evil. By this sword I will end your evil.”_

_One of the white walkers sprung forward, razor-sharp blade slicing through the air, only to be shattered by the cold one’s blow. His powerful sword cut through both blade and white walker, causing it to fall and another scream to fill the air._

_“I’ll make you pay for it.” The man said, a man he wanted to name Joramun. “I swore an oath once, to hold your kind back… I died an oathbreaker but in this I will not balk.”_

_The white walkers did not come at him one at time, instead they did as his pack would, circling their prey before moving in for the kill. Another scream burst forth as Joramun stabbed into a white walker. He blocked a strike from the side before ducking a blow that would have taken his head._

_The boy he was wanted to go forth and pull one of the foes away, but the wolf knew better. The undead were closing in from behind and more white walkers were emerging from the darkness. This was not a fight they could win. They might not even be able to escape it._

_A crash above them caused him to jump as a black cloud of ravens descended and began attacking the undead horde behind them. The ravens distracted the dead men long enough for their ranks to break, creating an opening that Sly and Stalker quickly ran through._

_He should’ve run with them, but he turned back to watch the battle between Joramun and the white walkers._

_“You turned my brother against me.” Joramun cut a white walker’s leg off while another cut across the ranger’s middle, filling the air with nothing but frost. “My love died because of you… I lost my son to a crown he never wanted… all because of you…”_

_Another white walker met its screeching end. It stabbed its shimmering blade through Joramun’s chest, but he acted unfazed and slashed at its arm. His burning blade flashed left and right against the cold. While cut after cut fell upon his dead body, the old ranger did not fall._

_When a white walker cut one of his arms off at the elbow, the ranger answered with a blow to its neck._

_“I’ve lost worse than that… I lost the warmth of the world… I lost my name and who I was to the ages…bound to that horn…”_

_Bran growled in warning at the foe behind Joramun but the man mistook his warning. When he plunged his blade backwards, it stuck in the chest of the undead sworn brother who’d been digging. Joramun tried to pull it free but the thing grabbed hold and held the blade within itself. The remaining white walkers saw their chance._

_His legs were almost completely gone before he collapsed to what was left of his knees. Abandoning his grip on the sword, Joramun instead reached for what the undead man held in its other hand. A horn Bran remembered all too well._

_It stayed just out of his grasp._

_“I remember who I am now…” He rasped as shimmering blades were raised high to end him. “I am the sword in the darkness… I am the watcher on the walls…”_

_The howling of Sly and Stalker bid him to see the undead tearing through the raven attack, that his window of escape was almost gone. So as the white walkers brought down a man who’d stood longer than the trees around them, Bran ran._

_He could do no more for Joramun… but he could protect his family._

_He ran through the undead and the piles of dead ravens at their feet, running to meet up with the rest of his pack. They were waiting for him. They needed Summer._

_Just like Jon needed Bran._

_Leaving Summer’s skin, knowing that his fiend was safe now, he sought a different place._

_His home. His true home._

_Winterfell…_

**ARYA**

 

_She was sleeping, they both were._

_The two wolves curled up beside one another among the thick roots of an old pine. They were warm and at peace here, sheltered in this forest, surrounded by the man den. Their dreams had been of their quiet brother, who was resting far north of them, yet nearer than he had been. Every night for weeks now he drew closer and closer. Sometimes the three would run together in those dreams, in lands green and lush, with weather as warm as spring._

_Heavy snows had been falling for days, the cold winds blowing hard against their home. By the dim light of day, men would walk along the tall walls, shoveling and sweeping the snow from their path. Winter’s white bounty did not reach the wolves beneath the large branches of the pine. The limbs held the snow at bay but now hung low because of it, making it hard for anyone to find the wolves._

_Yet something had found them anyway. The wind that swept across the snow-covered wood was moving in a different direction than it had been only moments ago. Ruffling her fur and tickling her ears, it bid her to wake from the peaceful dreams._

_A voice drifted upon that wind. It moved over the ground and beneath the branches of the pine. A voice that called to her, a voice she knew._

_‘Arya… Arya… come…’_

_She moved free of her brother, heading out into darkness and following the calls. The sky was lightening. Dawn was near, though the cold lingered. Snows blew through the trees at her face but she wouldn’t stop. Relief came when she arrived at the bone tree, the blood leaves offering ample protection against the harsh weather. Against its size and its thick canopy, winter broke. Just as the wind tearing through these lands broke against the walls of the man den._

_A leaf broke from the tree then as well. Yet the blood canopy did not shake from the wind. It moved by some other force she could not see but heard clearly enough. From the sounds of all the leaves rustling a voice formed, one which called to her._

_‘Arya…’ It whispered. ‘It’s me… Bran…’_

_That name caused her to whine loudly in yearning, for she knew it to be true. This was the voice of the hurt boy she missed so much, the man half of their strongest brother. It was his scent she smelled now in the wind. She still remembered it from long ago. Sometimes she’d catch faints whiffs of him in parts of the man den. This was his home as much as hers, even now._

_Now he smelt strange though, of earth and darkness. She did not see him, but his voice called again._

_“Arya… help Jon… danger…”_

_She backed away from the tree and growled. The words he spoke angered her. They filled her with fear and worry. The quiet brother was still far from them, far from help._

_“Arya listen… they are coming… swords… fire… Jon needs you…”_

_A noise came from behind her and a moment later the fierce brother was there. Coming up beside her, the dark wolf began to stare up at the tree as well. The sound of the boy coming from the tree was strange enough, but the way her brother acted was odd as well. Something was different. He did not act as he normally would. Her brother would challenge any who came before him, but now his head and ears were lowered in submission. She knew his threatening growl well, but the whine that burst forth from him now was fearful._

_His eyes were different as well. They were still familiar, still family, but not the bright green of her smallest brother._

_No. These did not belong to any of her brothers._

_Soft. Caring. Fearful. A bright blue._

_Her sister’s eyes._

_The boy in the tree saw this too._

_‘Sansa…’ He called. ‘Sansa… go to Jon… in danger… burning…”_

_The tree voice came again and again, even as other sounds began to filter down from the leaves. It was the whispering of an old voice and the cries of ravens. She could smell another scent as well, a smell of death and decay. Of deep darkness._

_She growled again at this change. She did not like that this new scent was near the boy’s. The boy continued despite her worries._

_‘Help him… they are coming…’_

_With a gust of wind, the voice and smells were drifting away from here, the boy and the other scent fading back into the darkness. She didn’t want the boy to go. He belonged here, with them._

_So she chased him. Not as the wolf though but as something more powerful, a spirit that could reach within the tree and grab at the one leaving her. A great pain came over her as she left the wolf, her mind screaming as it fought and pulled itself within the tree, pulling at the boy who tried to fly from her._

_‘Arya no…’ He warned her. ‘You can’t…’_

_She could. He was in her grasp now even though she had no paws or hands. It was only the strength within her that kept his spirit in the tree. Every bit of longing and love in her heart held him to her, but it was not enough._

_Something else was pulling him away, something terrible and strong. A flurry of darkness attacked her, pecking and screeching to try and drive her back from her brother. The voice was angry and seeped in darkness._

_‘Her place is in the beast, not here.’ The old thing warned, beating her away. ‘Stop her now or she’ll become lost and I will not be able to find her…’_

_‘No!’_

_Her brother wept and his love reached out to her. For a brief moment they were together again. A memory came back of two small children wrestling in the snow; a bright-eyed little boy and a dark-haired little girl, laughing and shouting as they fought. Their weak blows came not in anger, but with care and joy._

_They would not hurt each other. There was love there._

_‘I love you Arya… I love you all so much… but I can’t stay… there’s more to learn… help Jon … go!’_

_The ravens were no longer attacking her. Instead, a powerful cascade of bloody leaves blew her back, followed by a flurry of snow. The red and white haze was somehow more powerful than the dark and the ravens. It broke her hold on both the boy and the tree, sending her mind reeling back into her wolf. No matter how much she fought it, the power was too great..._

Arya awoke with a start and cried out.

Her body jerked straight up in her bed, clutching her furs desperately to her chest as she prepared herself for a fight. Glancing about the room, she expected to find a flock of ravens or some hooded figure to be waiting for her in the shadows.

Yet there were no enemies in the room.

She saw only a warm fire burning in the hearth and snow falling outside her window. The world without was brightening. Morning was upon them, just as it had been in her dream.

 _Bran, he spoke to me_ , she realized, _he was speaking through the tree again._

_That was no dream… that fight was real… I held him…_

The fight for Bran had been so vicious that her body was covered in a light sweat. Throwing off her furs, she half expected to find herself scratched and bruised.

She hadn’t been prepared for the blood tough.

A scream broke free from her to see it there, her nightgown colored bright-red below the waist. As damp as the bedding was with her sweat she suddenly feared the whole thing soaked with her blood. Arya leapt up and away, fearful to see more gore on the blankets.

There was only two or three drops on the bedding though. Her eyes adjusting to the light, she saw that the blood wasn’t so bad, truth she’d had worse cuts in the practice yard. Nor did she feel wounded, save for a slight bellyache.

Feeling more foolish than hurt she soon  realized what had happened, and it only got worse when Ser Evan and Errold Flint burst into the room, looking panicked.

“Princess!” Evan shouted, hand on sword. “Where is the threat?”

The knight’s eyes darted about the room while the wiry man next to him focused on her. Then his gaze went lower still, towards the blood upon her night clothes. Errold was a Flint of Flint’s Finger, having spent much the war fighting ironmen that attacked fishing villages near their western shores. Many, including Arya, had been enthralled by the grand tales he told of each scar on his body, all marks of battle. He claimed that he’d grown his mustache to help cover the smell of all the squids he’d killed. He would always send his mustache to twitching at that part of the story.

That mustache wrinkled when he saw Arya’s bloodied gown. She quickly tried to cover herself by pulling a fur around her middle and Errold tried to help her by covering the eyes of his fellow Sworn Guard, which made Evan start cursing.

“Seven Hells Flint! The girl cried for help!” Evan struggled with the hand blocking his eyes.

“Avert your eyes if you wish to help her ser!” Errold snapped. “Your grace-”

“Get out!” She screamed. “Get out! Get out now!”

“Why? I don’t-” The knight’s words caught in his mouth when he saw the drops of blood upon her bedding. “Princess… were you attacked? Did some fiend ravage you? Did he take your virtue? It wasn’t one your suitors, was it?”

Ser Evan looked positively aghast while Errold rolled his eyes before giving her a pitying look. Her face felt redder than she’d ever known it.

“Out!” She grabbed Needle from her table as Errold wrenched Evan back by his cloak, pulling him from the room.

“Are you a fool?” Errold whispered as they cleared the doorway, pulling it closed behind. “No one’s in the chamber, we’ve been here all night. The girl’s on her moonblood… don’t tempt a woman’s wrath when she’s bleeding-”

The rest was cut off when the door shut, leaving Arya with her thoughts.

_My moonblood… it’s my moonblood… Mother said that she’d talk to me about it when I was older… but that was years ago._

_Sansa said she got hers in King’s Landing when she was a little younger than I am now, but I thought I had more time! Lya hasn’t gotten hers yet I don’t think._

_No, no, no… I don’t want it now… not with everything else going on…_

_Not when Bran and Jon need me._

Even with the shock of waking to find her moonblood, Arya still repeated Bran’s words over and over again. She cherished his words of love towards the end, but she thought more on the ones of warning. That somehow swords and fire were threatening them out in those snows.

That Jon was in danger. Jon needed their help.

_Sansa was there. It was supposed to be Rickon, but I saw her in Shaggydog._

_Bran saw her too. He warned her the same as me._

“We need to help Jon.” She said, tossing the fur aside and lifting her night dress overhead.

Arya was naked under her night dress as most of her smallclothes had become itchy and ill-fitting recently. She rushed to her drawer for clothes but then suddenly stopped and gripped her gut. For the first time, she felt the ache there and in between her legs. It wasn’t too bad, but it was sudden and unfamiliar, making her feel dizzy for a moment. She pushed through it, about to put on a woolen gown before remembering that it didn’t fit over her chest and hips anymore.

“You are becoming a woman Arya.” Jeyne had said blushing while she helped Arya dress one morning. “A pretty young woman... with a woman’s form.”

“Stop it!” She’d snapped at her friend. “I’d rather you call me Arya Horseface than say that.”

Her body had been changing for some time now, to Arya’s displeasure. Her breasts were swelling, still far smaller than Sansa’s but burdensome to her archery stance all the same. The new hair above her sex was darker too, which embarrassed her whenever she went to the bathhouse with the other girls. Jeyne must have said something to Sansa about all this, because her sister had been dropping hints that a seamstress should get new measurements for Arya’s dresses and nightgowns, even smallclothes.

“The wild girl I’ve come to know is becoming a warrior woman before my eyes.” Sansa had smiled as Arya brushed her hair. “Lady Brienne and the Mormont ladies will need to take notice. Soon they might not be the greatest of their like in the North. Jon might come home and not recognize you at all.”

“That’s not true.” She’d argued. “Jon will always know me. Always.”

Arya looked out the window as she donned some smallclothes that she had borrowed from Jeyne. The sun was still low, but there were men leading horses about. That meant riders were readying to go out to relieve those returning from the night patrols. Usually she wouldn’t seek Sansa’s room until after she heard the whinnies of their horses returning, but early would have to do. 

_This can’t wait. Not if all Bran said was true._

Arya donned a simple dress that wasn’t frilled or lacy or colorful. Just simple and plain, like she wanted to be right now. Even still, she grabbed the crown Gendry had forged for her and placed it upon her head, scowling at how messed up her hair looked in the looking glass. It had grown to her shoulders now, and Sansa had said she wasn’t allowed to cut it. Gathering it together into a simple braid like Lya’s, she set to work until her crown sat evenly before rushing out.

Errold and Ser Evan tried to follow but she was too fast for them. Servants were moving about, which gave her a better idea of the time. Most of the highborns would still be abed, but she had a feeling Sansa would be up. After what they’d just seen and heard Arya couldn’t imagine her sister was still sleeping.

As Arya came to Sansa’s chambers, she found Duncan Snow and Ser Rayland Coldwater standing guard. Duncan was kind to her and laughed when others thought she was being improper. Ser Rayland she didn’t know as well. The man had blotchy skin and a past fight had left him with a crooked, broken nose. Wylla said that his coal black hair and bright green eyes made up for it though and Arya had agreed. He was a few years older than Jon and had come to Winterfell with Bronze Yohn Royce and his men.

The lord had been the one to offer Ser Rayland as a new member of the Sworn Guard.

“The knight served ably in the siege of the Dreadfort.” Lord Royce had grimaced to say. “He was the one who carried the old woman out of the dungeons and brought her to a maester when all others left her for dead.”

“You mean Old Nan?” Sansa had asked, seeming impressed with the story and the knight, but Arya was still nervous about him.

“He’s a Vale man.” She had said, feeling bad to do so even though she knew that a good princess should. “You all serve the Dragon Queen now. Why should we take him and not a Northman?”

“House Royce of Runestone has bent no knee to Daenerys Targaryen!” The lord had replied forcefully, crossing his arms and looking strong for a man of his years. “I won’t fight against the lords of my lands, but I stand with House Stark still, as House Coldwater stands with me.”

A deep, rumbling laugh had come from the lord after that, looking sideways at the kneeling Ser Rayland.

“Besides, the ser has his eyes set on marrying some northern lady who’s been staying at Coldwater. Being a second son and having no inheritance, gaining some repute in the North might help young Rayland earn her family’s favor.”

“What northern lady?” Sansa had asked and Ser Rayland blushed to answer.

“A fine one… a beautiful one.” He’d said without raising his eyes. “Lady Cayllie of House Lothien… When I was with her last I told her I was going to fight the Boltons, a house her family served. She feared that I might meet them in battle, her father and uncle… for her brother the most …”

“And if you had?” Sansa had asked coolly. “If it came to fulfilling the oath you now swear to the Starks and sparing the feelings of a woman you love, what decision would you make?”

“I offer you my sword as a knight.” Ser Rayland drew his blade then and offered it up to them with both hands. “If I cannot keep my word as a knight, then I would not be fit as a husband for such an honorable lady. The Lothiens have bent the knee I heard… but should I be tasked with battling them one day, it would mean that they broke their vows. So I would do as the Starks bid, as honor dictates.”

That was how Ser Rayland became the ninth and last member of their Sworn Guard. One for each of the nine weirwoods that witnessed the Pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest, according to Maester Medrick anyway.

Seeing Ser Rayland standing outside Sansa’s chamber made her feel strange. Like she didn’t want this stranger to see her while blood spotted her new small clothes. Even Duncan’s kind gaze felt strange to her.

“The warrior princess rises early today!” Duncan greeted her with a yawn and a grin. “Have you come to relieve me of my post?”

“Good morning Duncan, Ser Rayland.” She remembered to curtsy like Sansa taught her. “I’ve come to see my sister.”

“I believe she is awake.” Duncan glanced to the door. “It’s early still, but I think I heard her moving about in there… hey where’s your Sworn Guard? That Whitehill dandy is supposed to be-”

“Don’t worry about that.” Arya said, interrupting. “Let me pass.”

Ser Rayland appeared taken aback by her boldness but Duncan nodded and rapped lightly upon the door, announcing Arya’s arrival. After a moment of silence, a soft voice answered, bidding her to enter.

Arya hurried within and shut the door behind her. Sansa was more out of sorts than she’d ever seen. Her usually shiny auburn hair was in tangles, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Lately Arya had taken a strange pride in seeing Sansa’s hair looking nice after she brushed it, so seeing her sister like this was startling.

_She looks as if she was tossing and turning all night._

_Like she’s been having  foul dreams too._

_Sansa’s been skinchanging…_

“Arya, I had not expected you… it is early.” Sansa’s voice was a hoarse rasp and her eyes were dazed. “I didn’t sleep well…

Walking forward, she grabbed Sansa by the shoulder. When Sansa turned, Arya looked deeply into her eyes. They were blue, the same fearful blue eyes she’d seen in Shaggydog during their dream.

“You saw.” She whispered. “You dreamt what I dreamt. Bran came to the tree again. He spoke to me about Jon. He spoke to _you_.”

The last word was said accusingly and her sister’s eyes bulged. Arya knew it had to be true then.

Sansa had been there.

_She had a wolf dream. Sansa doesn’t have a wolf… but she is as much a Stark as the rest of us._

_Maybe she’s something more… I’ve never been able to slip into Shaggydog or Ghost’s skin._

“What? Arya… no… I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. Don’t lie to me, I can tell when you do.” She grabbed at Sansa’s cheek when she tried to look away. “I saw- well, Nymeria saw you. We know when Rickon is skinchanging with Shaggydog. Last night it wasn’t him, it was you. Bran talked to you through the wolf dreams.”

Sansa shook her head, but the way she rung her hands confirmed all of Arya’s suspicions.

“You dreamt of Bran?” Sansa asked suddenly. “Of him talking through those leaves… through those horrible, blood-red leaves…”

Arya nodded, which set Sansa to cringing.

“I didn’t remember what I was.” Her sister continued. “I was dreaming of other things I think… of Ghost being closer than ever. Then I was a wolf, walking through the godswood, and I heard a sweet voice… oh gods, I knew it was Bran’s voice-”

“He was talking from the heart tree! It was like that when Jon and I heard it-”

“I thought it just a dream Arya, maybe a nightmare… but to hear his voice… his poor sweet voice…” Sansa’s eyes began to glisten then as she trembled. “Is that truly what it’s like? When Bran came to you that time? It was terrifying! There was someone else there… something else was in the tree with him… whispering… a-a red eye…”

“I fought him. That old dying thing.” She said, struggling to understand that part herself. “In the tree I think, or maybe somewhere else. I tried to keep Bran here but he wouldn’t stay... he wanted to me to let go so he could leave. So I could-”

She shuddered at the memory until she remembered what else Bran had said.

“He said we needed to help Jon!”

Sansa broke away from her then, glancing fearfully towards the door before wrapping an arm around Arya’s shoulders and pulling her farther away from it. It felt comforting, but she could also feel her sister’s trembling. Arya waited patiently while Sansa sorted through her thoughts.

“He kept saying Jon’s name… and something of swords…” Sansa said, and she saw how scared her sister really was. All of this was new to Sansa and for Arya too in truth. Even with all her experience at skinchanging, Bran’s voice in the tree was still the scariest thing she’d ever faced. She was impressed that Sansa was handling it as well as she was.

_It’s because she’s worried about Jon. She’s braver when it comes to protecting him._

_I am too._

“Jon is close Sansa. Nymeria dreamt of Ghost and she felt that he wasn’t far.”

Sansa didn’t look surprised. She let go of her and went to sit at the window.

“I had hoped he would be… I prayed for it. With all these storms, I worried. That’s why I asked House Lake to send riders to find his party. When they refused-”

Arya jumped and grabbed at Sansa’s hand, shocked to hear that anyone wouldn’t help someone as good as Jon, let alone one of their bannermen.

“What do you mean? Why won’t they try and find him?”

“The Lakes said they weren’t willing to risk their men in these snows for the ‘usurping dragonspawn.’ That they remained loyal to the good and true King Rickon, and so they wouldn’t help Jon steal away their king’s crown.”

The rage almost choked her then it was so all-encompassing. To hear people talk that way about Jon, after he’d won a great victory for the North over the Others… Arya wanted to scream.

Her brother had spent almost half a year away from his home, something he hadn’t even wanted to do, while these people had sat back and done nothing. These were the same people who’d sent away a thousand smallfolk to shelter in the Winter Town! The cravens had the audacity to deny Jon the courtesy of a warm bed!?

“How dare they!? We need to deal with them!” Arya hissed. “And why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep that from me?”

“I thought to handle it quietly, perhaps even soothe their worries… and it was my fault anyways.” Sansa shook her head in a sad way. “The Lakes aren’t the only ones taking word of my betrothal to Jon poorly.”

“Tell me everything!” Arya demanded, jabbing a finger up at her crown. “We aren’t supposed to do that anymore Sansa! No more secrets, remember? Either we stand together to protect Rickon and the North, or we stand apart and fall. The She-Wolves of Winterfell, remember? No more lies! No more secrets!”

Sansa dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves and ran some fingers through Arya’s hair before straightening her crown. Somehow Arya could never quite get the crown perfect, but Sansa always helped.

“No more secrets.” Sansa whispered then. “When I sent word of my betrothal to the northern houses, some replies were better than others. Maege and the Greatjon delivered us the Mormonts and Umbers, but their strength is far from us. Robett Glover is still thankful that his children were reunited with his wife, so his support came easily enough. Larence Hornwood, Ronnel Stout, and Jonelle Cerwyn all support me in this as well.”

After that she sighed.

“From the Karstarks and Tallharts I’ve heard nothing. House Karstark I understand, it’s currently being ruled by Lady Alys and some wildlings according to Jon, but they might not have a maester anymore for the ravens. For House Tallhart though, Ronnel made it clear that the lords around Torrhen’s Square aren’t pleased. The worst came from those like the Lakes. The Holts, the Woolfields, and the Ironsmiths all believe Jon is just using me to claim the Kingdom of the North for himself.”

“Fuck them!” Arya spat, her rage making her forget Bran’s warning for a moment. “They’re minor houses anyways! If we weren’t fighting at the Wall and worried about the ironmen we could-”

“Their views matter Arya. Lord Wyman has pledged the support of House Manderly, but I fear if enough of the minor houses protest at Jon and I marrying… the lord may use it as grounds to take the regency away from me and name himself in my place.”

“What? But Wyman’s your ally!”

She couldn’t believe it. The Manderlys had been bending over backwards to feed Winterfell and the other northern houses for moons. Lord Wyman was far from her favorite lord, but Wylla was kind and fun to be around. The lady was a good friend to Sansa, and Arya could think of few people fiercer in loyalty to the Starks.

As if hearing her thoughts, Sansa frowned at her.

“Yes, Wyman is our ally. He is also a dear friend and a very capable Hand of the King. His strength is great and he’s been instrumental in keeping peace in the North. That’s why I fear him. It’s those you find yourself depending on that can hurt you the most Arya, remember that.”

Sansa’s words made her think of Hyle Hunt for the first time in a long while. The traitorous knight had been part of their group, fighting alongside them and supposedly a friend. Only for so long as Brienne had been strong though, for when the lady was injured he’d turned against them when his hunger for lands and title grew. It was a foul thing to think on, but she knew there was no man as fervently hungry as Wyman Manderly.

“Is that what Bran was warning us of?” Arya asked suddenly. “Do you think those northern houses would try and hurt Jon?”

She began trying to figure out how far Jon was from Winterfell and how close he was to any potential enemies. The raven from the Wall had travelled to Castle Cerwyn first in the storms, and then onto Winterfell, which made the news come a days later than it should have.That meant he’d been travelling over a month now and she breathed a sigh of relief. After that much travelling, it was likely that Jon was out of the Lake lands and in Stark territory by now.

“I don’t want to think so.” Sansa answered. “But if we ignored it we’d be silly little girls… simply waiting for their knights to solve all our problems.”

“No more waiting then! We send him help, just like Bran said!”

“We won’t wait.” Sansa said and Arya was unsurprised they agreed on this. Jon and Rickon were the two people that they always agreed were the first priority. “Ser Kyle is still at the castle, and he’s the most experienced and respected northern leader we have. I’ll have him form a party right away when the weather clears-”

“You just said we won’t wait!” She protested.

“Arya! They wouldn’t even be able to see the way before them!” Sansa inclined her head out the window to the storm still raging outside. “The snows have been so bad that we lost another Manderly caravan. Jon’s party might not even be following the usual paths! Finding him won’t come down to a map. It will come to being able to spot his party from a distance, which no man will be able to in this weather.”

Arya had no argument to that at first. The snowfall was thick, the winds strong. Outside, men would soon be put to work clearing off the battlements and the paths between buildings, as they had been for days now. Gendry and Brienne had been out a few times during these storms, and both had said that seeing even a few feet in front of their horses was difficult.

She grunted in frustration at the thought of having to wait for the storm to pass. They knew Jon was in danger, Nymeria knew Ghost was coming closer, yet they couldn’t do anything about it because of the bloody snows. She cursed the horses for not having the same keen senses that Nymeria did.

_Nymeria wouldn’t let this bloody snow stop her. The direwolves are bound to each other by love and blood._

_They always find each other... no matter what’s in the way… no matter…_

“The direwolves.” Arya spoke barely above a whisper. “Of course, the direwolves…”

“What?” Sansa asked. “What about them?”

Grinning from ear to ear, she smacked her forehead at how thickheaded they were being. The answer was so clear.

“Nymeria can find them.” She clapped her hands together. “She could find Ghost and Jon and then the others could follow her. It’s not just seeing and smelling for her Sansa, she can _sense_ Ghost. All the wolves can always find each other!”

What had happened with Rickon had been proof enough of that. Ghost and Nymeria had run from the castle days before they had any right to know that Shaggydog was approaching. The whole time though, Arya and Jon had felt something coming. They had sensed Rickon just like she could sense Jon now.

Sansa looked hopeful at first, her face brightening and a smile almost came to her lips before it all fell away. She sighed then and shook her head.

“Perhaps Nymeria could find them… but I doubt she would lead others if she did so. Nymeria is not a hound Arya. She cannot be relied on to stay with Ser Kyle and the others. Perhaps Ghost could’ve done it, but Nymeria and Shaggydog are too wild.”

Sansa’s words sounded an accusation but she ignored that, for she still had hope for this plan.

“Send Brienne then! Nymeria likes her! You can send Gendry and Ned as well!” She blushed to name those two and Sansa raised an eyebrow at her words. “Not- I- not just them stupid! Pod too! It’s not like she would leave them-”

“Not likely, but not for certain. Speak truly now Arya. Has Nymeria ever done anything like this? I know you have some control over her, but have you ever tried controlling her for such a long journey?”

Arya hated that Sansa had a point then. She’d spent time skinchanging as Nymeria while awake, but the longest she’d ever been in the wolf’s skin was a few hours. If they broke apart, even for a moment, Nymeria might very well abandon Brienne and the others to seek out Jon on her own. The only time the direwolf had ever stuck with men for a long period of time was when she travelled with Arya herself.

_Of course… that’s the only way. I’ve been training for a year. This is the time to use it._

_Jon rode out to me when I came back to Winterfell… I can return the favor now…_

“What if I could promise that Nymeria would stay with them?” She asked and Sansa started looking hopeful again. “That I swore she wouldn’t leave them? That she _couldn’t_ leave them? That I wouldn’t let her?”

“You could control her in such a way?” Sansa’s eyes were alive and Arya shrugged.

“I could for certain… if I went with her.”

The pause that filled the air was a heavy. Sansa’s face alternated between several expressions all at once. Confusion, understanding, worry, fear, anger…

Then finally pure rage.

“How dare you make me so hopeful!” Sansa snapped, pushing away from her. “Like I would ever allow you to ride out in this weather! Are you mad!?”

“Jon is in danger Sansa!” She shouted, grabbing onto Sansa’s arms again. “I’ve travelled through war torn lands and worse still, and I still managed to get back here. Send as many men as you want with us! Protect me all you want! I don’t care! Just know that I can do this! I can find Jon for us!”

Sansa still shook her head but Arya could tell her words were getting to her. She must have seen that Nymeria was their best chance to find Jon before anything bad happened. Arya’s mistake was forgetting that Needle was not at her side. She went to lay her hand upon it and ended up fumbling in the air awkwardly. An action that drew a scowl from Sansa.

“Arya… I can’t.” Sansa sounded heartbroken. “Even if I wanted to, Jon would never want me to risk the little sister he loves so much. That I love so much. I would die if something terrible befell you. You’re so strong, but you’re still a little girl-”

“I’m not a little girl!” Arya snapped. “I’m as good a fighter as half the men you send out to battle! I’m trained by Brienne of Tarth! I’m a water dancer taught by Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos! A direwolf of the North! A Stark of Winterfell-”

“Arya-”

“I’m a woman flowered!”

The words tumbled forth before she could stop them. Sansa and she just stared at one another for a long moment. Her eyes were filled with something that Arya didn’t recognize, like she was seeing something she’d never seen before. Arya hoped that she saw the woman that she was now and not the little girl she was leaving behind.

_She has to see me… for Jon’s sake. For my sake. For hers._

“Oh Arya, little Arya… when?” Sansa asked softly, walking towards her with her hands held out in comfort. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged off Sansa’s attempts to hold her, keeping her fierce gaze locked on those softening blue eyes.

“Last night, this morning, I don’t know.” She said. “I saw the blood and I came here. Not because I was scared or that I had questions but…”

Sansa waited patiently for her to continue and Arya knew this was her best chance to convince her.

“I came here because Jon needed me to. Let me go help him. Gods Sansa, I just found out you can commune with the wolves like the rest of us! Bran spoke to us from the trees for the first time in months! I got my moonblood, today of all days! It’s a sign, a sign from the old gods! The bloody gods themselves! I’m supposed to do this! Please Sansa, please!”

Sansa took a step back in surprise but her hands were still held out in comfort. Arya could see that her sister was struggling with the decision while also fighting the desire to comfort her during this life-changing event.

_I don’t need comfort, I need permission!_

“I _would_ allow it Arya.” Sansa said finally, but not in a tone she liked. It was the same tone she used on lords during council meetings before crushing their aspirations with cold reasoning. “I would, if not for all those lords in the North currently unhappy with me. What if someone saw you leave Winterfell and sent word to a lord wishing to see me overthrown? If they took you captive, I would surrender in a moment… leaving Rickon under the power of someone else...”

“I’ll leave at night then!”

“Arya, you can’t promise me that you wouldn’t be seen…”

_I could if I wasn’t me…_

_Oh bugger. Oh shit._

She didn’t hear the rest of Sansa’s words. Her mind was suddenly overwhelmed with memories of the last time she’d left the castle unseen. Of all the bad things that had followed; Myranda’s death, the raper’s touch all over her body, Pod getting sick…

Yet no one had seen her leave.

_I have to tell her. Pod, you’re going to kill me, and I’m so sorry but I have to._

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

_Shit, fucking shit!_

She hesitated only a few moments before accepting that it was all for Jon. The brother she loved him so much that even blood hadn’t changed them.

“What if they didn’t know it was me?”

Sansa had looked at her queerly and Arya sighed in defeat. The irony was not lost on her that she’d been yelling about how bad it was to keep secrets from one another only moments ago. Yet if Arya had been angry about her sister’s secrets, Sansa had taken on a murderous fury to hear of the truth of Yoren and her night in the Winter Town. The yelling became so loud that Duncan and Ser Rayland asked if all was well through the door and Sansa had screamed at them in turn.

Not stupid enough to argue back on her own behalf, Arya plunked down on the bed as Sansa raged and screamed. It was different than when Pod made her feel guilty. Sansa was ten times better at it. She ranted about how much danger Arya could have been in, how no one in the castle would have been able to forgive themselves if Arya had been killed.

Including herself.

Sansa’s anger only subsided when Arya tried to tell her why she should spare Pod any punishment. She explained how the squire had saved her, but to do that she’d had to tell the truth about the raper. Arya was hugging herself and staring at the ground by the time she was done. The yelling ended soon after that. Sansa stared down at her with an expression of fear and regret, tears coming to her eyes.

“You kept that hidden?” Sansa sat down the bed beside her, not trying to touch her. “After what that horrible man did to you? Arya, I could have-”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about that.” She said quickly.

“I’d understand if you did though-”

“No you wouldn’t!”

“No Arya. I understand more than you think-”

“None of that matters!” Arya argued. “My point- is that no one recognized me in all that time! If I dressed up as Yoren, all anyone would see is an archer riding out with an armed party. So there goes your reason for saying no! Just admit it so we can save Jon. That’s what’s important!”

They were both quiet again after that. Sansa was deep in thought while Arya was wracked with worry and guilt. The worry was mostly about if Sansa would say no. The guilt was for breaking her promise to Pod.

Arya’s hopes sailed as Sansa began nodding.

“I’ll allow this Arya… but only if Ser Kyle and Brienne share leadership.” Sansa’s eyes regarded her sister carefully. “Despite all the risk I now put you in, I will not add to it. I trust Brienne to call a halt to any action she feared would endanger you. I can rely on her love for you, but I’m also sending two more Sworn Guard and-and a force of my choosing as well! You’ll have every fighting man we can spare-”

“That’ll just slow us down-”

“Silence!” Her sister snapped. “Keep your mouth shut right now or else I might change my mind! You will keep your head down until you are far away from the castle, understand? Only reveal yourself when it is safe to do so and only to those you must. Swear upon it Arya!”

“I swear.” She placed a hand on her heart. “I swear on my heart, on yours, on Jon’s, I’ll do all that you ask. I’ll bring him home.”

That was when Sansa reached forward and pulled her into her arms. Her hold was strong and her face was bent down and pressed into Arya’s neck.

“You can come to no harm.” Sansa sounded as if she was praying. “I could not bear it. This is a woman I want know more about. One whom I want to comfort, to hold, to scream at… to have at my wedding… ”

Arya felt wetness upon her neck, and it took a moment for her to realize that Sansa was crying. They couldn’t be more different in that moment. Unlike Sansa, she was smiling.

For she would be riding out to protect her brother, just as Jon had ridden out to protect her.

_We’re coming Jon. I’m coming for you._

_And this time you can run home to me._


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets old, new and terrible.
> 
> The terrors hidden behind the flames, below the earth and by our own hopes.

**THE RED WITCH**

Men cursed all around her, losing patience in their quest to bring fire to this cold land. Here among the tall pines of this great forest named the Wolfswood, there was little dry wood to be found. The kindling stores packed away for the journey had been begun dwindling some days ago, which only added to the men’s frustrations.

Melisandre could have helped them in their trials. Begging R’hllor’s blessing for a simple charm and bringing flame to the wet logs was a trick she’d mastered years ago. That charm amused her in how often it beguiled common born men. Yet now she remained idle, merely holding a pile of timber herself, as the men bound for Winterfell continued their struggle against the harshness of the northern winter.

Weeks of travelling through winds, snows and storms had brought their journey to a standstill at times. With each passing day the pace became slower, their supplies scarcer while their distance from the Wall grew.

 _My power weakens as well_ , she thought,  _that man-made wonder gave me clearer visions than I’ve ever had._

_There I could set fire to the thralls of the Great Other with but a gesture. Now I cannot start a spark without risking my glamour._

The Lord of Light’s blessing held though.

For the men around her saw no red priestess here, only one of the many wildling women seeking the safety and comforts of Winterfell. Despite her weakening strength Melisandre was thankful no one had noticed her. She took it as a sign that she was on the right path, the one R’hllor had set out for her.

Still, she prayed that Winterfell might offer a touch of the same power the Wall had given her. It was told that Brandon the Builder had raised both in his day so there was more than a chance. The days felt endless as they travelled through these bitter storms and shamefully she’d felt her faith waver slightly in the face of such cold. On those days the ruby she wore about her neck burned hot, struggling to keep the illusion going and Melisandre hidden among the unbelievers.

The ruby was hidden beneath the layers of clothing she wore to maintain her glamour. Truly Melisandre felt suffocated by so much fabric. The heavy furs and hides of the savage woman were bulky and smothering compared to the lace and silks she preferred. When Devan had stolen these garments for her, she’d told the young squire that it was a test. His father had stolen through a blockade to relieve the siege at Storm’s End. Surely the son could sneak within a wildling’s chambers and steal some of her clothes.

She smiled to watch Devan now, joining Aldred Hilgard and some Stark men at trying to start a fire.

_Stealing some clothes was a far easier task than starting a fire in these conditions._

_Yet I have faith in you young Seaworth, or else I would not have tasked Richard with bringing you._

That faith was not misplaced. A short time later Devan gave a shout and Aldred began laughing at his shock. The squire was overjoyed to see the flames poking up through the makeshift cabin they’d made. As dusk fell upon the camp, other fires began to brighten the darkness, showing just how adept these northmen were at surviving in these terribly cold lands.

_Only a fool would think it starts or stops at that though._

_It is R’hllor that sparks the flames and lights our way. My lord guides us to the great fire I’ve seen in my visions._

_He leads me to Winterfell… he pushes me to the white dragon._

“Hey!” Aldred called to her then. “Be useful woman! Bring us more wood!”

She did as she was asked, handing the wood down to Devan and smiling when his bare hand touched hers. His youth showed through when his cheeks reddened from her touch. 

Men were often predictable beasts and Devan was not alone in eyeing her as a possible escape from the cold. Jon Snow understood this weakness well for he’d given over his own pavilion to the use of the Kingsblood daughters, Val, Gilly and her babe. They had all protested against the treatment, shouting of free folk women not needing such coddling, but the ser had his way in the end.

At first it had been a gesture of courtesy but it eventually proved practical. For it was much easier to set men to guard one large tent than several small ones. They had been maybe a week and a bit into their journey before one man, drunk and starved for a woman’s attentions, thought to warm himself using one of the them. His affections were for the middle of the three Kingsblood sisters, Gunhilda was her name, caught at the edge of their camp gathering wood. His charm had included a dagger and a threat in the shadows to be quiet.

Unfortunately for him the snows had fallen thickly that night and Gunhilda’s escort had been well hidden. Quiet and fierce, Ghost had dropped the northman with nary a growl while the would-be raper had screamed something terrible.

“Let me take an eye.” Gerrick had demanded when they all gathered around the man, clutching his mauled and broken arm.

While the father had murder in his eyes Ghost remained almost serene as the wolf licked the man’s blood off his snout. The wolf’s master stood beside him, petting the beast with a cold expression on his face.

“An eye? Really Gerrick?” Tormund had laughed. “His arm is worse off than yours was when you tried to steal Alfyn’s sister. Is that not enough for you, or are plucked eyes the price for wedding a  _princess_ now? Har!”

 **  
** “This is not funny Tormund.” Jon’s tone had been harsh and quickly drove the grin from the wildling’s face. “Whatever your people’s ways were Beyond-the-Wall, you are in the Kingdom of the North now. We do not abide the rape or kidnapping of women. If any of your people try to steal a woman here they will meet the justice of House Stark.”

“I serve the Starks!” The man had said, his beard crusted with snow and frost. “From the Green Fork to the Twins, from the Moat all the way to the Wall! King Robb himself once said I was brave! I haven’t had a woman in half a year marching with you lot! They’re wildling savages anyways, they probably-”

“What!? What are you about to say!?” Gerrick had shouted and Aldred needed to pull him back from striking the man.

“I just meant… a man gets lonely…”

“You were lonely?” Jon asked and Ghost had bared his teeth in a silent threat. “All the other men here had enough honor to endure their loneliness without turning to rape. No, whatever your service to the Starks, there is no excuse for this. All that’s left for me is to consider your punishment.”

“Geld him.” Richard had suggested.

“Slit his nose.” Aldred added.

“An eye I say!” Gerrick had demanded again before pulling a dagger, an action he regretted when Aldred pulled his axe and Richard his sword.

She’d watched Jon carefully in all this. He made no move to draw his own blade. Like her true king, the knight used his eyes as a weapon. With simple glances he bid both his axeman and Gerrick to sheathe their weapons. Richard did the same but only after she gave him a small nod, one she hoped that no one saw.

“Get him up.” Jon ordered. “It’s a shame to punish a man who has fought under the direwolf banner for so long. If you can conduct yourself as a man of honor for the rest of the journey south I will forego cutting on you. You are forbidden any wine to dull the pain of your broken arm. Nor to ease the knowledge that this will be your last visit to Winterfell as Stark man.”

“Eh?” The man had asked. “I’m banished?”

“No. You are a fighting man and we still have use for those.” The knight pointed north then. “Especially at the Wall. As soon as another group travels from Winterfell to Castle Black you will join them and say the vows.”

“Going back? After travelling all this way?”

“After we reach Winterfell. Had we the men and food to spare, I’d have you riding back to the Wall at dawn. Of course, I wish to be fair. If you prefer to be gelded say so now. I’ll have my squire heat the blade immediately.”

“Which blade?” The squire had asked, unaware that he was being used in the ser’s mummery. “I don’t think we have the ones the stable master uses for gelding stallions… I’ve a curved dagger but it’s hard to cut straight with that. That meat knife we have might work but it’s quite dull-”

“I’ll take the black!” The man had cried.

Jon had nodded and waved him away, seemingly furious that the whole affair had happened at all. The man was stripped of his weapons but given a staff to help defend the group.

This whole time the wildling women had been watching as a group, Melisandre among them. It was them the knight sought next, singling out Gunhilda. She held a gloved hand to the part of her neck that was nicked by the man’s blade and Jon gestured to the wound.

“May I see your hurt my lady?” He sighed.

“My lady he says!” Gunhilda had laughed. “I thought you said no to me being your lady? All three of us!”

The sisters all laughed until they caught the glares Val and Gilly sent them. After that they’d quieted and the wildling let the knight inspect her cut.

“Tis nothing Jon Dragon.” Gunhilda said. “I’ve had worse happen. Had stronger men than that come for my hand and none have stolen me yet.”

“You’re making your own man a crow?” Gylda asked before looking to the eldest sister Gerda. “I thought you told me only the worst southron monsters get sent to the Wall? He only made a small cut!”

“Not for the cut alone.” Jon had shaken his head and offered a rag from his cloak to Gunhilda. “I am the lord here and I have offered you all safe passage to Winterfell. I failed in my duties however and must beg your forgiveness. I acted harshly so that my men would see the value I place on your safety and care.”

“A southron lord begging your forgiveness Gun, imagine that!” Gerda pinched her sister’s bottom, sending Gylda into a fit of giggles. That ended when their father broke in once more, arguing that the best way for the knight to ensure his daughters’ care was by marrying one of them. All three sisters had paled then and fled back to the tent.

Melisandre remembered seeing the knight leave alone afterwards, a practice he did often. He would walk at the edge of their torches for hours, half bathed in light and darkness. His only company would be the direwolf at his side, a practice that annoyed his sworn men and the wildling women equally.

Everyone was busy now, the wildling women setting up their tent for the night and young Gylda watching the babe. Melisandre saw her chance and informed Aldred Hilgard that she was leaving to gather more firewood for him and Devan.

She found Jon far within the piney woods. If not for the glimpses she had of the Haunted Forest from atop the Wall, she might have considered the Wolfswood to be dark and frightening. Yet this forest held none of the frozen evil she’d glimpsed Beyond-the-Wall, and Melisandre imagined the worst dangers here to be wolves and bears, creatures she did not fear.

Nor did she fear Ghost as he lay beneath the fallen trunk of a great pine, his white form nearly hidden in the snowy background. The wolf’s red eyes betrayed him in more ways than one. Her powers fooled the beast’s every sense, even the one he should not have. There was a power to the direwolf she did not like or understand fully. She’d noted him having sixth sense of sorts. One that warned him of threats that most remained ignorant of.  

Just as the knight he protected remained clueless to her approach. While Ghost sat below the felled tree, Ser Jon sat atop it, leaning back to take advantage of what light still fell through the gaps of the canopy above them. He was leafing through a book with interest, indifferent to the cold.

_Books… he turns to books in these dark times while scorning the truth of R’hllor._

_What makes this foolish man so worthy of the one true god’s visions?_

_I might have forsaken Stannis’s cause, all for for a knight who will not forgive what I have done to follow him._

Melisandre realized then that she had forgotten herself. She was moving too silently to be noticed, unlike the woman whose visage she wore. So she stepped on a twig, allowing the snap to announce her coming to the knight.

“Who’s there?” Jon jerked up and off the tree, hand over his sword hilt. When he caught sight of her his hand fell away from his weapon. “Oh… hello. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her head. “I should’ve called out. I didn’t mean to scare you my lord…”

“You didn’t scare me.” The knight showed his youth then. “I was just surprised is- oh damn.”

Jon scowled as he bent low to retrieve his book from the ground, brushing the snow off with his gloved hand.

“Is it ruined?” Melisandre asked, daring to take a few steps forward.

“No, despite my stupidity it seems fine.” Jon scratched his head and glanced at the cover. “I should have known better than to try and read it out here. There’s no snow falling now but it was still foolish to chance it.”

“Why not read in your tent where it’s bright and warm?”

“The warmth would likely put me to sleep.” The knight offered her a small grin. “Though perhaps I should. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in some time.”

“Is it bad dreams? I have those sometimes.”

“I imagine we all do, whether we’re born north or south of the Wall. In that we are the same.” He gave her a warm smile and she wasn’t sure whether she should smile back or look shyly away. “In truth though, I haven’t had a foul dream since we left the Wall. It’s my squire, the one I share a tent with. Lad’s a horrid snorer.”

He was making a jest so Melisandre decided it was alright to laugh. It was a tittering sound that she had practiced for many days at the Wall before they’d set out. When she’d had to act her part and secure her passage south.

“That’s our fault isn’t it?” She asked. “Us that took your grand castle tent? I’m sure the other girls wouldn’t mind if you sought to bed there once more-”

“I would mind.” Jon said awkwardly before changing the subject. “You might find the tales in this book interesting actually. It’s mostly about stories from Beyond-the-Wall and wildli- er, I mean the free folk.”

He opened the book again and she saw that the pages and the leather binding were very new but poorly made. She instinctively started to read some lines before she caught herself. The wildling girl wouldn’t be able to read most like.

“Sam made it for me to give to the Starks. He actually pulled the best parts from a few different books. He copied down some chapters from The Watchers on the Wall by Archmaester Harmune and what parts of History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall by Maester Herryk that was still legible… I mean that he could still read. It puts me to shame how much Sam knew about the North after reading these. I didn’t-”

“Those be old tales though.” Melisandre pointed out. She wanted him to see the folly in seeking answers from written words rather than her flames. “Words written by some men, told to them by others who weren’t there, ‘bout things long ago. It would be better if we could just see the things happening, see the truth.”

“Perhaps, but these words are like a torch. If we are to fight a war with the Others, if we are to endure another Long Night, I’d prefer something to help me light the way.”

To hear him speak of misguided parchments in such a way while continuing to ignore the Lord of Light, it almost set Melisandre to scolding him and his arrogance. Yet she held back when she remembered herself and acted interested when the knight tapped his fingers on a page of interest.

“This one tale talks of Joramun, a King-Beyond-the-Wall who roused the giants from the Earth and led them against the Night’s Watch… I’ve heard from your people that he sounded a horn to bring the Wall down…”

“The Wall stands.” She shrugged. “The story is wrong then.”

“Still…” Jon snapped the book shut. “It’ll be good to give the Starks this book. Winterfell lost its library during the sack and a good many of its books, and we need wisdom now more than ever. Princess Sansa has a sharp mind and there’s enough tales of battle here to keep Princess Arya and the king entertained for moons. I hope to sing Sam’s praises enough to convince the royal family to fund his trip south to Oldtown and begin forging his maester’s chain at the Citadel.”

“Maester’s chain?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, maesters are men of learning and letters. They learn history and crafts and advise lords on matters. They take care of ravens, like Maester Aemon, remember?”

_I do. Your kin. A wonderful sacrifice._

“Yes, he was a good man.”

He nodded before taking note of the camp and the many fires that were now burning. The knight seemed to be only now noticing how dark it was becoming in these woods.

_He shows no fear of the darkness._

_Is that ignorance? Or has the Lord of Light given him some weapon against it?_

“I came to tell you that the fires were burning.” Melisandre was only half lying. “They’ll be brighter soon I think. Brightest at Winterfell I hope.”

The knight ran a hand through his hair then, a sign of his irritation. There was pressure from the group to reach Winterfell soon despite their trials.

“I fear it will be many days more before you can see the truth of that. The snows have stopped for now but these skies make me wary.” He gave her an apologetic look. “If I had known how bad the weather was going to be I would have spared you this journey.”

“I wanted to come, I didn’t feel safe at the Wall anymore.” She repeated the same lie that she’d used the last time she’d spoken with the fat steward. “Not with them Others still about and those great giant fires.”

“Nonetheless, I apologize for the dangers facing us on this journey.” Jon gestured back towards the camp. “Sam would be worried to know you and your son must still face so many trials Gilly.”

 _That woman’s trials are ended,_ Melisandre thought,  _and I have no children save for those I birth from shadows._

She forgave Jon Snow this mistake for it spoke to the success of her glamour. Taking the wildling Gilly’s appearance had been a complicated affair, one that involved skillful acts on her part and those of her sworn men.

The Lord of Light had shown her the faces of those wildling women who would witness the inferno to come. To take the form of Gerda, Gunhilda, or Gylda was too risky. The sisters were always together and she knew too little of them to attempt her mummery with one.

Val was the most likely choice. Proud and intimidating, Melisandre could easily mimic her ways around menfolk. Yet she was always under guard and watched by Lord-Commander Reed. To reach her would have been a fool’s errand.

In the end the best choice had been Gilly. Alone save for her child and the lovelorn Tarly man, she had freedom of movement about the castle and few took notice of the unassuming and shy girl. Gilly hadn’t even seemed to notice the clothes Devan had stolen from her chambers during the battle Beyond-the-Wall.

That was the extent to which she involved Devan however. While he was a good and earnest boy he was no true follower of R’hllor. He could not be trusted to put the will of the true god above his own foolish conceptions of what was right and wrong. For that task she’d needed a harder man, a man of more fervent faith and stern character.

A Warrior of Light.

_So R’hllor gifted me one. In the darkest of moments before the battle, Ser Richard came forth from the Nightfort._

_With his belief in the Lord of Light restored after being saved by Jon Snow, he did what was needed to be done._

Even if it wasn’t in the manner she had willed him to.

After she left Devan’s side that fateful night, she’d donned Gilly’s furs and an unassuming cloak to evade any who watched her.

The fires at the edge of Castle Black were still burning bright, the embers and ashes of the glorious dead floating up into the stars to be embraced by R’hllor. In the shadows she watched as the stewards dragged body after body to be burned. It was grim and silent work for the men but Melisandre felt great satisfaction at it all. Fire was the cleanest death to ensure R’hllor’s favor.

Most were quick to escape back to the warmth and better smells of the castle, so few took notice of her there. No one saw anything strange about a large black-cloaked figure carrying a body in his arms.

“My lady?” Richard had called, his eyes searching the dark for any sign of others among them.

“I am here.” She’d come to stand beside the knight, taking notice that the man’s usually stoic face was pale and drawn. “You went unseen?”

“None took notice of me.” Richard spoke hoarsely. “I have not been followed since the battle. Apparently I proved myself to these men… they think I am worthy of some measure of trust.”

“That is why R’hllor tasked you with this.” Melisandre nodded. “A warrior of light who would not balk at the noble quest set-”

“Noble?” Richard hefted the bundle higher in his arms so he could look down at her face. “She was going to do her washing… I saw her child’s clothes in the basket… I heard her singing to him through the window and… and she was humming still when she walked by-”

“Yet she is so quiet now.” She’d taken notice of that, of how the body did not move in his arms. “And so still… did you use the cloth soaked in the mixture I gave you? The potion to rob her of her strength?”

“I did not.” Richard met her eyes then, his own shining with defiance. “I have seen men burn. I have heard their begging and their screams. I know the suffering that comes from a death by flame.”

Melisandre had wrenched the cloth away from Gilly’s face to see the girl’s eyes shut as if in a peaceful sleep. Yet in the cold of the night, she could not see the wildling’s breath in the air. Laying her hands on the girl’s face and neck Melisandre quickly recognized what had happened.

“Her neck is broken. You killed her!” She’d been angry, perhaps even furious at Ser Richard then. “She was meant to go into the flames alive! She was our sacrifice for a safe journey south-”

“I will protect us in that.” Richard looked away from her towards the flames. “You said you needed her blood and for her to be gone, not that this girl needed to suffer. I spared her that.”

The knight hefted Gilly’s body up again, as if the weight of her body was hard to bear.

“I’ve killed many men this way. There’s no pain, no fear… it was over before she knew what was happening… she was humming… a sweet sound…”

She shook her head at his words, glancing about to make sure that no one noticed what she’d done next Pulling the dagger from her cloak, she took Gilly’s arm in hand and sliced it so that rivulets of blood started to run down her fingers. The blood was warm at least. She ran the blood over her ruby choker and chanted the prayers, beseeching the Lord of Light to bless her in this grand undertaking.

When the blood spell was completed Richard had moved to do away with the body.

She paid that matter little mind, for there was no life left in Gilly to properly sacrifice to their lord. That was until the knight had gasped in pain. Unlike the black brothers, who had just tossed their brethren within the fire, Richard laid Gilly’s body gently upon the flames. The effort caused his gauntlets to grow so hot they pained him.

After burning some for her, Richard had watched as the body of Gilly the wildling disappeared into the flames. Soon enough a new Gilly stood next to him, this one watching the flames rather than burning within them.

One who had a far greater calling.

Afterwards Melisandre had not returned to her own chambers but to the Hardin’s Tower where Gilly and Val took residence. The wildling princess had barely looked her way when she arrived, save to ask where the washing had gone. Melisandre had lied and said she left it without before taking a look at the slumbering babe in the poorly made cradle. The boy was larger than she remembered him being.

Gilly had done her a favor in weaning the child, though she had to admit, she had been curious as to whether R’hllor would grant her the milk needed to nourish the babe.

As it stood, a goat they dragged on the long ride had sufficed, the beast doing a duty it wanted no part of. Much like Melisandre had to do when tending to the child, and the feelings of the fat steward.

In most ways Samwell was the easiest to trick. Batting her eyes, saying kind things, and listening intently was all that was needed in deceiving the normally shrewd steward. Happiness and love blinded him just as well as leaner men. When she made missteps in regards to previous conversations, forgetting something Gilly and Sam had spoken on before, she’d just feign distress and worries over the Others.

There had been no fooling the child though. The moment Gilly’s son opened his eyes and saw Melisandre standing above him he’d begun wailing. Her glamours wouldn’t work on him. His world revolved around the mother who’d birthed, fed, and loved him. There was no spell she could work at his age to blind the babe to who she truly was.

She was intrigued with the idea that somehow the child had felt the loss of his mother.

That thought stayed with her as she pondered ending the suffering of Gilly’s son. With all the noise the screeching babe made in his cradle, she worried he’d betray her glamour. Acting as a loving mother was something that Melisandre had little experience at, but a grieving mother… that she felt confident she could portray. She was about to rest a pillow across his face when Val had saved them both.

“Gods Gilly, what’s with the little monster lately?” Val had asked before hefting the babe up into her arms and rocking him until the tears ran their course. “It’s a sad day when a man has to come to me for tenderness. Even one as tiny as this.”

Val’s tenderness had been exactly what was needed for her plan to work. Gilly’s child had grown accustomed to the wildling princess and whenever the babe seemed ready to wail, Melisandre would find some reason to be away so that Val would be driven to nurturing.

That was how Jon Snow and Melisandre found the pair when they arrived back in camp. The Kingsblood sisters had sought the warmth of the pavilion while Val was leading the bundled up babe around a fire. Grasping his small hands, she held the small boy straight so that he could walk about, giggling to kick at the snow.

“He grows strong Gilly.” Jon said as if Melisandre should take pride in that. “I daresay that he might steal some hearts when the princesses see him.”

“Is that the dragon wolf I hear talking about stealing hearts?” Val called out, smiling and leading the babe towards them. “Hear that monster? The knight doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be stealing. Or maybe he’s jealous of all the attention you’re getting. Let’s show your mother how strong you are.”

Jon laughed to see the babe kicking through the snow in a hurry so she did the same, crouching down to act as a proud mother would. She had learned some words the Westerosi used to coddle their infants and put them to work now.

“Come on now love.” She spoke softly, beckoning the child onward. “Come sweetling, come to mama.”

When the babe’s eyes met Melisandre’s he betrayed her. He came to a stop and began to whine loudly. Val tried to urge him onward but the little one began to whimper with his lower lip stuck out, gazing with sadness upon the woman wearing his mother’s clothes.

 _Come now you little abomination_ , she willed,  _your mother bedded her own father yet you somehow find me repulsive?_

“Ghost!” Jon spoke up suddenly, drawing attention to the direwolf coming up behind her. “Get out of here! You’re scaring the babe!”

“Yes…” Melisandre nodded, rising as well. “Sometimes he gets nervous around Ghost, I did too once.”

“Oh he’s braver than that.” Val picked the babe up but thankfully offered him to Jon Snow rather than her. “Go on then! If you can lead men into battle you can hold this little monster.”

Jon backed away with his hands up, shooting a pleading look to Melisandre.

“I haven’t washed in weeks, I don’t think he’d like-”

“Yes we all heard from that Willem man of your smell.” Val persisted, finally forcing the knight to take the babe into his arms. “There, you see? He likes you.”

The knight still appeared nervous but he looked to Melisandre and she nodded. It would be helpful if more people could take mothering duties away from her. Val brushed a gentle hand over the babe’s face then, causing it to giggle and smile. Jon looked at the wildling princess like she had done some sort of great magical feat before she grabbed his hand to do the same. The knight’s touch however made the child whine a bit.

“He doesn’t seem to like me as much.”

“Give it time Jon. You’ll grow on him… you have that way.” Locking eyes with Jon’s in a challenge of sorts, she smiled. “Besides, he’s a man. How can any man know what he likes until he’s really  _tried_  it?”

Jon looked to Melisandre for help but she shook her head, quite happy for him to hold the child until it fell asleep so she wouldn’t have to deal with it. Some attempts at caring for the child went better than others. If the babe was fed enough or tired, he would accept her care without fuss. Like now, the babe seemed to have tired himself out from walking in the snow and laid his head down on Jon’s shoulder.

“Now how can that direwolf scare him?” Val asked, running a hand down the child’s back. “He seems happy enough to let a dragon wolf hold him.”

“Please stop calling me that.” He said softly, rocking the child back and forth.

“Make me.” Val shot back, warming her hands with her hot breath.

“Has he been fed?” Melisandre decided to play the role of a mother then, when things were well in hand. “He shouldn’t sleep until he has…”

“Yes, yes, Gylda did it while you were off…” Val’s eyes narrowed on them both for a moment. “What were you two doing out in the woods together?”

_She thinks I’ve bedded him, or at least that Gilly has. How foolish._

_Yet she’s closer to the truth than she knows._

“I was reading when Gilly came to tell me of the camp preparations.” Jon glared right back at Val. “And this is my command, I ask about the comings and goings of its party. Not you.”

The wildling’s face flushed as she took a step towards him but whatever retort she had prepared was cut off by the arrival of Richard. Melisandre hated how the knight’s grim face would twitch whenever he caught sight of Gilly’s babe. It was a betrayal of her as much as the child’s wailing was.

“The horses are sheltered-” Richard began, only to be hushed by Jon and Val in unison while gesturing to the babe together.

“Ah… yes.” Richard spoke quieter. “We grow low on fodder and have only enough kindling for two more days. Your outriders doubt we’ll find any more on the ride.”

“Then we’ll burn clothing if we need to.” Jon replied. “Or arrow shafts if we must. We cannot survive out here without fires for long.”

“There’s other ways to stay warm-” Val offered but Melisandre stepped in front of her to speak.

“We need the fire m’lord. My son needs it… is there any way to reach the castle sooner? To move any faster?”

Richard gave her a dark look while Jon’s face twisted in guilt. In one fell swoop she’d shamed Richard for denying her their sacrifice while also pushing their leader to reach the great flames she’d foreseen. She had hopes that he would decide to take their fastest mounts on ahead to send word to Winterfell of their coming, with her and the babe at his side, yet she couldn’t outright propose such.

The knight disappointed her.

“This child will not lack for a fire Gilly.” Jon patted the babe’s back. “If it comes to it, I’ll even burn that book of mine to see him warm.”

_That is not what I want to see burn, nor is it the fire I seek._

“Oh thank you ser.” She smiled. “My son would thank you too.”

“Hey, speaking of that.” Val almost pushed her aside to get closer to Jon again. “It’s becoming that time isn’t it? How old is the little monster? Nearing two isn’t he?”

 _I’ve no idea_ , she thought,  _clearly Val does so I’ll agree with her._  
  
“Yes, in a moon or so.” Melisandre lied, scanning the faces around her to see if any detected her lack of conviction.

“Best be thinking of a name then.” Val crossed her arms. “Don’t be naming him after that father of his though. He deserves a stronger, more befitting name.”

“That’s right.” Jon nodded. “Sam told me about that. The free folk wait two years to name their children… I think the princesses will have about a hundred names to offer you Gilly. Sansa will likely pull ideas from tales of handsome princes and heroes. Arya will offer you brave warriors or storied kings of lore.”

“I’ll be happy to hear them.” Melisandre said as Jon walked towards her, offering the babe to her arms. She cradled it as she always did, tightly, so that it could at least be comforted by her warmth. “But if they’re so good with names, why haven’t you chosen one yet?”

The knight paused, looking into her eyes with a curious expression. She thought perhaps that she’d erred then, that the words would be strange to hear from the likes of Gilly. Melisandre lowered her eyes in embarrassment as Jon reached out to take the babe’s little hand in his own, giving it a gentle shake.

“I actually have chosen a name for my house.” He said. “One offered to me by Ser Willem Royce. A name I hope to one day pass down to my children. I’ve decided to go with Whitefyre, in honor of both my father and mother’s families… and in memory of a good man.”

That bid Melisandre to think of her vision once more, the only one she saw now when she glimpsed into the flames. A sorrowful woman covered in blood, the castles of wolves howling and the great inferno burning outward, one that burned so brightly it turned white.

“A good name.” Richard said simply.

“That’s the name you want to give your children?” Val asked, hands on her hips, chin in the air. “Doesn’t their mother get a say?”

“I… well… it’s my name.” Jon shook his head at the challenge before walking away. “No matter, I go to seek Aldred. To see how many arrows we could spare if it comes to it…”

When the prince R’hllor had bid her to follow left, Val did as well. The wildling princess peppered the knight with questions the whole way despite his protests. Melisandre had heard the woman was wild and she clearly wished for a fight.

“The true fight is elsewhere.” Melisandre said, shifting the babe in her arms as Richard stared at its sleeping form. “And the greatest battles are yet to come.”

“I welcome them.” The dark knight replied. “To fight a true battle. To fight nobly… to act as a knight again…”

“We all have a part to play in this.” She passed a hand over the child’s face, causing Richard to straighten quickly. “The next time I bid you to act in R’hllor’s name do so fully and completely… we have wandered too long in these cold lands… a sacrifice may be in order still…”

With that she looked to the babe and left the knight standing alone.

“To see us through the snows.”

“A precious sacrifice…”

 

**SANSA**

Mya brushed some snow off her woolen cap, her cheeks red in the cold air.

 

“I’ve never seen so much snow.” Mya said. “The Vale gets its fair bit and there’s usually some in the high mountains but never like this.”

She joined her friend in gazing up at the battlements ringing the godswood as men brushed and shoveled the walks clear, some of the cleared snow falling down into the woods itself. That only added to the great amount already collected in the sacred woods, some drifts standing higher than Sansa herself.

Shaggydog, unlike Mya, was not the least bit intimidated by the snow. Only the direwolf’s head and upper half were visible as the he bounded through it, his black coat painted white.

“Shaggy you look like Ghost!” Rickon laughed as he ran ahead on the path leading away from the heart tree, his favorite cloak dragging behind. 

“Rickon do not leave the path.” She chided gently. “You have places to be and you’re damp enough from your prayers!”

“What about Jeyne?” Mya asked, glancing back at the girl still kneeling before the weirwood. “She’s going to be frozen if she doesn’t finish up soon…”

Jeyne had been at prayers since before Rickon and Sansa had arrived at the godswood to say their own. Surprisingly Rickon had not complained once and fidgeted only the smallest bit this morning so the siblings had lingered longer than usual. Even with that added time Jeyne still outlasted them, continuing her communion with the Old Gods while others came and went, as she was wont to do.

_She prays longer than Ser Calem, the most devout of our Sworn Guard… replace the heart tree with a sept and Jeyne acts as pious as Septa Mordane once did._

_I would likely pray so vigorously if it eased all my worries… alas so many of them come from the weirwood itself..._

“Rickon!” She called again, the memory of Bran’s voice drifting from the weirwood made her want her little brother close then. “Rickon walk with me please!”

Sansa pulled her cloak tighter as she hurried her steps to catch up with Rickon and Shaggydog. The direwolf soon began shaking the snow free of his fur, sending a great amount of it onto their king’s person.

“Ah Shaggy!” Rickon fought back by filling his hands with snow and hurling it back at the wolf. “Take that! Smelly dog!”

The direwolf was clearly in the mood to play for it knocked Rickon back into a drift and wagged its tail while nipping at the edges of his cloak. The pair of protectors awaiting their coming further up reacted to Shaggydog’s behavior quite differently. Ser Rayland looked ready to spring forth to defend Rickon while Morgan Liddle, used to such sights, chuckled and held out a thick arm to bar the knight’s path.

“I’ll get you!” Rickon struggled out of the drift, hands filled new ammunition. “I’m not supposed to get wet!”

“Yet wet you will be.” She sighed, taking his hands in her own and willing him to loose the snow there. When Shaggydog came to nip at her too Sansa hissed and waved the wolf away. “Away with you! Off now Shaggy! Be gone before I decide you need to bathe as much as Rickon does.”

Both wolf and boy protested loudly at that but only Shaggydog could escape her grasp, running on by the Sworn Guard and out of the godswood.

“I don’t want another bath.” Rickon pouted as Mya and she bent to clean him off. “This wasn’t my fault…”

“So it would seem… fine, no bath. Yet you’ll need new clothes, Mya could you go fetch Rickon’s maidservants? Tell them to help my brother dress again and then please come and join Medrick and I with the others.”

“Of course.” Mya nodded before dabbing a bit of snow on Rickon’s nose and setting him to swatting at her. She laughed as she took off, leaving Sansa to tend to the King in the North, who didn’t look happy in the least.

“Don’t be mad at me Rickon, not today. You’re to tour the battlements with Rodwell and your Sworn Guard and cannot wear damp clothes to do so. You’ll catch a chill just as Podrick did…”

“Why did you take Shaggy?” Rickon asked as he looked at her strangely.

“I didn’t take him, he was full of too much energy and I just sent… I sent him away.” She answered, only now realizing how strange it was that the wolf had heeded her in what she asked.

“He did what I said.”

“No, you took him. I remember it, I was dreaming the secret dreams…” Rickon whispered as he glanced around to make sure no one would hear. “I was dreaming I was Shaggy again. Arya and I were sleeping and having the summer dream but then I felt strange. Like someone wanted me to wake up… to leave Shaggydog. It was you…”

Rickon pointed at her accusingly before whispering his accusation again.

“You took him, I could feel it was you. You wanted to play with Shaggy and I let you… but it was rude. You say always ask to share and you didn’t ask. Asking is polite, see I listen!”

While Rickon prided himself on remembering their courtesy lessons Sansa barely remembered the night he was speaking of. The dream was even foggier yet she was certain she’d come to the godswood. Something had called Sansa there, bidding her to find a place to shelter her in the cold night.

To find a direwolf to welcome her.

_Shaggydog let me in… I heard Bran through his ears… our ears…_

“Rickon… I… I never meant…”

“I’m not mad.” Rickon kicked at the ground, dragging his foot about in it childishly. “The gentle sister died… she was your wolf and she died. It’s not very fair… it makes me sad you’re all alone at night. Shaggy’s mine so we can share him sometimes… it’s okay if it’s only sometimes.”

Rickon shook his head then, chuckling as some snowflakes fell lose of his bright hair. While her brother was delighted at creating his own little flurry Sansa was left quite speechless at the whole exchange.

She could barely remember that night she dreamt of Bran.

Arya’s arrival at her chambers had helped her recall some of Bran’s words since they were still fresh in her mind. Most other things remained a blur though. Each snippet of a memory came attached with feelings of strength and confidence, of a deep longing for distant loved ones.

Sansa understood now why Arya and Rickon enjoyed skinchanging so much, being the wolf had filled her with a sense of power she enjoyed.

The longing had come from sensing… feeling… perhaps even knowing that Jon was close. She’d felt Ghost and him through that bond and it had been a joyous thing. Had it not been for Bran’s dire warnings Sansa never would have wanted the experience to end.

“Sansa.” Rickon took her hand in his. “I’m not mad. We’re supposed to be with the wolves. Jon and Arya, Bran and me… and you. You’re one of us. Shaggydog wouldn’t let you in if he didn’t love you. I love you too so it’s all okay.” 

With the snowflakes falling lightly around them Sansa knelt beside her brother. She put her hands up his face and brushed hair away from his eyes, hair so much like her own.

“You are a sweet boy.” She kissed the rosy cheek before her. “And I love you too Rickon, so dearly…”

She gazed into his eyes and, despite meaning to reflect on Rickon’s kindness, she found her thoughts drifting back to Bran.

The little brother still lost to her, the one whose eyes had been so much like Rickon’s. She remembered them as kind and lively, brimming with an earnestness he’d had even as a babe of two, clutching at her skirts to be held. It hurt to think of those blue eyes while remembering a dream she’d once had of a terrible red eye glaring at her in the dark. Somehow, deep down, she knew Bran was near that eye and it scared her so.

She didn’t wish to upset Rickon but a tear crept down her cheek before she could stop it. Her little brother took care of it for her, catching the tear with his finger and wiping it away on her cloak.

“Don’t cry Sansa, I’m here. I’ll protect you.” He kissed the tear line away. “I’m the king, that’s what a king does. I can do it, I can. So when Arya and Jon get back we can all be happy again…”

“What?” She caught hold of his shoulders at that. “What did you say?”

“When Arya finds Jon and they both come home we can all be a family again.”

“How did you know Arya was gone? Who told you?” A panic built up in her, for Arya’s departure from Winterfell two days past was a closely guarded secret.

“Nymeria.” Rickon shrugged. “Well she sort of told me… Shaggydog knows where his brother and sister are. Oh and if Arya was really sick and in bed you’d let me see her a little… you two aren’t very good at lying…”

Hearing his explanation did little to ease her mind.

The story Sansa and a select few had spread throughout the castle was that Arya and Lyanna Mormont had taken ill following one of their misadventures running about the cold castle grounds. As far as most of Winterfell knew the two young women shared a sick bed in Arya’s chambers. A place of rest and recovery where only Medrick, Jeyne and Sansa herself could attend them.

Lady Lyanna was fine of course, save for her boredom at being cooped up in Arya’s room. Sansa had made it plain that Lyanna’s part in this mummery was her penance for having helped Arya perform her Yoren foolishness to begin with.

A mummery her sister was now undertaking once again. Sansa had watched as Arya rode out into the thick snows and perils beyond the safety of Winterfell’s walls, a truly hard thing to endure. To everyone else watching Arya was just a young archer named Yoren, just another cloaked rider among the seventy or so men going forth on a quest to find Jon.

A search Ser Kyle and Brienne had been content enough to undertake until Sansa had revealed to them who would be guiding their way through the snows. The knight had paled and the lady became red-faced with anger, both at Arya’s role in the plan and to learn the truth about the night of Myranda’s murder. Both had protested vigorously but in the end Sansa had decreed Arya and Nymeria would be taking part in the quest, no matter their views.

Afterwards Kyle had chosen three Sworn Guard to accompany the riders besides Brienne, namely Marlen, Ser Calem and Rossett Locke. Brienne had demanded even more but Sansa knew that would raise too many questions. Instead she allowed the lady to recruit Ser Gendry, Lord Edric, Anguy the archer and Podrick Payne to join them.

“I’d have Anguy’s keen eyes to spot any threats Nymeria may miss.” Brienne had spoken glumly. “The others… well Gendry and Ned would both rather die than see Arya come to harm and Podrick has already proven much the same… I believed he abandoned his duty that night. All along he’d done as I asked, protected Arya and I punished him for it…”

When Sansa had tried to offer the lady some comfort Brienne had begged her leave, preferring to assist Kyle in selecting the best and most loyal of the men to leave with them the next morning.

That night though, despite the tense mood of all who knew Arya’s involvement, a small celebration had been held in the Great Hall. Planned in advance as it was Sansa believed postponing the celebration would have been suspicious, perhaps even taken as a slight to the man throwing it.

“To Lord Wyman!” Bronze Yohn had raised a cup at the high table, toasting the large lord sitting to the other side of Sansa. “To all the members of the esteemed houses of Manderly and Mallister! May the union between Ser Patrek and Lady Wynafryd be a happy one! May Seagard soon be blessed by the coming of many young merman heirs!”

“Eagles my lord!” Wylla had called back. “My sister was born under the merman banner but she is an eagle now! May her babes soar high!”

“Above the rest!” Wyman raised a cup and slapped his large belly playfully. “To my granddaughter! Lady Wynafryd Mallister!”

“Here here!” Sansa and the rest of the hall answered, most draining their cups of wine while her siblings and she only sipped of theirs. Arya wanted her wits about her for the morning and Rickon was too young for more than a sip or two. As for herself, Sansa had lost her taste for wine after watching Myranda die.

_Jon disdained wine after the Twins for noble and gallant reasons._

_Not out of fear and failure like me._  
  
Putting aside such thoughts Sansa had plastered a smile on her face and done her best to share in Wyman and Wylla’s happiness. The raven announcing Wynafryd’s arrival at Seagard and of her wedding there had been glad tidings. Beneath the romance of it all she’d spotted the fear motivating the swiftness of the wedding. Lord Jason had almost lost his son and heir once; with war and winter inflicting great harm upon the realm the Mallister lord appeared unwilling to chance the end of his line. Thus Ser Patrek quickly found himself married and Wynafryd Manderly became a Mallister and the Lady of Seagard.

 _Like it shall be for Jon and I_ , she’d thought,  _he will be my lord husband and I shall be his lady wife._

_The Lady of the Dreadfort is not the most romantic of titles but he is worth it, I’d be the lady of anything if it meant he was the lord._

It had been easier to smile with such distractions coming to mind. When she left her seat and moved about the crowd of celebrants she found more to keep her worries at bay. Wylla had demanded Marlen and the crannogmen take up playing a song so that she could drag Larence Hornwood out for a dance. Larence had been embarrassed, Wyman annoyed yet Wylla had glowed in the young lord’s arms.

Edric Dayne had looked just happy when Arya joined him in dancing, Sansa proud to see her sister showing him the kindness of agreeing to one. When her eyes scanned the crowd for the knight most likely to be jealous of the young Dornishman she found Gendry standing with his back to the floor, deep in conversation with Mya of all people.

Intrigued to see the half-siblings together Sansa had moved closer, feigning interest in an argument Ser Evan and Ser Rayland were having over jousting techniques. She was far keener to hear Mya and Gendry speaking of their shared sire.

“He was around some when I was a little girl.” Mya had said to Gendry, pulling at her hair as she did so. “A few times here and there, some memories I like to think on. I’m not sure how many I imagined or dreamt up myself, you know, to make up for when he wasn’t there...”

“I think I did that with my mother.” Gendry had nodded. “Never had any other faces to think on really.”

“So you don’t remember him at all then?”

“Saw King Robert a few times about the city, never came to see me personally. Not like a father should.” Gendry shrugged in a manner that reminded Sansa far too much of Mya. “Had King Stannis not named me one of Robert’s bastards I’d never have known he was my father… I surely don’t mourn him as such.”

Gendry’s words were harsh yet Sansa could not expect much better of him. As far as she could tell Robert Baratheon had been as poor a father as he had been a king. What her own father had ever seen in the man made her wonder. Perhaps it was what she saw in Mya or what Arya saw in Gendry, something Robert Baratheon had lost over his years of drinking and opulence.

“He was never really a father to me either I guess.” Mya admitted sadly. “Even if he was still alive I don’t think I could count him as family. My family was my mother and Myranda, the friend who loved me. Now they’re both dead.”

“I lost my mother too.” The knight spoke softly, his eyes as sad as Mya’s were. “She was kind… a lot like Lady Myranda was. When we first arrived I remember the lady danced with Pod…”

“Pod?” Mya laughed, looking at the dour faced squire sitting beside an equally downtrodden Brienne. “Oh the poor boy, Randa always did things like that to the shy ones. She thought it was funny.”

“It was. Lad looked about ready to piss himself.” Gendry laughed himself then and it was a welcome sound, Sansa wished he’d do more of it. Mya had a different reaction altogether, a strange smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Your laugh, it sounds like his… our father’s. I remember that much for sure, he would laugh that way when he’d toss me in the air. I liked that laugh. It was the most honest thing about him I think, no lies or false promises there. If there’s a good thing to have from Robert Baratheon, it be his laugh. It made a little girl happy… he gave me that at least.”

“Gave you this too.” Gendry gestured to their black hair, then their eyes. “These as well. He’s dead and gone but we still have his looks I guess. All the same I’d rather have had a family…”

“Me too.” Mya answered and Sansa could stand no more. She broke away from Ser Evan in the midst of him going on about stirrups.

“You have family.” She’d said to the Baratheon brood. “The both of you, and I don’t just speak of how the Starks treasure you both. I talk of the brother and sister I see before me. Robert Baratheon had many failings but in siring you he did us all a courtesy. For you are two of the most genuine people to grace this hall in my life.”

Gendry and Mya both shared the same burning cheeks at her words but Sansa would not be deterred. With families breaking apart and falling all around the realm she’d take a chance at bringing one together here.

“Think on it, think on the strange design that has seen both of you befriend Starks and find your way here. I pray you see how much you share in common beyond that, and I’m not just speaking of your looks.” She touched Mya’s shoulder arm and Gendry’s arm. “Your good hearts. Your loyalty. Your strength…”

“I am glad I’ve met Mya your grace.” Gendry spoke to her but his eyes were for Mya. “She’s every bit the person you describe and, well… sorry I’m bad at this… I’m alright being Robert’s bastard because of her. I had it in my head we were all a tainted bunch, I mean I’m pretty sure I met another one of our father’s bastards and that didn’t go well. Mya’s nothing like Bella, about as different as different can be… I’d rather Mya as a sister any day…”

“I’ve never met any besides you.” Mya raised an eyebrow. “Never had a brother either… or a sister really. How was this Bella girl different? Did she act a proper lady, wearing gowns and all that? Did she live in the capital too?”

“No, in the Riverlands, at a Stoney Sept inn. Bella did wear dresses but she didn’t act a lady.” Gendry scratched his head. “She worked as a… as a whore...”

“Your grace!” Ser Evan interrupted, clearly askance at the turn of conversation. “Surely you need not be hearing such talk-”

“Surely not.” Sansa agreed with a smile, for Mya had begun laughing at Gendry’s awkwardness. “For I intruded on a private conversation. A family matter and for that I beg forgiveness.”

She’d left Mya and Gendry to their moment, a task made easier by the great commotion coming from the dance floor at the time. It appeared Arya had followed up her dance with Edric by demonstrating a courtesy Sansa thought beyond her. For it was Lord Wyman himself Arya was now dancing with and her sister looked every bit a princess as she did so. With the crown on her head and the green gown catching the light just right Sansa saw a young woman where her little sister once stood. That somehow this radiant girl would become a grubby, cloaked archer in a matter of hours didn’t seem possible.

Just as Arya would use filthy clothes and horsehair to hide herself Wylla Manderly used the distraction caused by her grandfather’s lurching dance steps to steal away from the hall. Sansa’s own curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d followed Wylla away from the festivities, towards the side room they’d welcomed Bronze Yohn within.

There was little light there so Sansa only just made out the pair kissing in the darkness. Wylla’s bright yellow dress stood out in the dim light, showing her to be in the embrace of a young man with cedar locks Sansa knew by sight.

“I should be going…” Larence said between the kisses Wylla was stealing of him. “I should be riding with the others… to find Ser Jon…”

“No, not you…” Wylla pulled away, leaving the lord kissing at the empty air. “Not if you truly love me. You spend too much time riding out in the snows, patrolling, gathering men…”

“I’m proving myself a good man. A lord worthy of a fine lady.” Larence frowned. “Your grandfather hates me Wylla, all he sees is the bastard I am… he doesn’t care the Starks named me a Hornwood…”

“You could be named mud and I wouldn’t care.” Wylla kissed him again, with a passion that caused Sansa to think back on her last night with Jon. “And my grandfather is why you should stay. Warriors and the smallfolk see your worth but he is not out there with you. So act a lord here in the castle a while, sit in council, let him know you and he won’t deny us. He can’t. With Winny marrying her eagle grandfather’s so happy I’m tempted to ask him to let me be your wife right now…”

“Wylla…” Larence warned and the girl had laughed, kissing away his frown.

“I know, I know. A promise is a promise, the Lord of Hornwood will ask for my hand himself. Promises are very important to us Manderlys or haven’t I told you that story…”

Witnessing the forbidden love between Larence and Wylla made her think of the moments Jon and she had stolen just like that. All knew the truth of Jon and her love now so she cherished the thought they could soon kiss openly. With everything else going on she clung to that dream more than ever.

It helped her deal with Bran being lost somewhere in the dark, haunting their dreams. Of knowing Jon was out there in the storms and Arya riding out to meet him. That Rickon now knew of Arya’s secret departure.

Even though no others were near enough to hear Sansa remained thankful Rickon had spoken so quietly.

“Rickon.” She lifted his face so their eyes met once more. “Rickon you are right, Arya has gone from Winterfell and it is to seek Jon. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you but it is a secret. A secret you and I must keep between us, and no others. Not even Osha.  There are bad people in the world and some want to hurt us…”

“Like they hurt Myranda.” Rickon snarled. “And Maester Luwin and Robb. Mother and father. I won’t tell nobody. I don’t want Arya and Jon to get hurt. I want them home with you and me.”

“They will be.” She embraced Rickon to her, burying his sweet face in her shoulder and hair. “All of us, back together in Winterfell. As it’s meant to be.”

Rickon made a noise of agreement as he nuzzled against her hair, breathing in deeply with a wide smile crossing his face.

“That’s how I knew you took Shaggy.” He said softly. “It’s the sunshine.”

“What?”

“When I was in Shaggy and you wanted your turn, I couldn’t see you… I just knew… because of this.” Rickon held up a handful of her hair. “The way your hair smells, that’s how Shaggy knows you. When we came out of the crypts and left the castle, I remember how it smelt to be in the sun again. That’s what you smell like.”

“Thank you my little king.” Sansa kissed his head. “You can be quite charming when you want to be, one day you will make your queen very happy.”

“Yuck.” He made a face. “Why is that charming? It’s the truth. You smell like sunshine… everyone has a scent to the wolves…”

“Oh, and what’s Arya’s?”

“Fun!” Rickon laughed. “Sweat and fun and pine trees! That’s Arya for sure! Jon’s got one too! His is different, it’s like Winterfell after it snows.”

With that her brother held out a hand and caught a few of the small snowflakes falling lightly around them.

“Not like the big storms with the cold winds, just the nice snows like this. When everything is calm and quiet and we can play or just walk around… I like it.”

“So do I.” She brushed some snow from his hair, thinking she owed Rickon a treat later for just how helpful he’d been to her.

Their time alone together lasted only a little longer, for Jeyne had finally risen from her prayers and come down the path to join them.

“I thought you were meant for the crypts?” Her friend asked, reminding Sansa of the summons Mya had brought during their prayers.

“Yes, yes of course.” She patted Rickon’s back and pushed him on towards Morgan standing in the distance. “Go on Rickon, let the maids change your garb and listen to Morgan and Rodwell when you visit the walls. Remember to act the king I know you to be.”

“Uh huh.” Rickon grunted and took off, happy to see his cloak flying behind.

“Might I join you?” Jeyne asked, shivering and clutching some at her slight cloaked form. “Going into the crypts that is. I wanted to ask when Mya came but I couldn’t break my prayers. Finding you still here makes me think I’m meant to…”

“Jeyne you’re always welcome by my side.” She took Jeyne’s arm in hers and felt how cold she was. “Wouldn’t you prefer to seek the comfort of the keep though? You’re half frozen…”

“It’s warm where you’re going, I remember hearing talk of how hot it gets the deeper the diggers go. If that’s where Medrick and Osha want you I should be fine.”

Sansa could not argue that but resolved sometime later to discuss with Jeyne the cost her piety might be taking on her health. While Lyanna Mormont could be allowed to feign a fever for Arya’s sake Sansa had no desire to see Jeyne fall prey to a very real one.

Ser Rayland escorted them both to the crypts and on the way Mya joined them, smiling despite the dark journey ahead of them. When they began their descent down into the depths of Winterfell the knight held a torch to guide their way and Sansa spotted bits of dragonglass glittering upon the ground. Not large pieces mind you, merely the shards that had fallen off loads brought to the surface to aid the war against the Others.

When they were far past the tombs of all the Starks Sansa could name by sight Mya bent down to pick up a piece of the dark glass. As Mya held it up to her face Sansa saw it was about the size of a small stone.

“For something so dark it catches the light well.” Mya said appraisingly. “When Gendry gets back you should see if he can make a necklace from this. He’s quite good with such things…”

Sansa smiled to hear Mya take pride in such a thing as Jeyne seized upon her suggestion.

“Oh Sansa it would be a fine thing to wear, borne of Winterfell just as you are.”

“That’s big enough to be an arrowhead.” She pointed out. “A weapon sorely needed at the Wall. I’d rather have it there than on my person.”

_I can’t rob the brave defenders of the Wall of something they need just because I want it._

Mya shrugged and stuck the dragonglass in her pocket anyways, turning to smile widely at her.

“Well they won’t be needing your bridal gown at the Wall.” Her friend gave her a wink. “The very gown I saw finished and ready on my way back from the keep…”

“Truly?” Jeyne asked, sounding almost as excited as Sansa felt. “I was supposed to help Wylla with the last of the embroidery after my prayers.”

“Did it all by herself I guess.” Mya said. “That lady’s all about weddings now. What with her sister’s happening and Sansa’s coming up. I think she’s even more eager for your big day than you!”

_It’s her own wedding she likely thinks of, just as I did when Lyra Mormont married._

_When Jon and I shared a night as husband and wife… but the next time it will be for real._

“I’ll have to try it on when we reach the surface again.” She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. “I want it to be perfect before Jon arrives…”

“You act as if he’ll ride through the gates and straight to the godswood for the wedding.” Jeyne snickered and Mya joined her.

“That’s not how you northmen do it. Randa told me how it is, everyone crowds around the groom and the heart tree so the bride comes to him.”

“I guess it is my turn to do so.” Sansa smiled. “He’s always come to me… I think this once he’ll let me do so for him.”

“Don’t worry, I bet he’ll be running to that bedchamber after.” Mya’s jest reminded her of Myranda then, for it shocked Jeyne and caused Ser Rayland to look back in surprise.

Soon after they came upon some men who nodded at their coming, pointing them down a passage she knew to be recently opened. As deep below Winterfell as they’d travelled it was hard to figure where exactly they were yet hints began to appear. For piercing the earthen roof and walls around them were roots, a great number and variety of roots. Truly strange looking ones indeed.

Sansa touched one and found it to feel more akin to rock than any root she ever knew. Far warmer as well, for the earth around them had grown hotter in these tunnels and she wondered if they were nearing the hot springs that heated Winterfell’s walls.

There were less torches lighting the walls here and more debris than she’d come to expect from the parts she’d toured. Ahead, in the dim light of their own torches, stood the three people Sansa had expected to find down here.

Maester Medrick, Osha and Kurt, their head miner, were engaged in a heated discussion until the maester caught sight of her.

“Princess!” Maester Medrick shuffled forward. “I was afraid my message had not reached you! There is something you must see!”

“It’s not like it’s going anywhere.” Osha grumbled. “Bloody thing’s been here thousands of years…”

“Hush, I’ve had enough of your comments.” Medrick snapped back and it was plain the time the pair had spent deciphering the mysteries below Winterfell had not endeared them to one another.

“I apologize for taking so long.” She said, trying to ease the maester’s annoyance. “These tunnels are far different than the ones the drawings were found in. Have you found more here?”

“No, these tunnels are strange indeed.” Medrick shook his head. “Although I’ve begun to come to some conclusions about the meaning those ancient works might hold-”

“You did?” Osha strode forward, sneering at him. “You old thinkers speak more than you listen. Them drawings were warnings! Of wrongs done long ago and how we’ll all pay for them.”

“This from a woman who cannot even read the runes of her own people!”

“I know what some of them mean! More than you!” Osha was now snarling and it fell to Kurt and Ser Rayland to ease the wildling woman back. “Acting like you know so much, explain what’s down that way then!”

“First tell me of the drawings.” Sansa asked, for the queer appearance of the ice dragon on the wall bothered her still, since none could explain how it had gone unnoticed for so long. “They told of the building of the Wall? Of the Long Night and the Others.”

Medrick nodded.

“Yes. That much is clear. Or at least how the people who painted the glyphs viewed those events as happening. I must add my studies at the Citadel contradict much of…”

“Bah! Fool!” Osha interrupted. “Ignoring what you see with your own eyes! Them pictures talk about the Long Night and what sorcery went into ending it and raising the Wall itself! Dark magics!”

“The Wall was built by my ancestor.” Sansa pointed out. “Brandon the Builder, a great hero, not some villain.”

“Not to us he left Beyond-the-Wall! My people! And the giants! The ones he used to build the fucking thing…”

“Mind your tongue.” Ser Rayland pressed back at Osha. “You’re speaking to a member of the royal family.”

“I’m speaking to a Stark! Kin to the one who used the dark magics them drawings are all about. You can’t use powers like that and escape all the evil that comes with them. Don’t matter how long it takes, sorcery’s like a sword without a hilt, it’ll cut-”

“Silence!” Medrick was seething now. “I’ve had enough of your ravings! You take all that from some pictures you barely understand!”

“Begging your pardons.” Kurt spoke up, cap in hand. “Begging your pardons maester, princess, but seeing what I seen back there I can’t see how anything but magic could explain it. I’ve been poking around in the earth for most of my life and I’ve never seen something like that.”

“Sorcery!” Osha declared. “Like I’m saying!”

The three began to fall into their bickering again and Sansa felt more confused than before she first came down here. Whatever they had found was keeping her away from the world above, where a castle and kingdom needed to be run.

Where a bridal gown had to be seen and tried on.

“Show me then.” She decided. “You summoned me here for a reason and clearly it was not to discuss the drawings, so show me.”

“It’s this way your grace.” Kurt pointed, before kicking at a hardened root and some stones at his feet. “Careful though. This whole way has much to trip upon. This tunnel was blocked off with stones and clearing them was a bloody mess.”

“I thought the older tunnels were stronger.” Mya said. “That they didn’t see many cave ins.’

“Wasn’t no cave in.” Kurt answered back as he led the way on down the dark passage. “Someone walled it up. A few times over. Thought we’d find more dragonglass this way, and there is some…”

Sansa could see veins of it running along the walls, but none near where the roots poked through, which seemed to frame the tunnel now. Growing thicker the deeper they travelled within.

“We are below the godswood.” Medrick added. “Of that I am certain. I’ve measured the distance using lengths of rope and I would put the doorway just before the weirwood.”

“Doorway?” She asked, thinking she’d misheard.

The glances between her three guides were half hidden by the darkness but worrisome all the same.

“You’ll see.” Osha answered. “It’s just around this bend… don’t get scared when the torch grows dim.”

“Don’t let it go out then.” Mya gave voice to Sansa’s thoughts as Ser Rayland scowled, hefting his own torch higher. Sansa was sweating it was so hot now so she couldn’t imagine any cold or draft draining the flames away.

That was until Osha’s words proved prophetic.

After rounding a bend all their torches began to dim at once. No breeze filtered down the tunnel, nor had the fuel run low, from what she could see the flames just began to die. Soon they were only a flicker in the darkness and Jeyne grabbed her hand in fear.

“Sansa… we shouldn’t be here.”

“Girl’s got that right.” Osha whispered, coming to a stop. “Neither should that.”

Even with the flicker of their torches Sansa saw that something barred the tunnel ahead. Her first thought was of another rock wall yet she was as wrong as she could be.

For it was just as the maester had said, a doorway blocked their path, a doorway unlike any she had ever seen before.

One that sent shivers of terror through her body.

“Mother light the way…” Mya’s words were as low as the torchlight, Jeyne frozen in fear herself at the sight before them.

The door was bone-white, so bright it glowed in the darkness around them. Rock roots had grown so thick around the thing that no earth could be seen. The only real wood belonged to the door itself, which was carved from weirwood bark as far as she could tell. That made sense considering how the door reminded her of those trees.

For a great face had been carved into the door. A pale face, shrunken and wrinkled as if with age, its eyelids closed so tight lines were etched around them.

_Why would there be a doorway so far beneath Winterfell? So far from the rest of the crypts?_

“What’s on the other side?” She asked and Kurt shook his head vigorously.

“Can’t know.” He pointed down at a ruined pickaxe. “Two strikes and the thing fell part… and the door says it won’t open for us.”

_The door says?_

_Doors do not speak… and I see no writing on it…_

With that Sansa moved closer, practically dragging Jeyne along with her.

“No Sansa… no that’s not for us… please…” Jeyne begged, her eyes wide and fearful. Her friend had paled so much she became clearer in the darkness.

That was when Sansa realized Jeyne had truly become brighter as beams of light burst forth from the doorway. The door’s eyes, no longer clenched shut, had opened to bathe the dark tunnel and them in an eerie white light. Mya and Jeyne cried out and she choked back a scream as well.

And did so again when the door spoke.

_“What are you?”_

Its voice was hollow and ancient, Jeyne’s scream was high-pitched and terrified. Her friend pulled free then, rushing back into Mya’s arms and wrapping around the larger girl’s waist.

“Sansa get away from it!” Mya cried while Osha shook her head.

“It won’t hurt her… just tell it what you are Stark… maybe it’ll be different for you…”

Sansa could barely keep her knees from buckling when the voice came again.

_“What are you?”_

“S-s-sansa St-stark.” She answered, backing away. “Of Winterfell…”

Silence followed that pronouncement and Sansa continued backing away until Mya and Ser Rayland enfolded her in their grasp, the knight shaking in his armor.

 _“Stark of Winterfell you are.”_ The door boomed.  _“Yet you do not see… you do not see…”_

“I see.” She protested weakly.

_“They must see…”_

That final whisper heralded the closing of the door’s eyes. Soon after the great glowing thing returned to its unassuming slumber, darkness embracing them again save for the glow of the weirwood and the flicker of the torches.

For a time the only sound that came from the group was Jeyne’s fearful breathing and the clattering of Ser Rayland’s armor.

Until Osha spoke, with an air of wisdom she seemed sad to speak to.

“No Stark, you don’t see… we’re as blind as can be.”

“Blind to what’s coming.”

 

**JON**

_These were the dreams he liked._

_He ran free over dark lush fields and glens, with the moon high above and the stars shining brightly. He relished the feeling of cool grass beneath his paws, the air was warm and there were sounds of life all around him._

_In his dreams they were free of the winter, free of the endless snows and the deepening cold. It was an escape from the loneliness that they’d endured for so long now._

_Better still his pack shared this moment with him._

_The wild sister to his right, the savage brother to his left, the three that were once six ran together through the summer night. Not hunting, not fighting, just running. Running as a pack._

_Like the family they were._

_And would be again._

_The man’s family was here too. The wild girl and the fierce little boy were both hidden behind the eyes of the wolves, happy and warm in his mind. They would all be together soon. He knew that without knowing._

_As the dream wore on, the other two fell away, both rising to greet the new day in different places. He caught glimpses of where each awoke and it was the sister that gave him the most hope._

_The girl awoke amongst a group of many others, camped in the wintery wilderness like they were. Men tore down tents and readied horses while the girl hid within her own, wearing hair and clothes that weren’t hers. The eyes were the same though._

_She closed those grey eyes as she whispered._

_To him._

_“Jon… I’m coming… ”_

_They could almost reach out and touch each other but their bond weakened as others called to the girl to come forth for another day._

_Meanwhile the boy had risen from a warm and soft place, covered in furs. The man memories remembered this place. It was a bed. One he had spent his last night in before journeying away to the cold North, a place where everything had been safe and good. With her._

_She was still sleeping. Her face was at peace with the world as the boy began to squirm free from her grasp. They’d been curled up together, and he remembered that she would do that whenever the little one grew fearful. He wasn’t scared now though. He was jumping up and down by the girl’s head, cackling happily._

_“He’s close! He’s close!”_

_His love was shaken from her slumber. Her soft protests were the sweetest sounds he’d heard in some time. With those blue eyes open, her pale skin framed by her bright, auburn hair, he wanted to tear through the dream to be beside her._

_Yet the scene was rapidly falling away. The wolf he was began to stir as well, waking from the dreams they shared._

_Then Jon wasn’t in a field anymore. He wasn’t a wolf or a dragon. He wasn’t cold or tired._

_He was a man again. He was in Sansa’s warm embrace once more. Seeing her in the wolf dream had brought all their moments together back to him. They were alone in her room, her body bare and beautiful as she came to him, pulling at his own clothes. Jon wanted it to be slow, he wanted this to be tender, to savor it, but her hunger for him was too great. She pushed and grabbed at his body with a passion that she rarely showed._

_All his willpower disappeared when her hot breath and lips found his neck. He was lying back with Sansa atop him, kissing and touching places that hadn’t been treated so in far too long. Even through his clothes he felt the heat of her bare naked body. She placed his hand over her breasts and they felt fuller than he remembered. She moaned when she forced him to cup her breast more firmly. He felt her gripping his manhood with the other hand, stroking it quick and hard, making him groan._

_She silenced him with her mouth and tongue. The kiss was different than he remembered. She bit at his lip in a harsh way as she stroked him harder. Despite all the pleasure and lust flooding his mind, something felt wrong._

_The kiss was wrong. Sansa had a taste, a sweet, warm taste. He lips were always soft and welcoming, not harsh and demanding. Now she tasted of sweetened milk and the wild itself. The smell was wrong too. Her hair should have smelt of daylight after a long summer snow but instead it smelt of leather and horsehide and honey._

_His eyes opened slowly, expecting to see that sky-blue color that he would willingly lose himself in over and over again…_

… and Jon found himself staring into different eyes altogether.

Pale grey ones.

A beautiful smile shined down on him then from the dim light of his tent.

“Hurry.” Val rasped, jerking his breeches lower. “That boy will be back from his walk soon. I’d rather he not watch-”

“Val!” Jon gasped. He pulled his hand away from her breast, only for her to pin the hand down by the wrist next to his ear.

His mind stopped moving when he saw the wildling woman was completely naked, save for his bed furs around her shoulders. Jon could see how attractive her lithe body was, her breasts were high and larger than he would have thought, shaking sinfully from her frantic movements. He could even see her sex, topped by a honey-blonde thatch of hair that she rubbed against his thigh.

“Fighting is fun...” She smiled, moving to kiss him again. “We can do that...”

“Stop! Fuck!” Jon cursed, jerking his leg and entire body away from her.

He looked about and saw that the tent was indeed empty except for Val and her nakedness, a state she took no shame in as she thwarted his escape. She straddled his groin and pushed down on his chest forcefully, pressing hard against him.

“Things are all backwards in these lands.” She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his face roughly up to her own. “I wanted you to steal me first like I dreamed, but I’m done waiting. I’ve stolen men before and I’ll do it again… I ache for you Jon…”

“I said stop!” Jon pressed his forearm against her to push away the next kiss and shifted their weight to roll over. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Val from thrusting against him again, moaning once they were in the new position. In fact, he could swear that there was a gleam of excitement in her eye, now that he was on top.

“Act a man Jon.” She wrapped a leg around his waist to keep him from pulling back. “Ser. Lord. Dragon. Whitefyre. Whatever you need to call yourself. Act a man and take me like you’re aching to. Make me yours. Do it now.”

With Val pinned below him, writhing against his cock as she was, his lust was almost suffocating. She was a breathtaking sight, both in face and body. Her breasts shook with her movements, her nipples hard and much darker than the pale skin around them. A part of Jon screamed to just give in. To fuck her until they were both screaming and he’d sated himself. To finally subdue the quarrelsome woman from ever challenging him again.

“Take me.” Val smiled, gazing down to where their bodies met. “It’s what I came here for… I want you Jon… please…”

“No.”

Jon finally freed himself from her leg and moved back to rest on his knees. Val came to attack him again but he pushed her back by the shoulder.

“I will not Val.” He rasped, grabbing at some more furs nearby and throwing them at the naked woman. “Cover yourself and touch me no more…”

“Why the fuck not? You want it.” Val almost snarled, grabbing at the evident arousal in his breeches before he brushed her hand away. “I want you and you want-”

“Sansa Stark.” Jon answered for her, re-lacing his undone breeches and shaking his head to clear it of his impure thoughts. “You heard it the same as everyone else… I love her. She the one I want. It’s Sansa who I will marry…”

That their whole company now knew the truth of Jon and Sansa’s betrothal was neither his choice nor his doing.

Days after he’d made his promise to Gilly, to keep her child warm no matter what, the old gods had answered his prayers. They’d met a logging party out of the Winter Town who offered up their camp and fires to the ailing party eagerly, that is until they’d learned who led these Stark men home.

Apparently during his absence, much had happened which Sansa had been unable or unwilling to share with him at the Wall. The loggers Ben and Heck had related the news of Myranda’s death, shaking Jon to his core. To hear that someone had poisoned the dear lady in an attempt against Sansa’s life had enraged him.

After the news, he began worrying for the safety of Arya and Rickon but the loggers acted sure that the two remained healthy and hale at Winterfell along with Sansa. They were quick to note that the royal regent had been busy lately, unable to visit the Winter Town as much as she had done in the past.

As she was busy planning their wedding.

To hear a simple logger speak such a secret so casually had left Jon speechless for several moments. Some of the Stark men in his party had laughed to hear it at first but the laughter died away when Jon had not joined them. The laughs and jests became whispers of surprise and disbelief when he confirmed the truth of the logger’s claims. Ben and Hek as well acted a bit colder to Jon when they found out who he was, but he’d not been able to spare them a thought truly.

Learning that Sansa had informed the lords of the North of their betrothal without any word to him caused Jon some annoyance. The idea that she was planning their wedding even now made his head spin, but all of that aside, part of Jon felt relieved.

_Now when I ride through the gates I might hold Sansa… perhaps even kiss her…_

_Our love won’t be a secret anymore. It’ll be something we can share with the realm._

_She’ll be my wife._

“Yer wedding a Stark?” Tormund had pulled on his beard with a look of admiration. “That be brave of you dragon wolf. Even the free folk know not to take the direwolves lightly. Even when the Watch failed to stop us, the Starks were always there to give us the sword and grief.”

“What? I am not going up  _against_  her.” Jon had protested. “I won’t be taking her or any nonsense. As a knight I will protect her. As a lord I will shelter her. As a husband I will love her. That is all I want from her.”

“Stop… stop…” Tormund had dabbed at his eyes mockingly. “You’ll make me weep shiny southron tears, your words be so pretty! Har!”

“I see now!” Gerrick had nodded, gesturing to his crestfallen daughters. “No wonder you refused my own brood! You had a Stark bride awaiting your coming, a fine prize. You hear that girls? He’s not a boy lover after all!”

“Har!” Tormund and Aldred laughed for a bit at that but they were the only ones. Gilly’s babe was wailing in his mother’s arms as she gave him a rather intense look. Val hadn’t acted much better, actively scowling at the news.

“You’re a dragon lord who fought against the Others! You battled them man to man, and you choose a girl who hides behind castle walls?” Val had spat. “That’s what I think of your southron flowers. You so-called Northmen need stronger brides who will bear you hearty children that can survive the coming winter-”

“Exactly. Winter is Coming. Those are the Stark words Val, no one heeds that lesson better.” He’d waved away yet another one of Val’s attempts to provoke him. “And my betrothed knows that better than most. She’s survived where others would have fallen. I’ve met few with as much courage as her. I will be hers and she will be mine.”

Jon had turned his back to her then just as he tried to do now. He didn’t want to have to look at her nakedness.

Val showed no interest in helping him do that. Rather than dressing, she took the opportunity to press her breasts against his back and wrap her arms under his and around his chest in a tempting and possessive way.

“After my Jarl died, I could have chosen any one of a hundred strong men, some who were stronger even than you.” She whispered in his ear, sounding more vulnerable than he’d ever heard Val speak. “Dalla let Mance steal her because of his big talk. He was a cunning man, aiming to be king of this land and everything beyond. You’re like him a bit… a leader… but you’re not greedy and foolish, you don’t let vanity and pride cloud your eyes to what’s important.”

He turned slightly to look at her, a mistake he quickly realized. She pressed her lips against his and Jon did not pull away quick enough to escape the teasing of her tongue. As he cursed she smiled at her small victory.

“You’re a man apart from all the others Jon, I could see that from the beginning… northmen, crows, free folk… this dragon answers to no one… you want more from this world but you deny yourself that. Like you deny wanting me right now. I say be the free man you are, cast your doubts aside and embrace that part of yourself Jon… don’t let the Starks make you something that you’re not…”

Her hand slid up from his chest to run across his recently trimmed beard, tugging on it in distaste.

“You could be a great man Jon, we could be great together. Fighting for one another, fucking until the snow melted from the heat of us. I’d not make you trim and prim or take names you don’t want.” Val kissed at the healing cut on his neck. “I want that for you. I want you so take me. That’s all you have to do. I would bleed for you Jon, let us bleed together-”

“I’ve already bled for her.” He took Val’s hand and pulled it free from his face. “If you think I’m some great man, it is only because I’ve done everything I can to be a man of honor. A man worthy enough to serve House Stark. A man worthy of her.”

“Jon-”

“Get dressed Val. Get dressed and take leave of my tent.” He spoke coldly, his fists clenched. “I’ll forgive the liberties you took here but only if you go right now. If not, I would remind you of the man who couldn’t control himself on our ride and of the punishment I decided for him. Don’t think I won’t send you back to the Wall.”

Val cursed, wrenching away from him and beginning to move about the tent, gathering her clothing. He should’ve closed his eyes, but with her in such a foul mood he thought better of that. She dressed as she was bid but he noticed that she moved slowly, highlighting every part of her body that he had just denied himself from enjoying with her graceful movements. She turned to look at him one last time as she bent over to pull on her white leather breeches, but he kept his face cold and impassive. She stopped trying to tempt him after that and scowled.

“Don’t think that this is over Jon.” Val shook her head, tying her cloak about her shoulders. Even fully-clothed and burning with fury, she still looked beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous, a tempting sight for any man to behold. “I know who you are deep down, even if you don’t. I  _will_  have you, I promise you that.”

“Get out.” He answered.

“I’m disappointed in you.” She said with goading tone. “A man would have fought to make me his.”

“I’d rather fight to be hers.”

Val left after that, leaving him with angry thoughts. He was angry at her for attacking him, invading his sleep and laying hands on his body. But he was also angry at himself for responding to her touch and for being as tempted as he was to take Val.

His desire for a woman’s touch was stronger than ever after all these months, but he also wanted more than that. He wanted Sansa’s warmth and kindness, to take away the pain of all that he’d endured and lost at the Wall. Lying with Val would have helped ease his pain he knew, his burning desires, but only for a short while. It would have been an escape akin to what wine gave him.

_Drunkenness made me weak. I fell to its charms because of pain and yearning._

_So close to Winterfell, so close to home again, I won’t succumb to that pain now._

_What I truly yearn for awaits me there._

_A family. A wife._

As he began to dress, Jon noticed a small trail of blood seeping down his neck. He sighed as he pressed a cloth against his neck to staunch the bleeding, his thoughts wandering from Val and on to another wildling woman who had vexed him recently.

When they’d settled down to camp with the loggers, Jon had set Coll to securing him a pail of water and some shears. Hearing that his wedding to Sansa was at hand reminded Jon of how poorly he’d managed his grooming on the road. His beard was thicker and longer than Sansa liked and he hadn’t washed properly in some time.

With a fire burning before him and a pail of cold water at his side, Jon had stripped his furs, leathers, and tunic to leave his chest naked to the cold. Coll had stared wide-eyed at his scars while Aldred had met his eyes and offered a small nod, perhaps of respect. He was grateful that neither saw fit to ask about the old wounds and Jon began wetting a cloth from the bucket to scrub away some of the sweat and grime from his travels.

“Ever trim a man’s beard Coll?” Jon had asked when he finished with his wash. “Don’t rightly trust myself to do it without a looking glass.”

“I haven’t ser.” Coll admitted, holding up the sheers and beginning to cut the air in practice. “I’ll do my best but maybe Al would be a better fit.”

“That’s genius lad.” Aldred used his remaining hand to point at his stump. “Thinking I can use my feet to steady my cuts?”

“Ow!” The boy hissed, somehow managing to cut himself in the few moments that he’d been using the sheers.

“Um…” Jon had said. “Aldred, are sure you wouldn’t want to try?”

“I can do it ser.” Gilly’s voice had broken in, the wildling girl smiling as she offered her squirming son over to Coll. “I’d be happy to help after everything you’ve done for me and mine.”

Jon happily accepted Gilly’s help, even though he felt awkward when she knelt before him between his legs rather than standing. Her touch was gentle, her use of the sheers quite adept, and he found himself wondering if she’d ever done such duty for her father, the wildling Sam had called Craster. Coll had denied her babe a bit of the wine he’d been drinking, which apparently set the child to wailing. Gilly ignored the child completely, too focused on the work she was doing.

“You’re to marry the Stark princess then?” Gilly asked, eyeing him queerly. “Lord Jon becomes Prince Jon?”

“No… wait, yes.” He’d jerked some but Gilly had guided his face back to the position she wanted. Her touch felt hot and strangely familiar, but he figured any would feel so warm compared to the cold around. “I will wed Sansa Stark but I am not sure if that quite makes me a prince. I’ll be her lord husband first, her consort second.”

“But you’re a prince anyway, aren’t you?” She stared into his eyes rather than at the blades. “None call you it, but that’s who will ride through Winterfell’s gate? Your father was a prince I hear-”

“My father and his family wrought nothing but death and misery onto the Starks, the family I chose. Of his name and title, I want nothing. Let the Targaryen crown stay buried as far as I care.” Jon thought then of what was buried at Winterfell, waiting for him. “My uncle and cousin, men whom I loved, they lay at rest in Winterfell’s crypts. Their statues stand silent vigil and I will visit them when I return... I want them to see me… to see what I’ve become…”

He’d paused then as Gilly cut closer to his neck, wondering why he was speaking so freely with the young woman. It had felt good to do so, especially when her eyes gazed into his with such strange warmth. He wanted to unburden his soul to her in a way that he had only ever done with Sansa and Arya, though he couldn’t quite put to words why. It was something about her presence.

_Perhaps this is why Sam is so smitten with her._

“Eddard Stark raised me as his son and set me forth on a journey to become my own man. I want to return to him as such, as a knight who earned his spurs honorably. He never wanted me to be a prince… he feared what fate might await me if anyone learned the truth of my birth. So I will be a knight instead… I hope Lord Stark can rest peacefully knowing that… I pray he does…”

“Your blood is more powerful than a knight’s.” Gilly had whispered with an odd intensity. “Son to a dragon prince… born of a Stark who shared blood with the Kings of Winter. That makes you royal blood on both sides…”

Gilly’s eyes had caught the firelight then, flashing in a way that played tricks on Jon’s mind. He felt a sudden sharp pain then as Gilly nicked against his neck in a wide, accidental cut. He’d cursed and made to check the wound himself, only for Gilly to beat him to it by pressing a cloth to his wound, mumbling apologies.

“No harm, no foul.” He’d said, backing away from her touch and moving so that Coll could bandage his neck. Gilly’s work was finished anyways and he was strangely thankful to be away from her.

It wasn’t just embarrassment at speaking so freely in front of her. For half a moment he’d been frightened by her eyes. As foolish as it was to admit, he’d thought they shone red in the firelight, as red as his blood on the cloth that she’d used to tend to his neck and clean the sheers. The wildling girl had done good work though, his face clean of hair, and Jon thanked her as she took away the soiled linen.

Jon dressed and brushed his hand against the shaving Gilly had given him. The hair had grown in a bit since that day. It was still short though, to a length that Jon knew Sansa liked, and he was eager to get to Winterfell for her to see it.

And he was not the only one eager to ride on to Winterfell. There was a general commotion and noise all around as tents were being taken down and horses foddered. He saw his tent was the last to be taken care of and he paused with a thought of dread, that perhaps someone had seen Val enter his tent in the early morning and leave disheveled later.

Yet his fears were for naught. The only eyes set upon him or his tent belonged to a friend who could not speak thankfully. Ghost ambled towards him through the busy groups of people and Jon swore the direwolf had a smile on his face.

“Good dreams old friend?” He asked as he pet the wolf’s head. “I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but your sister is out there somewhere. Mine as well. I’m thinking we’ll see them soon Ghost. I have a good feeling about today.”

Ghost didn’t answer save to lick his hand. Together they set to rallying everyone for the day’s journey.

The party set out within the hour, Jon riding at the front and avoiding the part of the line where Val and the other women usually rode. He missed Willem’s company dearly in that moment, as both a friend and a riding partner. Willem would have listened to his troubles over Val’s behavior that morning, and likely would have even had a good jest or a story to pass the time. Jon’s current party wasn’t without its entertaining distractions though.

“Can you sharpen your axe?” Coll asked Aldred. The squire was curious of late as to what tasks Aldred could do without a second hand.

“If I step upon the whetstone, yes.” Aldred grumbled back, obviously annoyed at the endless line of questions. Tormund and Jon on the other hand were quite amused at the whole exchange.

“What about putting your pants on?”

“Well who the bloody else would put them on me?!” Aldred snapped back.

“What about taking them off?”

“That’s what a woman’s for! Har!” Tormund laughed so loudly that some of the horses startled. “Gods lad, the man can hold an axe and his own cock for a piss, what else in life really matters?”

“Holding both at the same time?” Coll answered and everyone went quiet and gaped at the squire. Tormund’s faced turned a bright red before another roar of laughter tore free, louder than ever.

“Har! The boy’s a keen one! No matter what them giants say!”

Jon was chuckling as well while Aldred tried to throttle Coll with his stump.

“We will have to do something about that arm though Aldred.” He said seriously after Coll had managed to ride out of the sworn man’s reach.

“Ser?” Aldred’s face darkened. “I can fight one handed, I swear I can. I’m still a better warrior than half these whoresons-”

“Hey!” Tormund broke in, jerking a finger at the tall youth riding behind him. “My boy’s mother was no whore. There’s not enough gold in the world to get a woman to do battle with my member unless she wants to!”

Before Coll could ask what that meant, Jon waved Aldred over to his side.

“I know you can fight Aldred, I do not doubt that. I’m just concerned about you surviving a fight.” He glanced down to the man’s one hand, clutching at the reins of his mount. “On a horse you’re vulnerable. You’ve no free hand to wield a weapon or a shield. To fight against a spearman afoot is a distinct disadvantage.”

“I’d rather my axe than a shield…”

“I’d rather you have both. When we reach Winterfell, I want you to meet a knight named Ser Gendry. He was trained as a blacksmith and is quite a good one at that. I’ve seen his skill with armor myself. If there’s a way to rig a shield onto your left arm, I believe he can find it. That way you could defend as well-”

“How though?” Aldred glared at his stump balefully. “Any shield worth holding would be heavy, and a strap would shift with the weight…”

“Have faith. You might have heard about how Prince Bran was crippled and unable to walk? Well a device built at Winterfell helped him to ride again. If such a thing is possible for him, surely there’s a way to protect my sworn man.”

Aldred appeared to think on that a moment and Jon found himself reflecting on Tyrion Lannister as he did so. A man by all rights that Jon should hate, but he couldn’t help but view the Lannister as another friend lost to his travels. Tyrion and Jon had once shared this very journey back from the Wall. At the time they’d discussed Bran’s riding device, just as Jon and Aldred did now, and the memory was a good one for Jon.

_Gods, imagine if we’d known then that we would both end up wed to the same woman?_

_Tyrion wouldn’t have shut up about it…_

That Tyrion had wed Sansa did not upset him truly, for she herself had said that the lord never laid an ill hand on her during their time together, their marriage going unconsummated. It filled him with shame to think that Tyrion had shown such care for Sansa’s feelings even after Jon had betrayed him. He’d named the lord a friend and Tyrion had pushed him towards the knighthood that Ned Stark had wanted for Jon.

_“I’ve known many knights and I think you’d make a fine one.”_

_“A somber one for sure, but truer than most.”_

_Now I’m a lord as well and you Tyrion… well, wherever you are, I hope you earn the rewards that you’re owed._

“It can’t be that big!” Coll’s voice broke into his thoughts.

He turned to see Tormund holding his arms out to his sides, Coll shaking his head profusely the whole time.

“I swear it lad! Mance said if the horn didn’t work, that it would be up to my member to batter the Wall down!”

“Gods Tormund…” Jon ran a hand down his face. “You can’t speak like this in front of the king and the princesses…”

“Afraid I’ll be stealing your pretty she-wolf away?” The white-haired wildling smiled widely even as Jon nervously glanced back to see if Val could hear any of their conversation. “Don’t worry dragon wolf. I’ve days to practice being a southron dandy like you and stumpy there.”

“Stumpy?” Aldred bristled.

“It might be that we have hours, not days. Riders from Winterfell are on their way to meet us even now and…”

Jon caught himself in mid-blunder. What he’d just spoken to was not something he’d learned himself, but knowledge that Ghost had shared with him through their wolf dreams. Something he had no right speaking to. Even now, the direwolf was moving far ahead of the party, fighting against the blowing wind in an attempt to get south all the faster. There was something in that wind he sought.

A scent. A memory.

A sister.

“Eh?” Tormund looked to the others who seemed just as confused. “Since when? Did a rider come in the night and no one told me? Toregg! You’ve got two jobs! Watch that moth knight and let me know what’s going on! I’d beat you bloody if not for your mother! She was the best, finest, steaming piece-

“Tormund!” Jon interrupted as Coll repeated the word ‘steaming’ awkwardly. “There was no rider! I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything earlier but… well… the loggers! The loggers weren’t there by chance. They were sent out to watch for us and to let me know that another party was due to arrive, one meant to escort us back to Winterfell…”

As he was performing this mummery, Jon took notice of something truly strange. Mentioning the logging camp caused him to look back at the way they’d come, farther north. Rising into the sky were black plumes of smoke, several of them in fact, as if a great many fires had been lit.

“Is that from the logging camp?” Aldred asked, following his gaze. “Fools are supposed to gathering wood, not burning the whole forest down.”

“Maybe they’re burning the brush away.” Coll offered. “Lots of twigs and worthless shrubs in the way…”

“Or maybe they just didn’t like all that shit we left in them pits we dug.” Tormund chuckled, riding up to smack a hand on Jon’s back. “Thought we was trying to be all close and friendly like Jon. Not telling me about your Stark riders ain’t very friendly.”

“It’s not like that.” Jon pointed to the sky and did his best to lie. “I just didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up if the snows came back and slowed us down.”

Tormund stroked his beard in consideration and Jon’s gaze returned to the rising smoke coming from the logging camp. A sense of unease came over him. They’d finally left the woods after weeks of riding and he liked being back on the open road, yet these lands were made of rolling hills. Little of what lay behind or ahead of them was clear, giving them poor visibility to any threats. When he looked to Ghost, he half-expected to see the direwolf as fretful as he was, but Ghost was singularly focused on driving ahead.

So Jon did his best to do the same, chiding himself for letting his nerves get to him when they were almost home. Tormund continued to lecture Coll on the size of his member. Aldred and Toregg discussed which was best way to cripple a man for a death blow. Not long after Ser Richard rode up to join the front, ignoring glares from the others to enjoy a welcome word from Jon. The knight would offer little in conversation, but it was always good to know where he was.

“Those fires behind us, they are large.” Richard said blandly. “Burning for some time I would say.”

“I agree. We were discussing them earlier… they could just be fires, but they trouble me nonetheless.”

“We should make for that ridge then.” The knight pointed to a particularly large hill ahead of them. “Or at least we should send some riders. Get a view of the lands around for a ways. I could lead some now.”

Jon was considering that as a good idea, yet he wasn’t sure if Richard was the man to choose for such a duty. Ser Richard was an excellent rider, but on snow-covered ground it might be better to send someone who was used to riding through difficult terrain on their northern garrons.

That was when a sound came floating down through the wind that drove all of Jon’s other thoughts away.

It was the long, echoing sound of a wolf’s howl.

As distant and faint as it was, Jon knew he’d heard correctly, for another wolf soon joined it. Ghost was standing ahead, his head pitched back in a loud howl that sent shivers down Jon’s back.

“What’s he on about?” Tormund asked. “Found a lady friend?”

“No… not a friend…”

_A sister._

Through their bond, Jon felt Ghost calling out to Nymeria. After Ghost’s howl, Nymeria answered the white direwolf’s call, though this one was different.

This sound held not only Nymeria’s voice but the spirit of Arya as well.

Jon could almost feel his little sister’s arms around him she was so close.

“We press on!” He yelled, ignoring Richard’s suggestion in his excitement. “There are friends ahead! Push the horses and mules hard! Winterfell has a welcome waiting!”

“Hurray!” Coll yelled. “Aldred, didn’t you hear? Yell ‘hurray’ with me!”

“I heard! I’m not yelling ‘hurray.’”

The howl came again, closer now than it had been, and Jon felt as elated as Ghost acted. The direwolf was bounding through the snow, heading further down the low lands they’d entered with Jon and the party following behind. The ridge Ser Richard wished to seek was near but Arya was too close for Jon to care.

So near that Ghost could smell her on the wind. A great many people were with her as well. Armored men. Men in leathers. An escort none could question.

“Is there a direwolf ahead ser?” Aldred asked and Jon laughed in answer.

“I believe so! The Starks come and they bring many friends!”

“Yell hurray Al!”

“Shut up!”

Jon was at the lead of the party, determined to be the first one to glimpse Arya coming over a hill or a drift. He’d scold her and yell at her for being out in the snows, but only after he’d hugged her half to death. Ghost was almost lost to his sight, the wolf had run so far ahead yet he forgave his friend that.

Another howl from Nymeria was even closer and his heart pounded in his chest.

The shouts coming from behind him only adding to his excitement.

“Riders!”

“Horsemen!”

“Where?” Jon called, scanning ahead for any sign of Arya and her men. ““Where are they?”

He saw no sign of them, only Ghost coming to a sudden stop and turning back towards Jon and their party.

“Behind us!”

“To the north!”

“By the gods!”

_Behind us? To the north?_

_No, Arya’s coming from the south…_

The trumpets blew before he’d fully turned to see what all the commotion was about. When he did, he saw just how right he was. Arya and their welcome from Winterfell were coming from the south.

The ambush was coming from the north.

His breath caught in his chest when he saw hundreds of riders forming a long line along the high ground behind them. Scores of the men were armored, with long, steel-tipped lances pointed high at the sky. The rest were less well-equipped but still far better prepared for battle than Jon’s men were. Jon himself was only in his leathers and a cloak. The only armored man in the column was the one riding hard up the line towards him, Ser Richard’s cloak flapping in the wind.

“The banners!” The knight yelled. “The banners! Trust them not!”

The banners were what Jon took notice of next. He saw quite a few ragged standards flying in the wind. Three brass buckles on blue. A purple and white knight standing combatant with swords. Three black ravens clutching red hearts on white.

A stag encased in a flaming heart.

_Buckler... Farring... Corbray... Baratheon…_

_No… no, no, don’t let this happen… I was going to settle things… we were going to have peace…_

“It’s an attack!” Ser Richard called as Jon’s own men barred his path. “Against R’hllor’s will!”

Before he could make sense of that, Ghost reached out to him, for the wind had changed and the direwolf smelt the threat before them. The men on the ridge wanted blood. They wanted death.

The direwolf’s howl was almost lost in the sound of trumpets blowing along the line of Stannis’s men.

“Oh, fuck me.” Aldred said before biting his reins and drawing his axe. “Ser, get out of here!”

“Bloody southron bastards!” Tormund roared, pulling a blade of his own.

“To me!” Jon shouted, kicking at his horse and riding down the line. “Give the women time to flee!”

“No!” Ser Richard shouted as he rode by. “It’s not them they want!”

The trumpets gave three short bursts and then a great cry went up from the onslaught of steel and death riding down towards them. Over a hundred men giving voice to the same, rage-filled chant.

_“The dragon will burn!”_

_“The dragon will burn!”_

It was a dragon they called for. So Jon answered the challenge, kicking his horse and drawing his sword.

Riding on to meet his foes.  
  
Like a knight would.

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold the sorrowful woman covered in blood.
> 
> A battle between knights true and false.
> 
> Before the Long Night to come and the fire to burn.

**BRIENNE**

The snow crunched beneath her knee as she knelt. She pressed Oathkeeper’s point into the ground, still sheathed. Wrapping her hands around the upturned handle, she lowered her head and began to pray.

_Let today be the day that we find Ser Jon alive and well. Let our journey back to Winterfell be quick and free of trouble._

_May my princess stay safe above all else… and give me the strength to forgive her follies._

She quickly glanced at Arya pouting on a log nearby, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the ground. Brienne was glad of that as Arya’s eyes were the greatest clue to her true identity. Had Sansa not revealed Arya’s identity from the start she wondered how long the Yoren disguise might have fooled her.

_Likely forever with how thickheaded I’ve acted lately._

_I once prided myself as being the one who brought Arya safely home. Now I lead her right back into danger._

_Madness…_

Sunrise was not an hour ago and already the camp was breaking for another day of riding. Arya had asked to saddle her own horse but Brienne denied her that. She would not allow Arya out of her sight for a moment, not even when offering her daily prayers. The princess had acted impatient toward that order but eventually obeyed.

Nymeria was far more impatient than Arya. The large wolf was pacing back and forth at the north end of their camp, whining and staring off into the distance.

“Brienne…”

“Be quiet.” She shot back, closing her eyes and returning to her prayers.

“Nymeria thinks-I mean, she’s acting like Ghost is close.” Arya pleaded. “That means Jon is close… we’re too slow with all these men and supply trains. We should just grab our fastest riders and go on ahead-”

“I said be silent Yoren.” Brienne gritted her teeth to speak the name. “And if you speak such foolishness again, I will stop this ride at once. To leave our party would be entirely too reckless, and with your record of late, I must assume you have foolish notions of riding off on your own...”

“No I don’t. I swear.”

“Your words are wind. Protest all you want but I do not trust liars.” She gripped her sword even tighter as anger took hold of her.

“I said I was sorry.” Arya's words grew weaker with each word. “We are friends Brienne… we-we were friends, please, I just want us-”

“Enough!” She shot to her feet, abandoning her prayers.

_Septon Harreth at Evenfall Hall always said that a prayer in anger is no true prayer at all._

Brienne didn’t bother sparing Arya a glance, for fear of what she might say in anger. Instead she began surveying the camp in search of Arya’s other guards on this headache of a ride.

Gendry was closest, armored in steel and bronze, leaning against his horse and watching them with a stern face. Ned and Anguy were not far either, walking the perimeter, keeping an eye out for any threats. Anguy wore his simple leathers and a heavy green cloak while Ned had donned his chainmail today. The cold metal set the Dornish lordling to shivering in the high winds but he refused to be outfitted in any less when protecting the princess.

The most disciplined of the men were ready to ride, Marlen and Rossett Locke doing their best to blend in among their number. The crannogman offered her a wink to signal that they too were on watch. To any unfriendly eyes, Brienne would be seen scolding an archer, the others merely bystanders to it. No one would notice this silent guard.

This was a shared strategy between Ser Kyle and herself. They had agreed that Arya should remain hidden the entire journey, to throw off any spies that might be watching from behind drifts and trees.

“She’s leaving the castle as an archer, let her stay an archer.” The knight had grumbled their first night without the castle. “Gods, this is a folly. Letting that beast lead us is already risky, but to drag a princess beyond the walls? Riding into the depths of winter, no less! I can name it nothing but folly…”

“Ser Jon would not want this.” Brienne had agreed. “When Arya first returned to the castle, the ser led a party out to make sure the princess did not take the final leg of her journey without his protection.”

That memory had bid her to look to the grey wool of her cloak, one she’d worn for moons with pride. As drab as it was, Brienne now valued it more than the rainbow cloak Renly had bestowed upon her. Thinking on that colorful cloak only served to remind her of failure. To gaze upon the grey one was to remember the duty she now held sacred.

“Ser Jon was the one who convinced me to become a Sworn Guard in the first place. Before that I was set on seeking vengeance, a quest that would have likely led to my death. Worse, it might have harmed House Stark’s cause. The ser knew that and he bid me to put my life and sword to better use. To safeguard the Starks against all threats-”

“And what if Jon Snow threatens them now?” Ser Kyle had spoken quietly, crouching down beside Brienne and joining her at the fire. “I rode with Jon Snow. I fought beside Jon Snow. I even remember him a bit when he grew up as a boy in Winterfell. He and King Robb acted as true brothers. I considered him a true Northman.”

Brienne had thought to point out Jon was indeed a Northman when a dark look passed over Ser Kyle’s face.

“I thought I knew him… but then came news of this grand plot that named him a Targaryen. I had a cousin who died at Stoney Sept so I didn’t care much to hear that, but I accepted him as the son of Rhaegar because the Starks asked me to. Then this betrothal… I did not think him capable of seducing Princess Sansa. That he would put the entire Kingdom of the North in danger just to raise himself up…”

Brienne had been shocked by the knight’s words, though they were not new to her. Marlen had said there were even men among the castle guard who held such views, men who’d fought beside Ser Jon in the retaking of Winterfell. From Gendry she’d learned that the smallfolk of the Winter Town were whispering foul things of the knight, even the ones who supported his match with the princess.

“They don’t care about plots or dragons or shit. They just want Ser Jon to marry the princess because they don’t like that Winterfell is ruled by a woman.” Gendry had admitted through gritted teeth. “They think Princess Sansa is too soft, King Rickon too wild, and they don’t even mention Arya! They say a strong lord who’s won some battles is what the North needs right now.”

On the other hand Ser Jon’s detractors viewed the marriage as the knight’s attempt to secure the Kingdom of the North for himself, or preparation for them to be conquered by the returned dragons of the south. The most outrageous rumors claimed that Jon had forsaken the old gods for the red faith, that he’d been secretly working for Stannis since his stay at Dragonstone, and that Sansa had been bewitched by the red priestess.

Then there were those who held the ser as a liar, that he remained Lord Stark’s bastard and that this marriage would lead to incest and abominations.

“No.” Brienne had spoken in Ser Jon’s defense. “No, the ser is not a man to do such things. I have seen my share of knights, both true and false, and I’ve no doubt which kind Jon is.”

“I did not believe it either… I don’t want to believe it truly. He rescued Princess Sansa from the Vale, risked his life countless times for the sake of the royal family, and I hear he even volunteered to set the Wall to rights.” The knight was pulling nervously on the red eagle of House Condon adorning his tunic. “The maester spoke to me of a letter the ser sent from Castle Black… of how Jon demanded the princess’s hand and authority over the king in exchange for holding the Wall. I can’t help but think that it makes sense. That perhaps all his acts were simply to curry more favor and power for himself…”

“Wait, wait, what are you talking about?” She’d asked. “I’ve heard Medrick speak to no such letter or plot, and I’ve stood in many of the regent’s councils.”

“Not Medrick, that other one.” The knight made a face. “Henly, that was his name. He said that he’d seen such a letter himself. That I should be ready to take Jon into custody, should he attempt to usurp command from me once we meet. He informed me that Jon was not to be trusted.”

“What!?” Brienne had been outraged. “That man is the one who shouldn’t be trusted! He’s an incompetent fool who wouldn’t know honor if it stared him in the face. I assure you ser, if such a letter existed then Lord Manderly and the council would have demanded that Jon be attainted for treason. I would have seen to it myself if need be!”

Kyle had gazed upon her thoughtfully for a moment, taking measure of her words even as she wondered what game Henly was playing at.

“The maester told me not to trust you either.” Kyle added. “He suggestest that should Jon try and take my men then you would likely help him. That the two of you have been consorting since you met in the Reach years ago. He implied while Jon has worked all these months to earn the trust of Princess Sansa that you have brought Princess Arya under your thrall. With the princess riding with us I feared you meant to deliver her as a hostage over to Jon-”

“Nonsense!” She snapped and her hand went to Oathkeeper’s pommel. “I would never harm Lady Catelyn’s children.”

The man had accused her of treason. Had he not acted so abashed a moment later, Brienne was sure that she would have struck him down. No matter her failures, no matter her shortcomings, she wouldn’t allow anyone to question her loyalty.

The knight held up his hands and made to ease her anger.

“My lady, hear me. I was only so foolish for a half a moment. Truly I began to doubt the maester’s word from the moment he started questioning your character.” Kyle smiled slightly but Brienne kept her guard up as she listened.

“I cannot believe you’d hand Princess Arya over to any. Why, if anyone thought to deliver her to enemy hands, they’d be mad to include you on such a venture. Through great adversity I helped deliver Princess Sansa to Winterfell, but I had an army at my back. You did the same for her sister with the help of only a rag-tag group of outlaws, and for no other reason than to fulfill a vow. You could have abandoned such a difficult journey but you did not. I watched you slay Ramsay Snow with mine own eyes. Men have told me what you said before you finished him, the name you spoke.”

 “Arya.” She remembered that fine moment. “I killed him in Arya’s name.”

“Then I trust you to act in her name now.” Ser Kyle said. “Whether Ser Jon is a usurper or the knight you think he is, that I hope he is, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that we serve the Starks in this. Their lives before all others.”

He’d offered his hand to her and Brienne did not hesitate to take it as she’d sworn the same vow to herself once before.

“Their lives before our own.” She’d agreed.

That had been two days ago and now Ser Kyle rode towards her. Podrick was coming along behind him, leading two horses.

“That wolf seems eager to be on its way.” The knight said as Brienne allowed Arya to take her horse from Podrick.

“As is our young archer.” Brienne replied, climbing upon her own garron. “Yoren will be riding at the front with us ser. It is likely that Nymeria has caught the scent of Ser Jon’s party.”

“Ser Calem can command the rear then.” Ser Kyle set to waving all of Arya’s protectors together to form the front of their column. “A steady pace! I do not want the horses spent, in case we need to be away in a hurry.”

“North is where we need to hurry.” Arya spoke up, earning glares from not just herself but Gendry and Ned as well. “The faster we ride the sooner-”

“-our horses will tire.” Ned said.

“And we’ll have to waste time resting them.” Gendry added.

To hear the two suitors united against Arya’s willfulness was not a new thing on their ride. When they’d been some hours from Winterfell, Ser Kyle had called a halt to their progress so that the truth of Yoren could be revealed and all would know just how serious their quest was. Anguy had burst out laughing when Arya pulled her hood back, but he was alone in his mirth. Many had cursed with disbelief while Gendry and Ned had paled.

Most were told little more than that, but later Brienne had shared the tale of Yoren’s misadventures with the three former outlaws. The only detail she’d kept hidden was of the brutal attack that Arya had endured. It was not something her princess nor Brienne wished to be widely known.

“How? How could she possibly escape notice?” Ned had found his voice first, shaking his head in disbelief. “Even with the disguise, how could she find time to act as some boy without someone noticing?”

“Pod was watching her.” Gendry looked to the crestfallen squire. “You said that to me. I came to you and ask-”

“I tricked him. I had Lya dress up as me.” Arya shrugged. “Tricked everybody really. It wasn’t so hard. We look a lot alike so there was no way for anyone to tell-”

“You’re not the same at all!” Ned had grown flustered. “I’d notice the difference! I can’t close my eyes without seeing… how could I have I missed this…”

“Shit Pod.” Anguy was still laughing. “You’re lucky you weren’t locked in stocks for fouling up like that. Losing a princess, hoo boy…”

“Leave him alone!” Arya stepped between Pod and the disapproving looks coming from all those they called friends. “He didn’t lose me! I escaped everybody, not just him!”

“Arya is right. Podrick is not at fault. He did his duty.” Brienne knew what fate Pod had saved her from. “The failure to keep Arya’s recklessness in check is shared by me and a few others. That none of you noticed her among our number until now speaks to the quality of her disguise. She’ll continue wearing it until we are safely returned to Winterfell.”

With that she’d pointed to Arya without looking at her. She could not bear to look at her then.

“The regent has tasked Ser Kyle and me with keeping the princess safe, a task I will need your help with. To do so properly you must ignore any and all commands Princess Arya gives you, unless Ser Kyle or I say different. Should you ever see the princess alone, restrain her immediately. Do not hesitate. She is an archer named Yoren now, a boy who is clearly willing to play upon our trust and good will to get what he wants.”

“No-no, I’m not.” Arya had protested. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. It was selfish and horrible and all that but you can trust me now. On my honor as a Stark.”

“But you are not a Stark, Yoren.” She had said, keeping her back to the girl. “Act as such until I say differently. Defy us in anything and this quest is at an end. I swear it.”

“I know, I know, I just don’t want you angry with me. Please Brienne.”

“That is all. You have my leave.”

Podrick gave Arya a sad look before walking away, and Anguy pushed Ned toward their tent, even though the lord looked to have more to say. Only Gendry stayed.

“I’m sorry m’lady but I have to speak the truth on something.” The knight had said with his head down in shame.  “I knew about Arya and Yoren before today.”

“You knew Arya rode with us today?”

“No m’lady, I never saw her wear the clothes. Can’t say I recognized her, it’s a damn good disguise… but I had thoughts to the truth before. Pod said she never left the castle and I started to think it was all in my head.” Gendry had offered Arya an expression of deep hurt then. “I felt guilty for doubting her in the first place… I forgot my duty as a knight. I should’ve said something anyway…”

“Gendry, it’s not your fault.” Arya spoke up, moving toward him but he’d stormed out of the tent with a look of disgust on his face.

Brienne had not moved to stop him, for she understood his shame well.

Arya had quieted after that, and had remained quiet even after they bedded down in the same tent together. They lay far apart from one another and Brienne turned her back to Arya. Even with the snows and heavy winds blowing, she’d scorned sharing the princess’s warmth. She’d heard the unmistakable sound of weeping some time later but resisted comforting Arya.

_Fall for hers tears and you risk letting her endanger herself once more._

_Your love led her to being nearly raped and likely murdered._

_Never again. Never again._

There were no snows today and for that she was glad. If there was any good tiding to be found in this quest, it was that the weather had improved over time.

Brienne rode largely in silence, with nothing to pass the time save her wary watch of the lands. Few among her party were inclined to speak to their thoughts, or even to one another. She knew Ned was furious that they hadn’t sent Arya back already, and Anguy spent much of the ride attempting to get the lordling to smile.

Gendry was morose and refused to take his eyes off the road or the hills. Brienne had tried speaking with him of how all were struggling with Arya’s betrayal but he’d been deaf to her feeble words.

As for Podrick, Brienne felt too guilty to look at him.

_He almost died from a fever he received from performing his duty._

_The last words he would’ve heard from me was how disappointed I was…_

_I must find him a proper knight to squire for… he deserves better than me…_

She thought perhaps to ask Ser Kyle to take him on, or even Ser Jon, once all this idiocy regarding the rumors about him was put to rest. Her mind was still mulling other options when Podrick himself rode up beside her. The young man offered a skin that had steam wafting from its top.

“Some crannog drink.” He made a face. “Not to get drunk on. Marlen says it takes the chill from your bones and it sort of helps. The taste lingers though... worse than when I cooked rabbit for us on the Kingsroad…”

When Brienne shook her head Podrick capped the skin again. She took the opportunity to marvel at how tall he’d become. The boy she’d met on the road had grown into a strong young man before her eyes, complete with a deepening voice and some stubble about his cheeks. People made jests about his growth spurt, Marlen going so far as to ask if Brienne and Pod were secretly related. She also knew of a wager between Duncan Snow and Morgan Liddle on whether the squire would reach her height within a year.

There was no denying Podrick had shot up a like weed at Winterfell. At times his newfound length of limb led him to awkwardness in the practice yard, something Brienne believed he could overcome as she once had. She’d begun eyeing a large tourney blade for Podrick’s future lessons. One that was similar in reach and weight to a two-handed greatsword. If Podrick did continue growing, the combination of his own long reach and that of a greatsword’s could make him a fearsome foe. To that end she’d set Podrick to helping the stewards carry about bags of grain and corn, to strengthen his arms and chest.

As she took stock of the muscle already building about Podrick’s shoulders, she saw them slump all at once. The squire had started staring at Arya, the girl riding alone in silence.

“I wish you wouldn’t be mad at her.” Podrick spoke softly. “All of you… I yelled at her plenty when I found out. We both kept the secret so I wouldn’t be shamed.”

“And to spare her any punishment.” She sighed to think the worst of the girl. “Arya is my charge and we are sworn to her safety. We allowed our feelings for her to cloud that duty. Our vigilance fell prey to our trust in her. So if I must distance myself from Arya to protect her properly, I will do so.”

“That’s horrible.” Podrick surprised Brienne by shooting a foul look her way. “You know the truth of what that man tried to do her.”

“I do… and I know that it was you who spared her that fate, as does the regent. We both owe you for that noble deed.”

“I did what you asked me to do. I don’t want thanks. I want you to do what you’ve always done. Be there for her.” He inclined his head towards Arya. “After what that man did to her, I was the only one she had to talk to. When I fell sick she had no one… you’ve no idea how horrible that feels, to have no one after such a thing…”

 _He understands that far better than I_ , she lamented,  _Podrick was there to save Arya but there were no one to save him from the hounds._

“Podrick, had I known what had befallen Arya, no force on this earth could have kept me from comforting her.” She kept her tone even. “Her lies denied me that chance. Her lies were the reason that Arya was in danger in the first place. It would not be right for me to forgive such a thing and ignore my duty as her protector simply because of my feelings.”

“She shouldn’t have lied or dressed up as Yoren, she’s said so. Arya learned her lesson.” Podrick pleaded with her. “You must see that. She started wearing a crown and attending council meetings, acting like the princess I told her she was. I didn’t speak the truth either my lady. I’ve kept secrets and you haven’t abandoned me.”

“I have not abandoned her! Your lies were not as foul as Arya’s. To keep such things secret is a betrayal of trust far beyond…”

She couldn’t finish.

Hearing those words coming from her mouth had felt wrong and she knew why. The truth of Lady Stoneheart remained sealed behind her lips. To serve the Starks filled her with pride, yet she’d served Lady Catelyn before them. Keeping the secret of her defilement by dark magics was a duty that Brienne owed her lady.

_To do so means I go each day lying to the young ladies I care for. To the king I serve._

_No matter how I cloak it behind noble reasons, I do lie to them. I break faith with the oath I swore to Sansa and Arya._

_Jaime was right. Too many oaths… it feels impossible to keep them all._

“It is not the same.” Brienne whispered to herself. “Arya acted out of selfishness… she hurt herself and Podrick.”

“Just as you did.” Podrick had at least heard the last part. “When you sought Stannis my lady, you risked your own life. I did the same when I sought you out. If the most honorable lady that’s ever lived can act so then I can’t see how Arya-“

“Stop. Just stop.” Brienne held two fingers to her forehead at the pain there. The mere action reminded her of Arya. “Reminding me that you have saved not only Arya’s life but mine own… is this your way of asking me to forgive her?”

Podrick scratched his head with a bemused expression.

“Um… well that would be nice. I’d be happy if you just talked to her again. I can’t be the only one she speaks with. I-I’m not the best with words…”

“Better than you know.” Brienne found herself reaching out and patting the squire’s shoulder. “In most things. Better than I ever could have expected when we met.”

Whether it was her words or touch, the young man blushed awkwardly all the same, fumbling his words and the skin of drink until it fell to the ground. When Podrick fell behind to fetch up the spirit, Marlen began cursing him out for wasting the mix. She caught Arya watching and smiling as Podrick offered up a handful of snow that had soaked up the drink, which set Marlen to cursing again.

Their eyes met then and it hurt to see Arya’s happiness die away.

Podrick’s request of her was not hard. She’d asked the Seven for strength to forgive Arya only hours before. All the squire had asked was that they speak.

 _Perhaps I can make her see reason… instill in her whatever lessons I’ve failed to already…_  
  
_Or help lead her away from the foul path my example has set her on…_

She kicked her horse over towards Arya and the girl’s eyes widened in surprise. A small part of Brienne was disappointed that Arya didn’t tense for battle or hide the hope upon her face better. Clearly there were some lessons they needed to go over.

“Princess.” She said curtly.

“I thought I was Yoren?” Arya answered doubtfully.

“I remember what I said. Just as I will remember the great damage you have done to not only me, but your friends, your sister, and worst of all yourself.”

Nodding solemnly, Arya lowered her head in shame.

_Podrick asked you to speak with her, not lecture her._

_Mother above, this used to be so easy…_

“I expected better of you.” She continued on. “Selfishly, I took pride in you Arya. Of your skill at arms, of the fine young lady you were becoming, of the service I gave to your family. In one fell swoop you made me question all of that. It will take me a long time to rebuild my reputation in your sister’s eyes…”

“Sansa didn’t think poorly of you.” Arya interrupted, making a difficult moment even harder. “She was only angry with me. Maybe a little at Lya, but mostly me.”

“And what of the shame I feel myself? Your actions affect more than just you. You must see that.”

“I do, I swear I do. I vow as a Stark, I will never lie to you again.”

The girl put her hand over her heart and spoke in a tone beyond her years. But her eyes were still the same as the little girl she’d rescued from a burning hut so long ago. Arya even offered her a hand, as if to shake on the vow.

_Do not let that beguile you, that she is still so young means you must still be firm._

_Love her as you must, but she is not your friend. She is not your daughter._

_She is your princess, defend her as such._

“I want to believe you Arya.” She took her princess’s wrist in hand. “I pray you make me believe so. That you swear oaths well means you should keep them even better.”

“I can and I will!” Arya clutched her wrist tightly. “I learned from my teacher…”

Brienne did not answer that, nor did she embrace the girl like she wanted to. Even as she was chiding herself for taking too much pride in her princess’s growth, Arya threatened to make her proud again. With a slight pull at Arya’s sleeve, she found herself gazing at the hard metal of the girl’s chainmail.

“I did not see you put that on.” She said.

“Neither did anyone else.” Arya smiled before imitating a serious voice. “What my enemies don’t know can hurt them.”

“You will not win me over with such platitudes.” Brienne hid her smile. “And I do not sound like that.”

After that she steered the conversation towards the pace Nymeria was driving them on. The direwolf was far ahead of them, at times acting like it wanted to run further before pausing, like it was being held back. Arya swore again and again that Nymeria could smell Ghost in the distance but Brienne didn’t see how that was possible. They’d been riding all day and there was still no sign. Surely if the wolf was close enough to catch a scent then they would’ve crossed its path by now.

Yet Brienne had heard no howls, and the men riding ahead reported no signs of another party. The rolling hills of this country made seeing over distances difficult though.

_Bad lands for a foe to fall upon us… the hounds attacked us on ground less favorable than this._

That made Brienne tense, yet nowhere near as badly as Arya did when Gendry and Ned rode up beside them.

“Ser Kyle says there’s a pond to the west of here.” Ned said, looking at Arya with his sad violet eyes. “There are rocks to shelter behind and fish in the water, had Ser Jon’s party faltered, he believes we might find them there.”

“He’s worried that Nymeria just caught wind of an elk or something.” Gendry added, a grin pulling at his mouth as he glanced between Arya and herself. “He thinks we’re putting too much faith in the wolf.”

“Jon’s not at a pond!” Arya pointed to Nymeria, growling and jumping in the snow to hurry on. “And that’s not how Nymeria hunts! We’re on the right path. Brienne, don’t let them take us off it.”

“The princess appears certain of where we need to be.” She said. “I’m inclined to stick with Nymeria. She hasn’t failed us yet as far as I can see.”

“Can we trust her?” Edric asked.

“I said I was sorry!” Arya snapped first at him, then at Gendry. “To you too! I fucked up okay-”

“Arya.” She warned.

“I messed up then, alright? I apologized, I never did it again, so what do you want from me? You’re both acting like I’m not messed up! Who the hell do you think you want to marry? Hell, I was filthy and dressed like a boy when I met both of you! If you think when I’m older that I’m always going to sit around in dresses-”

“I was talking about the wolf!” Edric held up his hands to stem Arya’s flood of words. “Nymeria! I was asking if we could trust her!”

“Oh.” Arya straightened up in saddle with embarrassment.

_She clearly needs to learn the lesson of keeping certain thoughts to herself._

“No no, don’t stop there.” Gendry smirked to Ned and made a brushing motion. “What say you m’lord? Last time we tried to apologize for something, Princess Yoren here wasn’t so forgiving.”

“That’s right ser.” Ned grinned. “I believe some scouring of mail and brushing out horses was in order. Even a threat of banishment.”

“Good memory you Dornish have.” Gendry nodded which set Arya to sputtering

“It’s not the same! You two got yourselves hurt! Pod too! Acting like selfish, thick-headed… oh bugger…”

The dawning of what she was saying came on Arya all at once and she made a frustrated sound to the delight of her suitors.

“Quick minds these Northerners have.” Edric remarked, and Brienne stifled a laugh as she admonished Arya once again for cursing.

“Fine. Make fun of me then.” Arya crossed her arms and blew horsehair from her face. “Come and mock me all you want, I don’t care. Find me around the fire later and you can keep mocking me, either of you… or just to talk or something. I won’t mind, I miss that…”

Brienne felt incredibly uncomfortable then as all three young people began to blush. While she knew Arya had not meant the comment to be anything more than innocent, it was plain where their young minds had wandered.

“I mind!” Brienne spoke hurriedly. “I mean that I would mind if you begin treating Yoren as anything more than an archer… speak to her but no more. Not that I’m implying what else there could be but… talk to her only with me about!”

The three youths were both shocked and confused at her words. Arya was the first to speak, whispering to Brienne as her own face burned.

“Jon told me once that it’s smart to keep some of our thoughts to ourselves…”

“Yes Arya, fantastic advice.” She sought some sort of escape from this awkwardness when she spotted something alarming.

“Something’s burning.” Brienne pointed north, where the dark smoke rose in the distance. “Something big.”

“Jon!” Arya answered happily. “It’s got to be Jon!”

“There’s a lumber camp out of the Winter Town somewhere along our route.” Gendry rubbed his chin. “Could be them… could be a good place to find the ser and his men.”

Brienne still thought that was a great amount of smoke for a lumber camp… but then again, she’d never seen a northern one in winter. What did she know of felling trees and clearing lands?

“Seek Ser Kyle.” She commanded of the two men. “Tell him we press on. We follow the wolf.”

If the knight had any objections to that decision he didn’t send Gendry or Edric back with them. Instead they continued on after an increasingly frantic Nymeria and a visibly agitated Arya. The girl was clenching her teeth and held her reins tightly at her waist.

_She had better not be thinking of riding straight toward Ser Jon as soon as we see him._

_Not without me at her side._

The direwolf’s sudden howl hushed Brienne’s warning and pulled all eyes to Nymeria. The wolf had descended into a long stretch of lowlands ahead and had arched its neck north during its cry. Her hand went to her sword while she scanned the lands for any sign of ambush. She saw no sign of riders about the flanks or upon the hill however.

A moment later, a second howl came, but this one was distant, barely heard over the blowing of cold winds. 

“Brienne! Did you hear?” Arya stood in her saddle, clapping her hands together. “It’s him! It’s him!”

“Sit down! Do not draw attention!”

Arya did as she was ordered, then did something strange. She shut her eyes and leaned her head back, as if praying up to the sky.

“Arya? What is it?”

The answer did not come from Arya, but from Nymeria. The wolf howled once more and began running forward, pushing headlong through the snows to the north.

“Brienne.” Arya snapped out of her spell. “We need to go now. Nymeria’s found them! She’s found Jon! Please, let’s hurry!”

As she considered Arya’s proposal, Ser Kyle and Marlen charged up to them.

“Be that them you think?” Marlen asked, pointing his spear after Nymeria. “She’s not stopping this time.”

“Could it hurt to press a gallop to that hill?” Ser Kyle asked and Brienne saw no reason not to try. From the hill they’d have control of the high ground and would be able to see for a great distance.

When Nymeria howled again the decision was made.

“Let us ride. Podrick! Gendry! Edric! To me!” She shouted as she waved Arya to her side. “Let us go and find Ser Jon.”

The princess beamed beneath her ugly garb and as soon as they’d formed up in a proper line with her at the center the party was off. It was slow going through the snow but their horses were strong and not taxed by the journey so far.

Nymeria howled once more and Arya shouted in happiness as they rode on. Brienne smiled too. Reuniting the girl with Ser Jon would be a good thing in foul times. She also looked forward to hearing of the ser’s time at the Wall. The specter of fighting the inhuman Others was a strange idea that she wondered on…

“No!” Arya suddenly cried, her face contorting in fear. “No! No! That’s not right!”

“What isn’t right?” She shouted back over the sounds of their horses.

“There’s something wrong! She can smell it! Something’s there! Someone’s there!”

“Arya what-”

Before she could ask about Arya’s sudden change of heart, a new sound broke through all others. A sound that didn’t belong here in these northern lands. Wolves howling, the beating of horses’ hooves, even the wind itself. That all belonged.

Not the sound of trumpets.

“What the hell?” Anguy shouted back from his spot ahead of her.

“That’s trumpets!” Rossett Locke boomed beside Ser Kyle. The knight looked to her with a concern that did not match the fear building in her heart.

For Northmen didn’t use trumpets, they preferred their war horns. Trumpet blasts belonged to the lands Brienne herself hailed from, the lands below the Neck, the south. That was what troubled her and set her mind to racing. There were only two southron armies here in the North.

One belonged to Sansa’s Vale allies, who held the Dreadfort and helped man the Wall at Eastwatch, far from here. The second was one she knew all too well.

_Stannis Baratheon._

_Stannis’s army is ahead._

A howl broke free from beyond the hill and Arya cried out in terror.

“Jon!” She screamed. “Jon, run! Run!”

“Arya you must be away!” Brienne tried to grab at her reins but couldn’t quite reach. “It’s not safe! Stannis is here! I can’t have you near Stannis! Arya!”

Arya kicked her horse all the harder and Brienne was forced to do the same, pulling her sword as she did so. For when the trumpets blasted again in a familiar fashion, she knew the blade would be needed.

“It’s an attack! Prepare for battle!”

“Protect the princess!”

“Defend Arya!”

_Save her from him._

 

**MELISANDRE**

“Burn them!” Tormund Giantsbane roared, waving his sword above his head. “Get them burning now!”

Horses and mules screamed while men groaned in reply, dragging their party’s wagons and sleighs together as a barrier. Gilly’s babe was wailing in her arms but she cared little for the abomination’s feelings at the moment. It was the men riding towards them that she watched now.

Most of her party had reached the foot of the hill to the opposite end of the valley. The retreat had been hurried and panicked as King Stannis’s men thundered down from the northern hill. The attacking army was only now beginning to reach the valley, where their party had just retreated from.

 _The Lord of Light was kind to our escape_ , she thought,  _he robbed the strength from their horses and gifted it to our own._

_Just as he lends his strength to me now… and to the dragon returning to me…_

Melisandre’s ruby burned hot against her neck as Val and Gerda joined Devan in setting flame to their sleighs. Beyond those newborn fires, she watched Jon Snow and a brave score of men draw away the army at their backs. They’d stayed behind in a feigned defense, drawing Stannis’s riders to them while Tormund had led the rest of their party to a more defensible location.

That it was her king’s men attacking them now struck deeply against her faith in him. She’d felt R’hllor’s power flowing through her since burning the blood she’d taken from Jon Snow. 

_If such power could be drawn from his blood then it cannot be wasted on this field._

_R’hllor did not show me this battle… he showed me the great fire in the cold castle but not this…_

_Why?_

“Their horses are lathered! Exhausted!” Jon Snow had roared as he gathered riders around him. “Tormund, take the others! Seek that south hill! Ready for a fight!”

“Aye! You be there when it comes!” The wildling had blown a horn and most of the riders had begun the retreat. That had left maybe twenty men about Jon, a pitiful line raising their blades high and screaming derision at the struggling charge.

She spotted Aldred Hilgard, Coll Lothien, and Toregg the wildling amongst Jon’s number, but it was Ser Richard who stood apart. The only man armored and upon a destrier rather than a garron, he had more in common with the attackers than his current company. Melisandre saw the standards of Godry Faring and Brus Buckler in the line of horses riding towards them, but she saw the truth of Jon Snow’s claim as well. Wherever these men had come from, they’d driven their horses harshly to catch Jon’s party here.

That was when Melisandre’s sleigh, where all the wildling women rode, had jerked away to the southern hill, which had sent Val tumbling into her. The wildling princess had been about to leap free and join the fight herself it seemed.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” A Stark rider pointed a spear at them as the sleigh rode on. “There’ll be plenty enough fight for us all at that hill!”

“You’d leave him?” Val had snapped, wrenching herself up while gently cupping the cheek of the wailing babe in Melisandre’s arms. “Jon is to fight them all by himself?”

“He’s got men!”

“They have more!”

“Shut it!” The man warned before threatening the driver. “Beat them fucking mules to death if you have to but get this thing going!”

While they had raced away, Jon Snow and his men held their ground. The distance between Melisandre and the dragon grew as the gap between him and the charge was shrinking.

“Flee dragon.” Gylda cupped her hands before her as she watched in fear. “It’s just like when Stannis came before. They’ll ride right over him. He has to run…”

“Where to? They’ll be on us soon anyway, best be ready.” Gunhilda was fumbling through some furs to pull free some sharpened bone daggers, which she tossed to her sisters in turn. “Gilly, do you have a blade?”

“I don’t need one.” She’d answered, shaking her head and begging R’hllor for guidance through this madness.

“What about the babe?” Gerda had asked. “They’ll throw him to the snows and leave him to freeze or worse. You’ll need a blade to take care of him if it comes…”

“I will do what must be done.”

“Ride!”

Val’s scream punctuated their argument, the wilding slamming her fists at the end of the sleigh as she urged Jon to escape. The southron riders were moments away from overtaking Jon’s line, yet it stood still.

“Ride you fool! Please! For me, for that Stark girl! Just fucking ride!”

A white blur had blown by them then, heading back towards Jon Snow’s position. Ghost’s furious pace came to an abrupt end as the wolf stopped in a flurry of snow and threw back its head to howl.

Whether it was Melisandre’s prayers, Val’s screams, or the direwolf’s howl she could not say, but something willed Jon Snow to break off then. The dark knight and his riders all turned and fled along the path that Tormund and the others had blazed before them.

All save one.

Ser Richard had not drawn his sword. Holding his hands high, he rode forward towards the attacking army, as if going over to them.

_I tasked him with such simple duties, how can be break faith with R’hllor now?_

_For fear? For greed? Stories of the honorable knights of Westeros are lies indeed._

Whatever became of the knight she did not see, for he was enveloped in the embrace of the Baratheon charge as it pounded onwards.

A line of spears, lances, and drawn swords chased Jon Snow and his men as they fought to rejoin Melisandre and the others behind the flaming barriers they’d created. In moments the fight would reach them and the knight spared no time.

“Gerrick, gather the archers to the barrier! Aim for the horses!” Jon waved about as his party formed up to the far end of their circle. “Toregg hold the left! Tormund the right! I’ll hold the rear. They’re going to try and charge by our front and encircle us!”

He jerked his horse forward and grabbed a spear free from Devan. The boy had been performing his duty as a squire the entire ride, helping men outfit themselves with mail and weapons whenever possible. Melisandre was proud that Devan remembered himself in this time when most boys his age might panic.

The knight rode by the squire before doing something surprising. He drew his sword and denied himself the longer-reaching weapon, tossing the spear at the wildling women’s feet.

“Val! Stay to the center!” Jon commanded. “Keep that babe safe!”

“Keep yourself safe!” Val hefted the spear up and drove its end into ground. “Fight like the man I know you are. Be well Whitefyre.”

“Give the women spears!” Jon shouted. Some of the men began to protest but he ignored them all. “We’ll need their strength!”

Jon nodded at Val before riding off as Devan rushed towards the Kingsblood girls, arming them with spears as ordered. There were none left for Melisandre however, leaving her armed with only her faith and a screaming, red-faced child.

“Don’t worry Gilly.” Devan pulled his sword and stood before her. “My father told me to care for women and children. He’d want me to stay with you.”

“Your father would be proud.” She offered, but her words were drowned out as the thunder of hooves boomed around them.

Trumpets blasted again as an unruly line of men swept around the burning barrier, screaming and howling their battle cries. Some of the more foolhardy attempted jumping the wagons, only for their horses to shy at the last moment and send the falling riders into the flames. One horse did brave the attempt, its legs catching against some wood as it did so, flipping the beast through the air so that it crushed its rider upon the ground before Melisandre.

“Loose you bastards!” Gerrick shouted and his few archers and crossbowmen began shooting.

Horses screamed and a handful fell as more crashed into the northern ranks encircling her. The sudden clashing of horsemen drove those behind crashing into one another. More men and horses fell to ground, trampled by their allies. The rest rode around the edges of their writhing flanks, pushing up the hill and trying to get around, just as Jon Snow had expected.

“Look out!” Devan shouted as he shoved her aside. A Florent rider had broken through and rode at them waving a flail.

Devan met the attack with his sword but it was Gylda that drove the rider from his horse. The girl’s spear stabbed up and through the rider’s armpit, felling their attacker in a bloody spray. Even more blood was being spilt nearby.

Tormund’s blade cleaved a horse’s head half off with a stroke of his sword while he grabbed hold of another man’s spear and yanked him from his saddle. The man Jon Snow had condemned to the Wall had been given a sword again and sliced the belly of a man-at-arms open before another enemy caved his head in with a maul.

To the rear, Jon Snow was engaged in a brutal fight between many opponents. She counted no less than five riders trying to press in on him. He did not fight alone though.

The one armed axeman showed his worth by leaping from his horse and onto the back of one of his foe’s mounts. Aldred slit the man’s throat from behind before  using the dying man’s back to steady his attack against an enemy riding beside him, driving his axe into the rider’s face with a sickening crunch.

By then the horse Aldred and the first man sat upon began to rear and the northman jumped clear. Ghost leapt to the defense of Jon soon after, driving back another two attackers as his master finished the third.

Yet more came to fill their place.

Far too many.

 _It is time to call on R’hllor’s will_ , she decided,  _his flames will guide the way._

_He will not abandon me now… not now…_

She had begun to work an enchantment, despite the writhing child in her arms, when the sound of hooves nearby broke her concentration. The fight had made its way within the circle, the sides pressing in and the killing growing far too close to Melisandre and the others. One rider in particular led an attack against her group, and the knight appeared all too pleased to see the foes awaiting him.

“It’s you! The royal wildling cunt!” Ser Clayton Suggs’s bloodstained face opened up in an ugly smile. He pointed his blade down at Val as he rode, laughing. “I won’t bleed you too much! You can join the dragon in burning!”

“Take the horse!” Val smiled back. “I want his blood for myself!”

The knight cursed as the wildling women all rushed forward together with a scream. He cut down Gylda’s spear point but Gerda’s found its mark, driving into the horse’s neck and sending it stumbling to the ground. Ser Clayton jumped free before being crushed as two more men afoot joined the attack on the women.

“Gilly! Get back to the wagons!” Val shouted as she joined Gylda in taking on a man waving a mace. “The fire will hold them back! Get the boy to the fires!”

_Yes… I should give him to the fires…_

Melisandre looked down at the red-faced, terrified child in her arms. He was staring about wide-eyed at the death all around him and found no comfort from her embrace. He would likely die in any event. Giving him to the flames as a sacrifice to R’hllor might help her save other lives.

“Mmm… mmm… muh muh…” The babe choked out between sobs, surprising her with its words. “Mama… mama…”

He’d never spoken before.

“Yes. Yes, your mother.” Melisandre turned to the wagons, moving quickly as the child continued babbling. “I shall let you join your mother.”

Unfortunately, she’d waited to take action for too long. A man grabbed at her cloak and jerked her back. She fell violently onto the hard ground, crawling aside just as a longaxe buried itself in the snow beside her head.

“Stay still whore.” The helmed man grunted, hefting his weapon up again.

When he tried to bring it down, a sword caught its down stroke, Devan standing firm between her and the attacker. The squire pushed back and cut at the man, who blocked it and made to take Devan’s head in turn. They fought like that for a moment or two longer before Devan came too close and suffered for it. The attacker lashed out with a fist, catching the squire across his face, and Melisandre found herself fearing for Devan’s life then.

That fear was for naught for the Lord of Light guided Gunhilda to them. The wildling stabbed her spear through the Baratheon man’s middle, laughing with a dangerous glee as she did so. Tearing it free, she was still shaking the gore from its tip when she made to help Gilly to her feet.

_Of course, Devan has served well. The Lord of Light always protects those worthy._

The wildling woman was about to say something when she paused in fear.

For Ser Clayton had gained his feet and held his sword high, his face filled with rage and cruelty.

“Been too long since I killed a wildling.” He sneered. “Or a woman.”

“I’ll try and make it a little longer then!” Gunhilda yelled as she charged at him. “Kingsblood! The Redbeard!”

“Shut up.”

The knight moved with confidence, steeping into the strike and turning sideways so that the spear glanced off his plate. His sword drove straight through Gunhilda’s stomach. Clayton grabbed a handful of her hair and laughed at her cries of pain, jerking the blade back and forth in the girl’s wound. A bloody rain spilled forth onto the snow as the young woman was gutted viciously before Melisandre’s eyes.

_King’s blood… he wastes it… he lets it go to waste in snow… for cruelty’s sake…_

“Monster!” Devan came at the knight, sword flashing before him. “Leave her be!”

Clayton threw Gunhilda’s body free from his blade and met the squire’s attack with a shout of sickening joy. Devan got in half a strike before he was wheeling back under the knight’s return blows.

“Is that you Onion Runt?” Clayton cut into Devan’s arm, causing him to cry out and drop his sword. Melisandre felt her heart racing. “You still live? There can’t be many of you Seaworths left now with your fucking sot of a father dead and cold.”

“My father?” Devan rasped. “What do you say of my father?”

Melisandre knew that had to be a lie. Clayton was simply trying to distract the boy, for R’hllor surely would have shown her such an important death. Her king needed Ser Davos and his wisdom, even if the man acted against her at times. The Lord of Light had shown her that at Dragonstone. It couldn’t be true.

_I would have seen it!_

The ploy had worked though, for Devan didn’t notice the pummel of Clayton’s sword until it broke his nose in a bloody spray.

“Stop it.” Melisandre said without thinking, rising to her feet.

“Oh, he’s dead alright. Saw him all bloody and cut up myself. A peeled onion ha ha!”

Clayton kicked into Devan’s groin and sent the boy to his knees. The knight stopped Devan’s feeble strike by catching his wrist and wrenching it back until Melisandre heard a snap and her squire was screaming.

“Stop it!” Melisandre hissed, the ruby on her neck burning. “Stop it… he serves me… he is mine…”

The knight ignored her, throwing Devan back onto the ground and stomping down on his other hand. Chuckling, he pointed his blade down at the fingers peeking out from beneath his boot.

“Proud of your pa eh? Want to be an Onion Knight like him? Let me help you then.”

“Stop!!” She shrieked.

Clayton cut downwards and sliced away Devan’s fingers in a spate of blood. Devan writhed in agony, feebly swinging his broken arm at the knight’s boot. Clayton laughed at his pain and then at Melisandre when she strode towards them.

A battle raged all around her, with far more important fights taking place that she might need to witness. Val was slitting the throat of a spearman, Toregg fighting back to back with Gerda, Gylda loosing her bow at the press of riders pushing in.

Yet Melisandre barely saw any of it. Her eyes were for Devan, whose bloody face suddenly reminded her of a memory that she had thought long forgotten. From a time so far away, before she had found her way in R’hllor, a time she only ever thought on during the Great Other’s dreaded dreams of sleep. A time when the slavers had come to her village.

When she was Melony.

When she had a brother.

She couldn’t remember her brother’s name in that moment and for some reason that infuriated her. For he had meant something, there was love there but she could remember little else. What she did remember was terrible. Of how he had died beneath the boots of a slaver. One who had laughed at her brother’s death as cruelly as Clayton laughed now at her squire’s pain.

“Like father like son!” He shouted before smirking at her. “Wait your turn missy, just be a moment longer.”

_No, I wait no longer._

With the flames at her back, Melisandre’s lips moved in silent prayer, the ruby filling with the rage she felt now. The power of Jon Snow’s blood was gifted to her for a purpose, but she couldn’t remember what it was in that moment. Smoke rose from beneath her cloak but her eyes saw through it. Her mind saw through the pain.

“The fires for you then bitch.” Clayton raised his sword up for the killing stroke on Devan before pointing at the fires nearby. “After this, I’ll finally get to watch something burn.”

“Yes you will.” She answered and R’hllor’s will burst forth from her.

Clayton’s clothes and the air around him shifted as if hit by a breeze and an expression of confusion crossed his face.

“Eh? The fuck was-”

The rest was a wrenching scream as the knight erupted in flame. It started in no one place at first. One moment he was an ugly man. The next he was a burning, writhing pile of flesh.

His screams filled the air as he flailed about, stumbling towards her and falling before her feet.

“Help! Please, aaah! Gods help me!” The burning thing’s wails drowned out the cries of the restless babe in her arms. “It hurts! Gods, it hurts!”

“Good.”

Battle and death raged around her.

And she took pleasure in this pain.

Seeking wisdom from the flames borne of it.

 

**JON**

“Coll!” Jon yelled as his own horse reared up. “Coll, get down!”

The bloodied youth had been driven to a knee by a Corbray swordsman and Jon prayed that his squire heard the command. The lad had always been a good listener, even if he didn’t always grasp what you said.

Coll dropped low just in time and a moment later Jon’s horse lashed out with its hooves, caving in the Corbray’s man’s face. Rolling away, he sprang to his feet to deliver a two handed cut into the leg of a man who’d been coming at Aldred.

His sworn man’s axe cut left and right, splitting skulls and cleaving flesh with a deathly ease that amazed Jon. He had worried that Aldred would not be as effective in battle after his injury but those fears were long gone. His injury only meant that Aldred had had to become more creative in his killing. When a Baratheon spearman blocked a downward cut, Aldred simply leaned forward to clamp his teeth about the man’s neck and tore at it so the vein was opened in a bloody mess.

Spitting flesh from his teeth, the axe man reminded Jon of Ghost then. The wolf was doing much the same in this carnage around them. Lunging upwards Ghost latched onto the arm of a rider with his great red jaws, and pulled the man down from his horse to an even more gruesome death.

Jon had his own death to deal as well.

He did not lack for foes and he knew that unless things changed soon, death would find all of them on this day.

There were no lines to speak of anymore. Everywhere he looked, his party mixed in with their enemy. That they hadn’t already been overwhelmed was thanks only to the harsh terrain of the North. Trying to charge up the hill to come around his men had led their enemy on inclines slick with ice and snow, where rocks hid beneath for horses to slip and break legs on. Scores of the suffering mounts whinnied in agony, their heavy bodies blocking other struggling riders from pushing through.

Many men now came at them afoot, clambering over the fallen horses to bring the fight to them still. While the Northmen and free folk fought bravely side-by-side in this battle, it was a losing fight.

A fight against men who were supposed to be their allies.

“Did you know?” He’d asked Ser Richard. They were awaiting the coming of his comrades in arms. Aldred and Toregg had made to cut the knight down as he joined their line but Jon had held them off.

“Back there, you said it was an attack. I have to ask, how long did you know this was coming?”

“I was not told any plans for an ambush.” The knight had spat and glared at the approaching charge. “I admit that there was talk of you being a traitor at the Nightfort. Many of the men wanted to see you brought low. The King and his Hand always rejected their words though-”

“Well they fucking changed their minds!” Aldred growled, tightening his studded leather glove with his teeth. “I’ll kill as many as I can my lord but you should go.”

“He is right ser.” Ser Richard had surprisingly agreed. “Leave now and you might escape. Their horses are tired, yours are not. Gain the hill and then keep going.”

“And what of those without horses?” Jon had glanced back at the fleeing wagons and sleighs. “The women and the babe? Even if we put them two to a horse, how far ahead could they stay?”

“Let us make a fight of it at the hill then.” Aldred put forward. “You ride on to Winterfell. Let us do what we are sworn to.”

“I have sworn vows as well. I felt the touch of Bronze Yohn’s sword on my shoulders because of them. A knight serves a higher calling than his own life. He defends the helpless and protects the weak.” Jon couldn’t help but smile then at Aldred and the others. “He stands with good men. No, if any should flee let it be the rest of you. The task before me is no true choice.”

When no answer came from the others, and the air filled only with the wind and the sounds of hooves, Jon felt heartened that he would not stand alone. Their foe would be on them in moments and he wondered whether it would be Lyn Corbray or Godry Farring leading the charge.

_Godry always wanted to test his steel against me, and I doubt Lyn will afford me any mercy for our time together hunting Stannis in the snows._

_I should have killed Lyn after he murdered that boy… I should have fought Godry when I had the chance._

_Before the day is out I must right those mistakes._

The army had been upon them when Ghost howled. Somehow he knew then that Tormund’s group had been given all the lead they needed.

“Let’s go! Back to the others!”

“Go on ser.” Ser Richard had held firm while the rest turned their horses. “Like you said, a knight serves a higher calling. Perhaps I can make them see reason.”

“Richard they’ll kill you-”

“And I would deserve it. Go.”

To his shame, he had left the knight to the mercy of the men behind.

Whether Richard had been spared or had suffered for his noble act, he could not say. There was no time. After helping Tormund form up their ranks and outfitting the wildling women with weapons, it had been nothing but fighting. Nothing but trying to stay alive from moment to moment.

“Dragonspawn! I shall be your death today!” Ser Brus Buckler came at him, his mount struggling through the snows. “Bronzegate! Bronzegate!”

Their pace was so slow that the Buckler knight tossed his lance aside to pull up a Morningstar, waving it as they came together.

“My king demands your death ser!” Ser Brus shouted gleefully as he smashed his weapon against Jon’s shield. “Kill you, and Sansa Stark is mine by royal decree!”

“Traitor! Murderer!” Jon shouted back, slashing at the knight with his sword. “How many good men have died for this treachery? How many!?”

They both stayed ahorse as they circled one another and clashed. The knight was a brutal fighter, hammering the Morningstar at his shield while trying to lead Jon’s horse into tripping over fallen bodies. The strategy backfired though when the man became so distracted herding Jon that his own mount was driven back by Ghost’s scent. The horse reared hard and the knight struggled to keep his saddle. It was enough distraction that he missed Jon’s upward cut.

His sword was buried halfway into the knight’s skull through his jaw. To his shock and disgust, Brus lingered long enough to gurgle a final insult from his broken mess of a face.

“Bashtud…”

Jon pulled back with all his might to wrench his sword free, ripping the man jaw off with it. The gore of the moment didn’t have time to bother him as another Corbray rider came upon him and Jon was fighting once more. The man bore the sigil of a raven holding a heart upon his breast. Jon aimed for that heart as he ran his sword through the man. Shortly after that he was wrenched violently from his saddle.

His landing was a flash of pain, followed by the burning cold of the snow. Jon forced himself to move quickly. Stillness in battle was equivalent to death. Snow caked his face and he’d barely wiped it away before he saw a Florent guardsman making to kill him with a sword in one hand and a dirk in the other. Rolling away from the sword cut, he came up to a knee in time to find another foe joining in. This one cut at Jon as well and he managed to block the slash in time, but it left him hard-pressed and exposed to the other man’s attack.

Before the Florent could raise his dirk to strike however, Aldred challenged him.

“Have at me you fuck!” The gore encrusted warrior shouted, and his axe met the man’s sword in the air.

That Aldred had nothing to shield against the dirk did not stop him from trying. He threw his maimed arm in the path of the blade and it pierced straight through his stump, just below the wrist. Aldred cried out and jerked his arm away, pulling the dirk from his wielder’s grasp. Still Jon’s man did not fall back from the pain. He attacked again with his axe and his foe deflected it with his sword, using both hands to try and overpower Aldred’s one.

Such was his undoing. Aldred raised his free arm and drove the dirk blade sticking out from his wrist straight into the man’s eye.

Jon caught all of this from the corner of his own eye as he threw back his enemy’s hold. On his feet, Jon started slashing and cutting in the manner that he was best skilled. Sword in hand, free of foot, darting in different directions and letting his sword become a blur between them.

As he drove it down through the man’s groin, the guardsman’s howl of pain intermingled with another that carried over the sounds of battle. It was not Ghost though. His friend was too busy battling off two riders who were seeking to do him in with pikes. As risky as it was to stop and search the lands around them, Jon spotted a beacon of hope at the cusp of a hill above slightly southwest.

The direwolf’s grey coat almost matched the sky it stood against, yet Jon knew her by sight. Nymeria was blood to him in a way. Ghost’s sister stood tall as she gazed down at the fight, breathing heavily before howling again.

Through his bond with Ghost, it felt like a sweet sound.

That howl seemed to herald the coming of a rider who looked down on the battle. Things continued to improve as others began appearing upon the hill as well. Soon a long line of riders flying the Stark direwolf had formed up above them, outfitted for battle and with sizeable numbers.

_We have a chance! By the gods, we have a chance!_

_Get down here! Get down here and ride right over these traitors!_

Those men couldn’t hear his thoughts but he was heartened to notice that Nymeria and the first rider were already charging down the hill. Others were frantically trying to catch up with the small leader of the attack. Jon spotted a bow in his hand but his cloak and filthy hair were unfamiliar.

Until he took notice of how this rider handled his horse.

Half-raised up, strong legs holding firm in the stirrups, his body steady and poised as the mighty beast below shuttered and shook, plowing through the snows.

He’d seen many fine riders in his life. Robb had been a great one himself. Yet even the King in the North couldn’t hold a candle to the rider that Jon watched now.

There was no mistaking her. He’d grown up his entire life watching her treat riding as an effortless art. When she’d returned to Winterfell, she’d charged forward to his arms much like this. Those around her had to struggle to match such speed. Nymeria led the charge while Brienne of Tarth and Ser Gendry rode hard right behind but it was no use.

Arya never let anyone catch up to her.

The happiness that came from seeing his little sister only lasted a moment. His selfishness fell away and he realized that Arya was now riding straight into the blood soaked battlefield where Stannis’s men were intent on slaughter.

“Arya stop!” Jon cried out, trying to wave her away. “No Arya! Go back! Not you! It’s not safe-”

“Dragon!” A man screamed, running at him with a spear aimed at his gut.

Jon cut down hard and snapped the spear point off, spinning around with the backswing to open up the man’s neck in one fluid motion. The dying man was still falling as Jon started running again to Arya.

More came to challenge him. A Baratheon man-at-arms took him on next as Aldred rushed ahead to catch a man coming right behind the first one. Jon wanted to be free of this foe, if only to get his little sister away from here.

Ser Rodrik’s lessons in Winterfell’s yard came to him then. Robar’s pressing of his abilities day after day in the lands of summer. Willem’s constant drive to frustrate him into improving.

All of these men had built Jon up for this moment, to cut down this man that stood between him and Arya. With a steady hand he held his blade high, with a watchful eye he caught the way the man tensed as if to jump aside, and with the speed he’d developed after countless fights, Jon met him there.

Two cuts later, the man was a bloody heap, and Aldred’s opponent was missing an arm. When Jon’s eyes flickered up to see Arya and her men almost upon the fray, he barely caught the next man to challenge Aldred.

Tall, broad shouldered and brawny, this knight was far better armored than either of them.

_This man challenged me once many moons ago._

_I should have taken his head when I had the chance._

“Move aside cripple.” Ser Godry Farring threw his blood spattered cloak aside with shield and sword in hand. “The bastard is mine.”

Aldred stood no chance yet he went forth anyways. The blow from his axe was knocked aside by Godry’s sword and then Aldred himself was thrown back. The knight had used his shield to bash in Adlred’s head, sending blood and teeth flying through the air. Jon’s sworn man went sprawling into the snow.

When Godry made to finish Aldred off he found Jon pushing him back, sword raised high and shield at the ready.

“Finally.” Godry sneered. “It’s about time you atoned for your crimes bastard. I’ve been waiting for this day for months …”

“Be quiet Godry. Your words betray your stupidity.”

Jon flexed his burned hand and watched as Godry’s face grew enraged. In that moment he didn’t just see a man who looked down on him for being a bastard. He saw every person who selfishly hurt rather than selflessly helped. Every highborn who used their status to abuse the weak. Every knight who put their ambition and pride before their noble vows.

_Everything my father raised me not to be._

“I’ll be honest though ser.” Jon spun his blade in the air like a friend once had. “I do regret never testing the skills of Ser Godry Farring…

“…The Grumpkin Tickler wasn’t it?”

And so the battle was on again.

 

**ARYA**

There was no way to control the rage inside of her.

The deep, dark fury clutched at her heart when she saw them.

She’d seen it first through Nymeria’s eyes first when the wolf reached the top of the hill. An army swarming over a group of men whose scents Nymeria remembered from Winterfell. Men who were fighting and dying as their enemies savaged them, waving swords and spears to kill her people.

Her brother.

Their brothers.

When Arya and her horse crested the hill, she saw the same with her own eyes. Small bands of Northmen were struggling desperately against the overwhelming numbers of men waving banners that Arya recognized. They had flown above a camp that stood between her and Winterfell once. Stannis Baratheon’s camp, an army that her family had hosted inside their walls and feasted within their hall.

_They’ve betrayed us! They’re murdering our people! They’re trying to kill my brother!_

As screams and cries echoed below, other shouts came from behind her. Her friends were struggling to catch up after she’d ridden ahead.

“Arya!” Brienne shouted. “Get back here!”

“Dammit Arya! Stop!” Gendry shouted as Ned blew by him on his own horse.

“We’re coming! Just stay there!”

“We have to get you away!” Brienne was almost on her when Nymeria found Jon.

The wolf’s eyes were sharper and spotted him in the thick of the fighting, standing above many dead men. She didn’t care about the dead. All that mattered was that Jon was still among the living. That his face was just how she remembered. His eyes gazed back at them, a small smile flashing when he saw Nymeria and Arya there.

_He sees us… and I see him._

_We’re coming Jon… I’m coming…_

“Arya wait!” Brienne screamed as she and the others arrived, but it was too late.

Nymeria was already running down the hill with her following close behind. They didn’t have a choice at all. They had to go.

_Our brothers travelled through Stannis’s camp to reach us…_

_We’ll fight through an army to save them._

She’d unstrapped her bow and slung her quiver across her back during the ride here. Now as her horse pounded down the hill, Arya reached backed and pulled an arrow at the ready. Marlen and she had barely ever practiced at this but both had enjoyed Maester Medrick’s tales of Dothraki archers who only ever loosed from horseback.

If she could steady herself she was sure it could work. There were more than enough targets to choose from as they closed in on the fight. The southron had formed a large ring of death around Jon’s men and most of them were closest to Arya.

_They tried to get around behind him, to stab him in the back._

_Let’s see how they like it._

Her horse was strong and surefooted, their descent fast and even. She balanced as best as she could on the great beast while she focused on adjusting her arms and taking aim at necks and joints, where armor couldn’t protect them.

 _Notch_.  _Draw._   _Loose._

“Shit!” She yelled as her arrow sailed high and clanged off a rider’s helm, not even the one she was aiming at it.

Her next went lower than she wanted but still managed to strike the arse of a spearman climbing over the corpse of a horse. Any other time Arya would’ve laughed as he howled, falling to the ground and clutching his behind, but his friends had taken notice of her. Scores of men were breaking away from the main fight and forming up to charge at her.

As angry as she was, Arya knew better than to ride right into them. Pulling back on her reins, she slowed her horse to shoot without jerking about. In her anger she had forgotten so much of her archery lessons, one in particular especially.

_Stupid. Remember what Marlen said._

_‘Shooting from horseback is about the hardest thing there is princess. I still struggle with it. You should finish learning how to stay still first.’_

Well her horse was standing still now and Arya had a much easier time remembering her breathing and adjusting her stance. She picked a target but made sure not to aim, relying on her muscles to remember and find her next victim.

_Notch. Draw. Loose._

The arrow sailed straight and true and it would have surely pierced the man’s neck if he hadn’t raised his shield at the last moment. Arya cursed him as the man began laughing at her.

Only to have another arrow fly right through his smile.

She looked behind and shouted in joy to see Anguy notching again from atop his horse. A greater shout went up from the ones riding beside the archer, her friends all screaming their own war cries.

Brienne was at the head of the line, her half helm glinting only half as brightly as Oathkeeper did. The red Valyrian blade shimmered with a strength and intensity that gave Arya heart.

The sight was almost as glorious as the rest of her friends.

Gendry had his warhammer in hand while Ned lowered a spear point towards the foes ahead. Pod joined Ser Kyle and Broken Locke in roaring, raising their swords on high as one. Marlen and Anguy loosed again, sending arrows flying by her and at the enemy.

They all charged right past her, the riders of Winterfell slamming down into the ranks of their foes in a wave of steel and horseflesh.

“Winterfell!” Arya screamed, kicking her horse to follow behind.

Gendry swung and hammered a man so forcefully that he flew completely from his saddle. Another tried to take Gendry’s head for it but Ned’s spear did in him. With the spear embedded in the dead warrior’s chest, Ned pulled his sword instead and met the next enemy blade to blade. Pod blocked a blow across his shield as he charged into the thick of things while Brienne spun about, slashing at all those who escaped the wrath of their wave.

Marlen and Anguy dropped three such men with their arrows and Arya made to do the same. The enemy was so close now that it became easy.

_Notch. Draw. Loose._

Her heart filled with a vengeful glee to see her arrow pierce the neck of a Corbray horseman. Nymeria felt a feeling much the same as she leapt high into the air, slamming into another foe and landing with his ruined neck in her jaws.

_I can smell their blood. I can taste it._

_These are prey. These are traitors._

_Starks bring justice to traitors._

“Yoren get back!” Brienne yelled as she cleaved through a man’s mail like butter. “Get back up the hill now!”

“I can’t! Jon needs me!” She cried back, searching the fray for any sign of her brother, loosing at men when targets presented themselves.

“For gods sakes girl!” Ser Calem cursed as he rode forth and tried to grab her. “Be away from here!”

“No!”

Arya dived low and kicked at her horse, Nymeria joining her in plunging farther into the fight. Stannis’s men were being pushed down the hill and the Winterfell party grew closer to Jon’s group with every passing moment.

She began to spot men she recognized but most lay dead or dying on the ground. The first living Northman not of her party was one she barely knew and little trusted. He was the Lothien squire that Jon had taken with him to the Wall. It filled her with dread to see that he was dragging a body across the ground, trying to shelter the fallen man beside the corpse of a warhorse.

Arya could only breathe again when she saw that the body wasn’t Jon. It was another former Bolton man, a Hilgard, who was covered in gore and unconscious to the chaos around him. A pikeman was coming at the pair but Arya stopped her horse and dropped him with an arrow to the groin before riding toward them once more.

“Where’s Jon?” She screamed as she reined up above them, spinning about and looking for the next threat. “Where is he?”

The squire favored a leg and gaped instead of answering, watching in awe as Nymeria tore through the innards of a swordsman nearby. Arya didn’t have time to waste so she pointed her next arrow at the Lothien.

“Where. Is. Jon?”

“Ser Jon?” The squire held his sword up in challenge. “He fights… he ordered me away… if you’re a Northman then help him. Down the hill! The knight pushed him down the hill!”

“Yoren!” Brienne shouted as she ran at them. She’d lost her horse somehow and was battling her way forward on foot with Pod at her side.

“Down the hill!” Arya cried, pulling her hood back and ripping off her wig. “Starks down the hill! Fight with the Starks! Fight with Ser Jon!”

A few scattered shouts joined her as she reared her horse up and pointed south, into the heart of the battle. Nymeria flew off in that direction.

“Push them back! Follow the direwolf! Fight for the direwolf!”

“Stark!” Ser Kyle boomed as he and a half dozen men broke through their foes to come towards her. “Protect the princess!”

“Follow the princess!” Arya shouted back, kicking at her horse and chasing after Nymeria while everyone else chased after her.

She hated hearing Brienne calling for her with such fear, or how desperate Gendry and Ned sounded when they did the same. They wanted to keep her safe while men were trying to kill her, but she couldn’t stop. Jerking aside from an up thrust spear, loosing into a man-at-arms before he could gut her, she pressed on.

To do what Bran told her.

_To help Jon._

That was when she saw him.

Through the blur of men fighting and hacking at one another, she glimpsed him doing much the same. Battling against the brute who’d once tried to escort her into the Great Hall. The one who’d insulted Jon in the practice yard causing her to hate him.

_Ser Godry._

Jon cut the man then and a deep pride filled her at the sight. She hoped Jon felt the same as she readied her bow to bring down the big fool for him.

The chance never came. Pounding through the battle rode another knight with several men following behind. Their leader was finely armored, with an even finer blade pointed right at her. The knight and his men looked unbloodied and fresh, like they’d stayed away from any of the main fight. She recognized this one too. He was a Vale knight who had fought beside Sansa and Jon only to turn over to Stannis.

_Lyn Corbray._

She tried to loose at him but her horse spooked at the knight’s charge, bucking up in challenge and the poor beast suffered for it. A sword sliced through its neck, spattering Arya with its blood as she and the horse tumbled downwards. Swinging her leg free just in time, she escaped being dragged beneath her dying mount and fell face first into the snow.

“That’s not the wolf I want!” Ser Lyn laughed as he swung his horse around and waved his men on. “Hold back this lot. Give me time for Lady Forlorn to seek her prize. Attack their-”

Ser Lyn might’ve finished if Ser Kyle hadn’t rode at him next. Her escort met Corbray’s as Nymeria rushed to her side, hauling Arya onto her feet and practically shoving her away from the beating hooves around her. Still dazed from the fall, she barely found the sense to grab her bow from the snow in her flight. Her bearings were lost for a moment, the world around her a swirling mass of steel and blood.

“Take down their leaders!” A voice shook her mind free. She saw a group of Corbray crossbowmen ahead. They were cranking their weapons and taking aim at the Stark forces pushing down the hill.

Those led by Brienne, whose face was a mix of terror and fury. Her friend’s eyes were wide as she searched the battlefield, killing any who tried to hold her back. Gendry and Pod were with her but Arya felt her stomach turn to see that their shields were gone.

“Look out!” She screamed as she grabbed an arrow and took aim at the crossbowmen.

_Notch. Draw. Loose._

A man howled at the sudden pain in his side, her arrow sticking out from the bloody wound.

“Arya!” Jon’s voice cried out then. “Arya!”

She wanted to look to him so badly then.

There was just no time. Her attack against the crossbowman hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Take her! And the beast!” Their leader shouted. “That’s a Stark!”

Arya notched as quickly as she could and Nymeria took off running at the crossbowmen. It was all too slow and there were far too many to drop before they would unleash their bolts.

_Kill one before they get you… help someone else… Brienne… I’m sorry Jon…_

She loosed her last arrow, fighting back the urge to close her eyes against the wave that would come. Arya wanted to see the death of her killer. The gods granted her the strength to witness her arrow fell a man who shot his bolt off into the sky harmlessly. Another would-be murderer was killed as Nymeria leapt up and upon him. The rest stood untouched and ready.

Until a white monster erupted through their ranks.

“Ghost.” She gasped. “Ghost! Yes! Fight!”

Her brother’s direwolf knocked the men aside as it tore the throat of a crossbowman furthest to the right. Some shot their bolts in a panic, missing their targets at that crucial moment. Nymeria pressed her attack from the left and wrenched one man’s leg from his body.

Yet two more crossbowmen not only kept their feet and wits, but they still had their bolts at the ready.

Ghost leapt at them all the same. The sound of the crossbows as they fired and Ghost’s yelp drowned out her scream.

The direwolf’s body fell upon the ground with a sickening thud. As Ghost lay limply before his attackers Arya cast aside her bow and drew Needle.

Nymeria’s fury filling her mind.

_My brother! My brother!_

“Not again!” Arya shrieked, running forward and skewering one of Ghost’s attackers through the gut. “Not again you bastards!”

The drums of the Twins were beating in her mind as she spun to open the throat of another man trying to gain his feet. Nymeria was tearing a bloody swath of vengeance through the others who’d failed to flee or reload their crossbows fast enough. The man missing a leg was dragging himself away when Arya stomped on his back and stabbed down into his neck.

The relentless pounding of the drums continued as blood filled her mouth and mind. Death was everywhere. Horses and men. Enemies and allies.

Ser Kyle lay curled on the ground, his neck cut clean through, his eyes wide and unseeing.

It was Ghost’s eyes she saw next.

His bright red eyes. They were the same red as the stain spreading across his fur and the snow around him.

When Ghost blinked, something changed inside of her. He was a pup again, held in Jon’s arms as her brother held him out for her to hold. Ghost had looked at her then with those eyes.

His whines of pain broke through that, they were so horrible to hear. She wanted to ease his suffering away. To calm Ghost and take away all his pain.

“Oh Ghost… I’ll get help… it’ll be okay, I’ll find something… anything…”

His howl was mournfully low and quiet but it filled her mind. She felt it rise high into the sky, reaching out beyond what men’s ears could fathom. Calling for someone they both loved.

When Arya looked up, she hoped to see Jon coming to them both.

Instead she only saw men dying.

And a direwolf bleeding in the snow.

**JON**

“Pretender!” Ser Godry spat as their blades crossed again. “Bastard!”

Jon deflected the cut but fell back further down the hill. The northern party charging onwards from the hilltop was working its way towards him yet he wanted Godry away from it.

_Arya’s out there somewhere. I won’t have this thug anywhere near her._

“Stand still and fight!” Godry roared, trying to run him through and growing wroth when Jon jumped aside.

“I’m not a giant who’s fleeing from battle.” Jon growled, slashing up and opening a gash on Godry’s chin. “Fight me face to face and you will bleed for it.”

“You dare!?”

A better knight would have pulled back to collect his thoughts and rethink his strategy. Jon was clearly faster than this loutish brawler, and better trained. Instead Godry stuck with what he knew, bellowing and coming on like an enraged aurochs. His strength and size were all that he had. Perhaps if he’d had the wits to match Jon would be dead, but as it stood their battle continued.

He could’ve ended it some time ago if they’d been alone. Twice now others had come to Godry’s aid and Jon bled each time. He’d earned a couple of new scars this day and somehow he knew more would be in his future.

Yet Jon had hope as well.

From what he saw, the reinforcements from Winterfell had caught Stannis’s army unprepared and disorganized. So focused on reaching their prize and pushing forward, they had left themselves completely open to attack from behind.

_Just like at the Blackwater._

_With Ser Kyle and Brienne fighting alongside us, we have a chance._

_Push down the hill, gain the momentum, and we can scatter them. Their numbers will mean nothing then._

He dropped beneath one of Godry’s swings and laid a cut of his own against the man’s shield arm. Willem’s sword struck Godry’s shoulder hard and he heard the crunch of steel there. 

_If there must be a fight, this is the fight for me._

_Skill and wits will win out over rage and power._

_Sansa would be proud of me._

Godry roared like an animal and pushed Jon back. He did not fall but he watched as the knight let his shield drop so he could lay both hands upon his sword.

His attacks were faster then and Jon had a harder time keeping way. In this manner, Godry became a bigger threat and Jon’s shield suffered for it. Three mighty cuts left his arm numb and his shield in tatters so he tossed it into Godry’s face and stabbed low.

“My foot!” Godry boomed, limping back with a beet-colored face. “Fucking turncloak! You’re worth every bit of that reward!”

“Reward?” Jon questioned as he fell back as well. “How much coin does one earn from betraying an ally nowadays? I’d suggest you ask Walder Frey and Roose Bolton if they felt their rewards were worth their treachery!”

“Lyn and Brus wagered on it.” Godry wheezed. “But I’ll be the one to get the Stark wench and Winterfell. Stannis said a new age was upon us, that whoever killed you would usher it here in the North.”

“Kind of him.” Jon spat. He leapt forth, going for Godry’s side and striking at his exposed under arm. His blade came away bloody and his foe cursed loudly. The wound was not mortal but it gave Godry pause.

“That, was for calling Sansa a wench. This is for everything else.”

Jon went to move in for a killing stroke but something stopped him. An armored man rode between them, almost knocking him off his feet.

He stayed upright though and backed away as the rider charged at him once more. The man was a brutal fighter, hacking quickly at Jon while trying to get his horse to trample him. Jon tried to think of a strategy against this man when a distraction suddenly gripped his mind.

Ghost sensed it and thus he did as well. Arya was not far from the battle. She was in it. Amidst the blood and the killing, his little sister was in danger.

_She needs you. End this._

_Go to her. I always go to her._

Jon felt terrible for what he did next but it needed to be done. He lunged around the rider’s steed to cut down into the back of its legs. The miserable sound that erupted from the horse was horrible to hear yet bearing the thought of Arya in this carnage alone was far worse.

As the horse fell, the rider leapt down atop him.

They fell back and rolled over one another in the snow. Jon came up on top though and brought the pommel of Willem’s sword down into the man’s face. Then he did it again. And again.

Until there was nothing but a black and red hole left.

He was tiring and there were more foes coming. Someone had launched a counterattack against the coming Northmen and a rank of crossbowmen followed. His panic went away some when he felt Ghost coming to him. He saw the wolf moments later, ducking high and low among combatants, trying to rejoin Jon’s side.

Then he saw Arya.

The ridiculous disguise she’d worn was gone and she moved through the battlefield, a bow in hand and Nymeria at her side. His little sister shocked him with how much she’d grown in their time apart.

_What happened to the little girl I knew?_

_Who is this brave young woman I see before me?_

_This, foolish, stubborn, brave little sister of mine…_

Jon couldn’t help the last thoughts, for Arya had somehow found herself in the thick of the main fight. To his terror, she loosed an arrow at the company of crossbowmen, pulling their attention to her position.

“Arya!” He yelled, rushing forward. “Arya!”

She didn’t turn and there was no time. He knew there was no time. He’d never reach her. He couldn’t.

So his mind reached for the one who could. Ghost had been nearing but changed direction completely then. Jon willed the wolf away from him and to Arya’s side.

_Protect the Starks… that’s what we do…_

_Go and protect the ones we love._

His mind was returned to him then.

Just in time. Jon’s foe had found him once more.

“Calling for help from the little girl, bastard?” Godry’s blade crashed down into Jon’s with a force that sent his feet sliding in the snow. “No help for you now. I’m going to end this. If I can’t watch you scream in the flames, I’ll still watch your body burn.”

The knight pressed his advantage, taking powerful, sweeping blows at Jon. Such attacks left him open for quick responses yet Jon’s body was bruised and tired, the constant battles leaving him feeling drained. His fear for Arya distracted him even more. His mind was too focused on his sister rather than the foe in front of him.

_Get a hold of yourself… you’re not losing to Godry fucking Farring are you?_

_Gods, what would Robb think? Or Robar?_

_Willem would be waiting for me on the other side just to mock me._

“Not yet.” He spoke then, not bothering to meet Godry’s cut and instead backing away to find his moment. “Maybe one day Will, but not today.”

“My name is Godry!”

“Gods you’re an idiot.” Jon shook his head.

Godry tried to bowl into him then but he sidestepped it. A powerful backswing came quickly and he deflected it, then Jon caught the downward cut that followed. Godry pressed down hard upon his blade, pushing it intimately close to Jon’s neck. He angled it away and punched the knight in his face.

Stunned, Godry fell back and Jon prepared his attack.

Then sudden pain lanced through his mind. There were none about him save Godry, but he felt a terrible pain nonetheless, as if he’d been stabbed in the side. Like his life was flowing out of him.

Jon became scared when he realized the truth.

This wasn’t his pain.

_Ghost… Ghost, what’s happened?_

_I’m coming my friend… wait for me I’ll be there…_

He struggled to get a hold himself as Godry charged forward. Rage filled Jon but not a hot, distracting blaze. This was a cold, menacing anger. The feeling cleared the haze of his worries and showed him the path to vengeance.

Godry roared as he made to take Jon’s head off with a single stroke. Ducking down to Willem’s height, the blade soared high and threw Godry off-balance. Jon wore no armor like Robar at Storm’s End, but unlike Loras Tyrell, this foe was slow and clumsy. Jon kicked out at Godry’s leg and buckled the man’s knee at the side with a loud crack.

“Fuck!” The knight bellowed as he fell.

As tall as Godry was, it put him at the perfect height for what Eddard Stark had demonstrated to Jon several times throughout his life. He moved about to look the knight in the eyes before he did the deed.

_‘The judge who calls for death should swing the sword.’_

_It’s more honor than he deserves, but it’s an honor I’ll give him._

“You won’t… You can’t… please, I beg-”

Both hands upon his sword, Jon’s swing was true, slicing deep into the man’s neck and killing him instantly. When the blade was pulled free, Godry’s head turned as if on a swivel and fell sideways. The man wasn’t beheaded completely but there was no time for that.

Northmen were rushing down the hill now, bowling over their enemies and Tormund was leading a charge up to meet them, closing Stannis’s forces in a pincer. This was his chance to find Arya and Ghost. Some riderless horses were running behind him and he thought to grab one for a moment.

And that was when she found him. Beyond Godry’s body, a lithe young thing bounded across the snows towards him. Just as she had the day they’d been reunited outside Winterfell.

“Jon!” She cried, her face wet with tears. “Jon it’s me! Jon please, you have to-”

“To me Arya! Let me guard you!” He called back, hefting up his blade and making to run to her.

That was when Arya’s face changed. Her expression darkening into terror and her mouth opening wide.

Whatever she yelled he missed it, a loud sound coming from behind him.

Yet before he could turn, something struck his back hard and stopped his movements in their place.

He felt no hands on him… he felt little at all really. He tried to see whatever had struck him but his body refused to heed his will. 

Nor could he catch his breath.

_What’s happening… why can’t I move?_

_Where has all the air gone?_

_Why is it so cold?_

While the rest of his body numbed, his chest felt terribly cold all of a sudden. A cold as deep as his loneliest nights at the Wall. He would clean his sword on those nights yet his hands were empty now.

At some point he’d dropped his sword. That didn’t make sense though. His eyes were lying to him in some way as the world blurred. There was a sword right in front of him.

A long red sword, sticking out of his chest.

_Why does everything feel so cold…?_

_Sansa, it’s so cold…_

“Sansa?” He begged for her. “Sansa… I need…”

His words failed him. If Sansa was here it would be better. Her touch was always warm and gentle. Not like the hard grip pulling his head back.

A cruel voice spoke into his ear then. One he knew well.

“Stannis sends his regards.” Lyn chuckled. “I told him, a true knight will end the false one. Farewell dragon.”

Suddenly the sword was pulled from his back and his strength was gone. The ground flew upwards and he was on his knees. He had not meant to fall.

He wanted to stand.

It was cold here… cold despite all the smoke.

_How can my chest smoke?_

_I’m so cold… Sansa… Arya… so dark…_

The sun started to set on the world around him. The darkness closed in as everything else fell away.

He heard the voice though. Someone was calling his name. It was a sweet voice.

_So sad though… happy Arya… be happy… Sansa…_

He heard a call in the distance. A dear friend called to Jon as well. Beckoned him to come forth and be warm. To be together again.

One last time.

“Ghost…” His words were smoke.

“Ghost.”

Then it was just the dark and the cold.

So cold…

**BRIENNE**

She’d lost count of how many men had fallen to her blade.

Once, even killing monsters like Timeon and Shagwell had bothered her. Now Brienne didn’t care. A hundred men. A thousand men. None of it mattered.

_I’ll fight through the Others themselves if that’s what it takes._

They were all afoot now. This was all that was left of their great charge against Stannis’s army. Gendry to her left, Podrick and Ned to her right, maybe ten Stark men besides. Rossett Locke was riding down what was left of their enemy to the east. Ser Calem had linked up with some of the surviving remnants of Ser Jon’s party to the west. Led by a large white-haired savage with a booming voice she’d thought to be Mors Umber for a moment, this force pushed north, trying to roll up the failing ranks of the Baratheon attack.

In the middle of all of that, Brienne led these men on a quest to bring Arya back into the fold. She’d resolved to lock the girl away in a tower for the rest of her life.

_Please let her still have a life to live._

_Enough good people have fallen today._

Marlen’s body lay gutted by a dagger somewhere far behind them. Riders had come upon their brave archers and the men had paid dearly to cover their advance. Anguy had fallen as well, brutally brought low by a flail though she was unsure if he shared the crannogman’s fate. He was still moving some the last she saw.

Ser Kyle’s corpse lay only a few feet away from them and the sight had set her blood to ice water. The knight and his party had been flanking Arya as she pushed deeper into the battle.

“There she is!” Edric spat through his bloody mouth, pointing to their right. “I see her! There! Right there!”

“Where?” Brienne asked desperately, slashing at a man’s shield so Podrick could leap into his guard and carve out his throat.

Edric pointed and she followed his gaze across the field of dead and dying to see Arya. She lived. Brienne thanked the gods to see so, but tensed when she took in the princess’s state.

Arya stood alone, Needle in hand, as Ser Lyn Corbray came towards her with a blade coated in blood. Men formed up behind him and she caught sight of another knight, just as fearsome, rushing from the side to join this press of men attacking a little girl.

“Warrior guide me!” Brienne shouted and shoved the men before her aside, running forth to save her princess. “Mother protect her! Arya run!”

Yet Arya did not run. Her princess barely even raised her sword against the coming threat. The child was shaking horribly, in what Brienne could only assume was terror. Brienne’s legs moved as quickly as they could. She would be there in moments.

Mere moments.

Ser Richard Horpe came upon Arya first. The pox scarred knight glowering down at her as he held his sword at the ready. He’d cut down scores of men in his life and she prayed killing a little girl was beyond him.

“Ser! Mercy!” She screamed. “Mercy I beg you!”

The knight shot her a dark look.

Gendry offered curses. Ned threats. Podrick raced by her gasping breathlessly. It was all for naught.

_Too far. We are too far._

_My princess… my girl…_

Ser Richard showed no mercy. His blade flashed with terrible quickness, blood filling the air and a horrible cry following after.

A man’s arm fell to the ground, sword still in hand as Ser Richard shifted his stance and delivered the killing stroke to the closest of Ser Lyn’s men. That he’d apparently switched sides in the midst of battle was the highest dishonor but Brienne could’ve kissed the man for it.

The Corbray men were not so thankful and two fell upon the knight as Ser Lyn smiled and the others prepared for the coming of Brienne and the others. Podrick went ahead of her, straight for a man holding a longaxe while she chose the fiercest opponent for herself.

“The Beauty?” The knight laughed as they came together. “Lady Forlorn will finally clash against Valyrian steel and it is to be wielded by such a freak? What a strange world we live in…”

“I live in a world of honor!” Brienne shouted as they cut at one another. “Where vows matter! Where oaths matter! Where knights are not bought and sold!”

A mailed fist struck across her face and set the world to spinning. The taste of blood filled her mouth. The knight held his sword in one hand and waved her on, as if bored.

“ _That_  is the world we live in. Don’t worry. You won’t have to endure it much longer, you or that little Stark bitch. I only need the one for a wife. The other two are chaff.”

“Silence!” She cut as swiftly as she could, preparing for his defense and readying a backswing.

Corbray was there waiting. Her second strike was batted away and Lady Forlorn sheared away part of her shoulder plate. A brutal kick to her groin followed and she held off a blow to her neck by the skin of her teeth. Three more exchanges ended just as badly for her until it became obvious how outmatched she was.

_This man is no Rorge or Ramsay Snow…_

_He fights almost as fiercely as Jaime, yet without the exhaustion of imprisonment to hold him back._

“Get Arya away!” Brienne shouted to the others, warning them of her oncoming defeat.

“Oh none of that.” Lyn sneered as he drove a fist into her ear.

The pain was intense. Her stance wobbled as she tried to keep her feet. Her eyes wouldn’t focus and the knight’s blood-stained blade was readied for an arc that she couldn’t predict.

She couldn’t stop him.

Another could though.

Lyn’s attack was thrown aside as Ser Richard came on slashing and cutting, their blades becoming a blur between them. As she regained her senses, she looked about for any other foes but saw that they were all dead, Podrick finishing off any stragglers. It seemed Ser Richard had killed many of the Corbray men himself as he was covered from head to heel in blood.

That’s when Brienne began to take note of the battle and marveled at what she saw. The two knights were moving so fast, so precisely, it made for a beautiful sight. Then she ran forth so the Beauty herself could add to it.

Together they drove Ser Lyn back, his attacks falling away to a frantic defense. She went left, Richard right, and the knight cursed as he was encircled. He managed to knock her back once more but Richard was on him soon after, smashing the pummel of his sword across Ser Lyn’s head.

The knight fell to the ground and Richard kicked out, striking his gut and driving the breath from him. When Brienne ran forth to deliver the killing blow, Ser Lyn’s eyes found hers and his grin returned.

With a shrug he cast Lady Forlorn aside.

“I surrender.” He sighed. “As a knight of the realm, I beg mercy and demand to be ransomed.”

“Denied!” Brienne rasped when another voice cried out.

“Spare him!”

Walking through the calming battlefield was a woman dressed in furs, with a babe in her arms and badly beaten young man at her side. Brienne knew her not and cared little and less for her words.

Ser Richard was another matter. He held out a hand to hold Brienne back and looked at the stranger with a sort of deference.

“Why?” The knight rasped. “He has done much to deserve death.”

“Perhaps.” The woman responded as she gazed down as Lyn’s bloody sword in the snow. “I have seen many things in my life… many things today… I think you should spare him ser. A true knight would show mercy.”

Shifting the babe in her arms, the woman made a bereaved face that Brienne thought to be a mummery.

“You showed me mercy once before ser. Look what that’s brought us.”

“Listen to that wench.” Lyn nodded, smirking up at her. “Not this ugly one.”

She and Richard took stock of one another then. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, save to glance at Oathkeeper in her hand. Her fist clenched around it to think of Marlen and Ser Kyle lying dead behind her while this monster continued to breathe. To see Podrick helping Edric stand as Gendry went to Arya, who was kneeling before one of the many bodies dotting the field.

“He would have killed her.” She spoke with hatred. “Had you not stopped him, my princess and I would be dead now.”

“Then for those lives I’ve saved I beg leave to spare his.” Richard answered, before delivering a devastating punch across Lyn’s jaw, spraying blood and teeth across the snow. “These are the Starks lands… let them decide his fate. This battle is done.”

She looked down at the unconscious knight before gazing out across the hill. The battle was indeed at an end. That much was sure. There were still scores of southron men able to stand but their spirit was broken and they fled in small groups out into the wilderness.

The small number of victors were gathering together. Some ahorse. Some afoot. Many wounded.

All coming in their direction.

Whatever they sought here she cared not. She scowled at Lyn and finally went to Arya’s side.

Surprisingly she saw that the girl was still kneeling on the ground but Brienne’s view was blocked by the press of people gathered around her.

“What is it?” She asked. “Is she hurt? Is Arya injured?”

“Not her my lady.” Ned answered sadly, shaking his head as he leaned against Podrick. Her tall squire was just as morose.

“We failed… how could we fail…”

_Fail? They just said Arya was unhurt._

_Our task was to see her safe and back to Winterfell._

_As long as we do so we did not fail at our duty…_

She remembered all at once why they’d been tasked to keep Arya safe in the first place. They had been sent by the regent to find a certain knight.

Brienne found that knight then, laying perfectly still in Arya’s arms as she cradled his body. Jon’s blood stained the snow around them a dark red. It was all over Arya’s cloak. She was rocking back and forth as Gendry whispered softly into her ears. The young girl shook her head and mumbled back through her gentle sobs.

“I don’t want sorries… and it won’t ever be okay… I was supposed to save him…”

Arya held Jon’s scarred hand and pressed Needle’s handle there, closing his fist around it as she did so. It looked as if they held the blade as one.

Yet only one still lived to do so.

“You gave me my sword… my Needle… it saved me… Jon don’t do this… it’s not that bad…”

“Arya…” Brienne dropped to a knee beside her and wrapped her arm around her princess’s shoulders. She looked into the girl’s soft grey eyes that were now red-rimmed with tears and filled with a heart-shattering grief.

“Arya, I am so sorry. He was a good man. A great knight. He loved you dearly. I-I am sorry that I could not save him-”

“It was supposed to be me!” Arya sobbed. “I was going to do it! Me! All of this! All of it! All the years of pain and hurt and fighting, it would be worth it! Because I would be there to help him! I can still help him!”

“Arya… come here child…” She enfolded the girl into her embrace as the girl continued to sob.  

There was nothing Brienne could say beyond that as she gazed down at Jon’s pale, dead face. She felt shame that her first thought was relief that it was him and not Arya that had been killed. He looked so still, his eyes grey but unmoving.

_He really does look so much like Arya._

“Help him.” Arya sobbed against her plate. “Help him…”

_There is no helping him now…_

Others gathered around them in grim disbelief at the dead knight in the princess’s arms. A beautiful woman with honey blonde hair threw a sword into the distance screaming. The tall white-haired savage spat and cursed, shaking his head. A one handed warrior fell to his knees as a youth beside him stared speechless.

The strange young mother with her babe stared at Ser Lyn’s bloody blade as Ser Richard picked it up. Those eyes filled with a strange intensity as the mother rubbed at her neck.

Then the wolves howled and it was a mournful sound.

A lasting sound of pain that echoed across these winter lands.

And a little girl continued to cry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two updates left to go in this story.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return. The truth. The fall.
> 
> An end to a Knight's Watch.

**ARYA**  

Brienne pushed a steaming bowl of broth towards her.

“Arya please, you must eat.”

Brienne’s demand was the same as the countless she’d made before then but Arya wouldn’t obey. She just couldn’t do it. The mere thought of food made her want to retch. Her stomach wouldn’t keep anything down.

Yet Brienne would not let up. “You barely sleep, you barely drink, and you haven’t had food in three days. Arya, child… he would not want this.”

“Don’t.” Arya’s voice was hoarse from disuse. “Don’t talk to me about him.”

Jon was lying down in front of her but it wasn’t truly him. Her brother wouldn’t have ignored her tears for days. Her brother wouldn’t have lain so still when she needed him to hold her. Her brother wouldn’t refuse to wake up.

This was just a corpse lying in front of her. She’d seen plenty like it before. The skin was pale and there was frost and snow collecting about its features. The hands cold and stiff.

Even so, every time they made camp for the night Arya would sit beside Jon’s body and hold his hand in hers like he was still alive. To leave its side was to abandon hope that the next time she pulled back the furs, Jon would wake up and smile at her.

“Arya…”

“You wanted to burn him.” She turned to look at Brienne, feeling enraged. “You wanted to burn him!”

“I did not want to.” Brienne protested sadly, shaking her head. “Ser Jon himself sent word to do so with all of the bodies-”

“He’s not a body!” Arya screamed. She didn’t care that others in the camp were staring at them.

A soft whining interrupted their argument. Her rage vanished when confronted with that sad, pitiful sound. It was too hard to be angry when friends were still in pain.

Ghost was laid out on a pallet nearby, as close to the fire as they dared. His body was thickly blanketed and his side was bandaged where they’d pulled out the bolts. Nymeria was lying beside him, her head resting next to his as if trying to comfort her white brother. Ghost whined again as his red eyes stared over at Arya and his dead friend. To others it might sound like the direwolf was in pain, but through her bond to Nymeria she knew the truth.

 _He’s mourning_ , she thought,  _he feels sad and lost._

_This pain is worse than any wound..._

Arya let go of the cold hand and walked shakily over to the wolves. Her body had been feeling weak and numb of late. She knelt next to Ghost’s head and pulled it into her lap, cradling the wounded wolf in what she hoped was a comforting way. He stared at Jon’s body the whole time, just as she did.

They’d tied Jon to a stretcher with some ropes and draped a blanket over him.  She hated it when they covered his face. To think of Jon under those blankets in the dark and cold was hard for her. Whenever they camped, Arya would pull the coverings away so he could get some light and not be alone. She would always make a fire to warm them but it never worked.

It warmed her some, but did little for him.

_He is so cold. No matter how big a fire I make… he stays so cold._

Ghost whined again and she made soothing sounds.

“It’s alright Ghost. Don’t worry, we’ll get you to Winterfell…we’ll bring you both home.” She said the words as tears came again and Brienne knelt beside her. “I promised I would bring you home…”

As she held Ghost with love a loved one held her in turn. Except it wasn’t supposed to be Brienne doing so.

It was supposed to be Jon.

They were going to save him. She had worked it out all in her head. As their group neared his, she knew what she would say to Jon when she saw him.

Like how Arya had found him like she promised. He would laugh and then she would laugh and he would ruffle her hair and call her little sister. They’d talk of all he’d missed and she’d tell him about her crown and he’d be proud.

Instead he had fallen before her eyes.

_All I could do was yell at him… I didn’t even get to warn him…_

_I only got to watch him die._

She felt helpless to watch as Lyn Corbray murdered Jon. There was no saving him and truly there was only one thing left that she could do.

Brienne and the scarred knight Richard Horpe had denied her even that. After the battle she’d watched as Lyn Corbray was led near Jon’s body, smiling with bloodied teeth, and all her sense had been lost. Desperate to make him pay for Jon’s death, she’d tried to run him through with Needle.

Brienne betrayed her though and held Arya down kicking and screaming.

“Arya, he is not my prisoner to give.” Brienne spoke softly as she had thrashed.  “Your family shall decide his fate at Winterfell. Not now. Leave it be… leave it be.”

Somewhere in their camp, the knight was kept under heavy guard as they had taken no other prisoners. Men had been captured of course, about ten or so, but after Arya had been denied Ser Lyn’s blood, Nymeria had taken her share from the other southron turncloaks. The wolf had fallen upon the screaming men one at a time. Their guards had stood aside and watched in horror, just as Arya had commanded them to, allowing Nymeria to sate some of the rage in her soul.

Those bodies had burned along with all the others they had no way to see back to the castle. Stannis’s piled together in an ugly heap, pissed on by some. Their own men accorded solitary pyres as a sign of respect. Those doing the burning had eventually come for Jon and found her blocking their path.

“No.” Arya told them. “You can burn all the others. I’m taking Jon home.”

She’d told them that she was a princess and that anyone who tried to burn Jon would lose their head. No one questioned her after that. They tied him down and built a stretcher for him and left her alone with his body.

And for three days she’d watched her brother be dragged home. Tomorrow they would reach Winterfell. And Sansa.

“Arya.” Ned’s voice rang above her. “You do nothing but hurt yourself now. Please. Eat.”

His face had always been nice to look upon, perhaps even handsome, which made his dark bruises and cuts across his brow and cheeks all the worse.

“Go take care of Anguy… I’m fine.” She mumbled as she continued to pet Ghost.

Unlike Marlen and Ser Kyle, Anguy had survived the fight but he hadn’t come out unscathed. A flail had torn away his right eye, leaving the poor archer delirious with pain their entire ride back to Winterfell. She thought that Ned might have left his side a few times to speak to her but everyone’s words blended together now.

“You’re not fine. None of us are.” Ned surprised her by laying a hand on Nymeria. The wolf accepted the lordling’s touch where she scorned the same from many of the others. “Losing Jon Snow-”

“Ser Jon.” She hissed back. “Jon Whitefyre… that wildling Val said that he chose a new name… one that people can’t hate him for…”

“I’m sorry, that‘s just how I knew him.” Ned continued to pet Nymeria. “When we rode together with Lord Beric, I got to know Jon a little and I liked him. We fought side by side once and I had a stupid idea in my head that we’d do so again one day. Sometimes I even imagined him bringing you to the sept so we could be…”

Ned shook his head at the thought and looked at her with his haunting violet eyes.

“I guess it’s selfish of me to think that way. Ser Jon wasn’t selfish. All he ever talked about was finding a way to King Robb so they could rescue you and Princess Sansa together. Like brothers.”

“Robb’s dead. Jon’s dead. You understand that? Jon’s dead.” Arya glared at him fiercely then. “All any of you can worry about is getting me to eat when I have to find a way to tell Sansa that Jon is never coming back! Nobody has anything to say about that! You all don’t have to face Rickon and Sansa and tell them you failed-”

“Stop that Arya. Jon is not dead because you failed him. Or Brienne. Or any of us. He’s dead because monstrous men betrayed him and your family. We’ll be at Winterfell tomorrow and your brother and sister will need you… and you haven’t kept up your strength.”

“Are you calling me weak?” Arya challenged. She felt weak though. Weaker than she had in such a long time. She barely felt like a direwolf at all.

“I could never think you weak Arya, not you. If not for Lady Brienne, I would name you the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” Ned touched her cheek then, rubbing away the tear there. “That’s why I love you. It’s why I can’t stand to watch you in pain. The Arya I know would fight through this. The woman I see before me doesn’t even have the strength to curse me out properly.”

“Fuck you.” Arya shook a bit as she held back a sob. “Fuck your love and your nice words. Fuck being strong…”

“That’s better.” Ned smiled, offering up a bowl of broth. “But I’m not nearly as offended as I should be. Eat this and then give it another try.”

When he made to pull his hand away from her face, Arya grabbed it and made sure to keep it against her cheek. The feel of his touch was nice and warm and it helped take her mind off of Jon’s frozen hands.

Ned’s eyes, somehow so sad and so beautiful at the same time, gazed into hers and made her think of the words that he wanted of her. In that moment, with his caring touch and soft words holding her up, she couldn’t imagine being without him. Yet to think of such things felt wrong. What with Ghost suffering beside her and Jon laying dead nearby.

So she pushed it away.

“Fine… if it will shut you up.” She whispered. “Thank you Ned. This doesn’t mean that I… well, I don’t…”

“Shut up my princess.” Ned pushed the bowl toward her. “Shut up and eat.”

That’s just what she did, sipping at the broth and letting the feel of Ned’s gentle caress on her face guide her thoughts away from Jon’s murder. She fought to think of anything but the sword piercing through his chest in front of her.

_I remember when he carried me on his shoulders through the godswood._

_He would always laugh with Robb and wrestle with Bran and Rickon._

_He gave me Needle. He rode away from the castle for me._

_His smile._

The food went down easier as she kept thinking of Jon and soon she found herself feeling full and exhausted. Brienne was there of course, silently watching from a short distance away. The lady appeared when she needed her most, bundling up Ghost again before guiding Arya back to their tent.

When they went to lie down, she rested her head against Brienne’s chest and the two held each other. Brienne was so tall, it made Arya feel like a little girl again. Like when mother would comfort her on sad, lonely nights and protect her from her troubles and pain.

She fell asleep to the feeling of Brienne stroking her hair.

The food made her sleep feel deeper somehow. Her wolf dreams had been strange and confusing of late. They lied to her. The dreams would make her feel as if Jon was just outside her tent, sad and hurt. He needed her help and he grew weaker as he called out, his voice becoming quieter each night.

That same dream came to her this night. Jon was lying down hurt under the night’s sky. He was covered under furs and he cried out for her help. His voice was so strained and desperate.

 _‘I’m not dead… I’m a man…’_ He reached for her.  _‘Arya? Sansa? I can’t remember… I can’t remember my name… your faces… I can’t find the way back… where are you…’_

When the blankets pulled away though, all Arya saw was a shadow. A fading ghost with eyes as red as blood.

‘ _Who are you?’_ The ghost had asked. _‘I can’t remember… find Sansa… find Arya… I think I love them…’_

Arya awoke with a start, sitting up in her furs and finding the world as dark as she’d left it. Brienne was sleeping soundly next to her but Arya’s stomach hurt something awful. Worse was the thought that Jon was out there looking for her, fading away while she sat warm in her furs.

Dressing quickly and quietly, she left the tent and saw a faint sign of dawn in the distance. Nymeria still lay next to the bundled up Ghost but it was Jon’s stretcher that she sought.

It was the figure standing above it that caused her breath to catch.

A shadow in the darkness, tall and strong, her heart bloomed with hope for a moment.

“Jon?!” She rasped.

“Arya?” The shadow answered, but not in Jon’s voice.

For Jon was still dead on the ground. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could see that his face remained pale and unmoving. The person standing above him faced her then, resting his warhammer on the ground and pulling back his hood.

“Dawn is a bit off m’lady.” Gendry offered with a look of concern. “Do you need something? Have you eaten anything?”

“I’m fine, never mind that.” She clutched at her stomach, taking stock of Gendry’s tired appearance. “What are you doing out here?”

His face was pale and drawn and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked like a strong wind might knock him over. From the snow collected upon his shoulders, she guessed that he’d been out here for some time.

“The ser needs to be seen to. You keep watch over him when you can. I do so when you can’t.” Gendry turned back toward Jon, grasping his warhammer in both hands and holding it to his chest as he lowered his head. “I saw knights keeping vigil over other knights in the Great Sept once, so I thought to give Ser Jon the same. He deserves better than a shit knight like me but I owe him this much at least.”

“Better than you? Gendry, he liked you. If you’ve been standing vigil over him these past few nights, he’d be happy. I know he would be honored-”

“He’d ask me why I even bother.” Gendry answered back harshly. “I looked up to him a bit you know. Bastard knight, earning his knighthood and becoming the saving grace of a kingdom, it gave me hope for myself. Even when it turned out that he wasn’t a bastard, we still had being sons of shit royalty in common… I thought I could end up like him. A true knight, not just a pretender.”

Gendry tightened his grip on the warhammer as she walked over to stare up into his eyes, glistening and blue.

“I can’t ride worth shit. The only weapons and armors I have I got through charity. I’ve no money, no lands, and the only title I have is to a town that only accepts me because they know me as lowborn… I’m a sorry excuse for a knight but still, I had it in my head to ask his blessing.”

“You wanted Jon’s blessing?” Arya bit her lip. “For what?”

“You know for what my princess.” Gendry wouldn’t stop staring at Jon’s body. “Lord Edric asked all proper. So did Lord Beren. I didn’t have any right to… but if Ser Jon gave me his blessing… I thought maybe it would prove me worthy. That maybe someone else saw in me what Lord Beric did.”

Arya found herself placing a hand over Gendry’s frozen fist then. Whether he shuddered or shivered she couldn’t tell.

“Jon would’ve said you’re worthy of anything Gendry.” She tried to smile but she just couldn’t. “I know you are. I just don’t know what I want and after everything that’s happened… whatever you want to ask me, my answer would be the same one I gave to Ned… I don’t know… I just can’t…”

“You don’t need to answer me.” Gendry shifted his grip so that their fingers intertwined. “I wanted to know if I was worthy for you but in the end it doesn’t matter. I will follow the knight’s example and act with honor. I can wait for your answer Arya. I will always wait. I’ll wait this night and every night from here on out until I’m dead. Ser Jon’s memory is worth it. You’re worth it.”

Their hands tightened some as they stared down at the thing that was once her brother. She couldn’t think about how much she wanted Gendry to hold her or how some part of her wanted that for the rest of her nights. All she knew was that leaning against him as they stood vigil over Jon felt like the right thing to do.

Brienne had awoken soon after in a panic, bolting out of the tent half dressed to find Arya feeding Ghost. Arya was eating again as well. She just had to make sure not to look at Jon’s body as she did so. The others had been right. She’d need the strength that food offered for what came later.

While it was almost half a day of riding, it felt like they came upon Winterfell sooner than that. For the first time in memory, Arya dreaded the sight of her home.

The snows had been falling softly all day but grew thick when the castle walls came into view. So thick in fact that she barely saw the guards standing upon the battlements who began sounding horns and shouting cries of greeting.

She remembered when Jon had ridden beside her through that gate. People had cheered for her return.

Those happy calls of welcome died away as Arya rode through the outer wall with Jon’s stretcher being pulled behind. From the walkways above the gatehouses, not a single sound came forth. Guards and servants alike took stock of the solemn party and none said a word.

No one hailed. No one cheered.

_I’m ice… cold, hard ice…_

_That’ll keep away the tears._

As they entered the courtyard, she saw Larence Hornwood and Wylla Manderly among the faces in the crowd.  Mya Stone appeared, walking forward besides their Iron Island hostage, Tristifer Botley.

“Gendry!” Mya called out happily, waving at her half brother.

The woman spotted Arya and made to wave again. Then her eyes fell upon the stretcher and her smile faded. Mya scanned the party quickly before letting her gaze return to the covered body, one hand going to her mouth. The other hand grasped desperately in the air and Tristifer grabbed it, holding her tightly and shaking his head as they passed. Wylla gave a small cry as well before turning and allowing Larence to shield her from the sight.

She spotted Lya pushing ahead of the crowd to stand next to Jeyne. Both stared at their party and Arya had to look away from her friends. She would need to save her strength for Sansa and Rickon.

Rodwell came forward from the gaping crowd and took the reins of Arya’s horse. He helped her down with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“Your grace…” He said but she moved away from him.

Arya had looked for them in the crowd and spotted them coming out of the Great Keep. Sansa and Rickon were walking toward her, hand in hand as Osha and Bronze Yohn followed behind. Her brother and sister were both smiling. Rickon was even laughing as he waved to her.

“Arya! I told them it would be today!” He called out happily. “I saved a lemon cake for you and Jon!”

Her eyes were for Sansa. Arya strode purposefully in her direction, doing all she could to keep her strength.

_You have to get to her first._

_Warn her._

She never had the chance.

For Sansa stopped suddenly, her eyes falling to the stretcher that others were unhooking from Arya’s horse. Rickon hadn’t seen it yet and pulled at Sansa, trying to get her to continue walking.

“Sansa! Let’s go! You have to tell Jon about the wedding tomorrow!”

“Hush, little lord.” Osha came up beside Rickon and grabbed his shoulders. Confused, her brother looked back to Arya and began looking about at the riders behind her.

_He’s looking for Jon…_

“Sansa.” She managed to choke out. “We found Jon… we found him but-”

She didn’t get to finish. Sansa had abandoned Rickon’s side and began to walk forward briskly, with purpose. She passed right by Arya like she didn’t even see her there.

“Sansa…” Arya reached for her sister but Sansa shook off her touch, pressing on towards Jon’s body.

“How is he?” Sansa asked, sounding concerned as she shortened her steps before the stretcher. Ser Calem and Brienne knelt before her.

“Your grace, we did all we could.” Brienne did not look up. “It was Stannis’s men…”

“The knight was betrayed.” Ser Calem added.

“He is hurt again, that is what you are telling me.” Sansa whispered. “We should call the… the maester…”

The pair stayed kneeling as Sansa knelt herself by the stretcher. Her hands shook terribly as she tried to undo the bindings across Jon’s covered head.

“He is always getting hurt… he’s so careless… always worrying me. He heals quickly though. Every time he goes out for these foolish, noble quests, he gets hurt and needs tending. Send for the maester and we’ll help him. I’ll help him...”

Her words fell away after she gingerly pulled the blanket back to show Jon’s white face slumbering beneath.

“No!” Rickon yelled as he began beating his fists in the air. His face was red and furious. “No! That’s not right! He was okay! I saw him!”

Osha picked Arya’s screaming brother up into her arms as he beat at her and fought to stare back at the stretcher.

“No! He was going to be proud of me!” He screeched. “I order him to wake up! I’m the king! Make him wake up!”

As Rickon thrashed and wept, Arya went to Sansa’s side as she stared into Jon’s face. Arya cursed herself then for not cleaning away the sheet of frost that had gathered upon his cheeks. Sansa softly touched Jon’s face, running her fingers down the line of his jaw. A silent shudder racked Sansa’s body as her other hand went to her stomach.

“He is so cold… he was never so cold…” She shook her head, lovingly cupping Jon’s face. “He was warm, not cold, not like everyone said. It’s snowing, just like it did before. When he came for me out of the snows… I thought he’d come again… out of the snows… for me.”

The rest of her words were lost as Sansa screamed out violently, clutching at her chest like she was trying to rip her own heart out. Arya was there in a flash, wrapping her arms tightly around Sansa’s shoulders from behind.

Her sister grasped her hands so hard that it hurt yet she held firm. Sansa’s cries washed over Arya and the crowd in a frightening way.

No one spoke in the courtyard or upon the walls. It was completely silent except for the sounds of Sansa’s weeping and Rickon’s shouts of anger.

So powerful they seemed to climb to the tops of the tallest towers.

Almost drowning out Ghost’s sorrowful whimpering.

 

**GHOST**

_He could walk now._

_He’d been hurt for days as men dragged him across the snows on hard wood. Every bump had been agony. His thoughts were strange and confused._

_At times he thought he belonged on the horses but his true place was running through the fields, alongside his brother and sister._

_His sister had been with him, at his side at all times. She cared for him when he could not bear to move. His side still burned but walking made him feel warmer. He didn’t like the scent of the building they’d kept him in. It smelt of hunting hounds and their filth. A place for dogs and he was no dog._

_He was a wolf._

_He belonged in the wild. So he escaped the dog home, limping to find the small forest within this stone man den. A forest he had known his whole life._

_His brother and sister had found him when he arrived. The wolves shared a bond, a bond that they shared with others, with men. The wild sister and the savage brother’s other halves were somewhere else then._

_There were only wolves among their number now._

_After they had licked at his wounds and shared their warmth, he left his brother and sister, ambling along at his slow pace._

_Following the scent that beckoned him._

_The sad sound his ears could not ignore._

_Her wailing was as painful as the hurts in his side. To hear her make such noises made him want to protect her. It did not matter that he could barely move, he had to find her._

_He was supposed to find her._

_‘We were to be married… I love her…’_

_The wolf he was shook his head at that confusion. It made no sense. More odd memories and strange thoughts plagued his journey home after the fight. More and more had gone away with each new day._

_He was sure of being a wolf. There was little confusion anymore._

_Except when it came to her._

_The one he had found now. The dear one._

_She was in the little forest. A place they used to visit together._

_The scent of her made him happy, filled him with memories.  She was to be his someday._

_No. That wasn’t right. The confusion had risen up again as he gazed at her._

_The dear one had come before the bone white tree with the leaves of blood. She was beating upon it in anger and made cries that pained him to hear._

_“How could you!” She clutched a white gown in her hands as she shouted. “How could you give us hope!? You lied to me Bran! Why did you do this?!”_

_Her cries bothered him so he howled. In worry and sadness. In love._

_‘Sansa… I’m here… see me…”_

_Her name was Sansa. To a wolf there are no names but something deep within him called the dear one Sansa. She turned towards him, her face wet and eyes red. He limped faster to see those blue eyes gazing at him once more._

_‘I’ve missed you… Sansa, please help… I can’t remember…’_

_Her growls became harsh then._

_“You were supposed to watch him. You were supposed to take care of him.”_

_He went to her as quickly as he could, stumbling in the snow and whining at the pain that came because of it. Putting his nose to her hand, a wave of relief went through his body to feel her touch again._

_‘I remember that… I missed it so much…’_

_Suddenly the dear one pulled away from him and made the harsh sounds again._

_“You were supposed to protect him! I want him! Why you? Why did you live and not him!? Why not Jon?!”_

_‘Sansa I’m here!’_

_He cried and tried to seek her touch again. When he came close she pushed him so that his side burned fiercely and he yelped in pain._

_“How many times did you save the others? Did you save me? Why not him!? He was the only one that mattered!”_

_Her harsh sounds were shrill and angry. Whatever she could find on the ground she threw at him. Sticks. Stones. Even snow. He yelped and limped as she shouted and hurled things at him. They didn’t hurt though._

_So much had hurt him before. Blades. Flames. Dead hands. A bloody sword._

_Never her._

_The dear one was never bad to him. She had kissed him and slept beside him. They loved each other. They were meant to be together. Before a tree like this, they had held one another._

_He saw the folly then._

_None of that could be. He was a wolf. Not a man. The dear one was not someone he could be with._

_Only protect._

_The dear one finally stopped her raging with a long cry. It only ended when she collapsed into the snow. Curling up into a ball, she clutched the white dress to her body and started to weep._

_So he went to her again. He did not want to be hurt but he had to._

_He always came to her._

_This time she did not push away. His head brushed against hers. She still made the sounds but she put her hands on his neck and held it desperately._

_“I’m sorry Ghost… I’m so sorry… I love you. I need you. Please don’t hate me…”_

_It felt familiar._

_No, it had been different._

_Sansa held him differently than this_

_The sounds quieted after a time._

_“I just miss him so much… it’s my fault and I need him back… I can’t… I can’t…”_

_Then it was only soft sounds. They stayed like that for some time. Stroking him and making the soft sounds. Whatever pain he felt didn’t matter. Warming himself by her side, pushing her cries away, that was all that mattered._

_Eventually her weeping had stopped and the cold took its toll on her. When she finally rose, she planted a kiss on his head and wiped her tears against his fur._

_As she left he watched her. He wished he could follow. For a brief moment he remembered his love._

_Then it was gone. Whatever love he felt was but a memory of another life. Those feelings fell away as the dear one disappeared from the little wood._

_She belonged to the realm of men. He was a wolf._

_‘No… I have a name… I had a name… I chose one for myself…’_

_That voice was but a whisper. The savage brother and the wild sister came then, to remind him of the family that he belonged to as they tended to his hurts. They settled down in their little wood, to care for each other and be with one another. When the night came, his siblings gathered around him, warming him against the cold. They could not shelter him from what came next though._

_The blood leaves began to move against the wind and he smelt a strange smell. It was earth, a deep, dark earth that smelt of death._

_It smelled like the lands that lay beyond the ice._

_Then he heard the voice of a boy he knew from long ago_

_“Jon…” The tree whispered. “Jon, no… it wasn’t supposed to be this way…._

_His brother and sister growled at the tree but he was confused by the words. They were meant for a man but there was no man here._

_“I’m sorry Jon… I tried to stop it… I tried to save you…”_

_It sounded like the boy was weeping. His words were full of loss and despair. To a man, they might draw tears or sadness._

_Yet to him the words meant little._

_He was not a man._

_Not anymore._

 

**BRAN**

“Hodor! Hodor!”

Bran pulled himself from the trees to the sound of his friend’s panicked cries. He wasn’t surprised to feel the tears upon his cheeks or a deep hollow pit in his stomach.

What he’d just seen at Winterfell made him weep.

What was being done to Hodor almost made him retch.

“Hodor!” Hodor wept upon the cavern floor, shirtless and trembling in fear.

Five of the children surrounded the stableboy, holding spears or other weapons as Hodor shook in terror. Leaf held the bowl that Bran ate weirwood paste from as Snowylocks brandished a sharpened bone blade. She was singing to Hodor as if to comfort him.

“Not so much young one.” Leaf sang from beside her in a soothing tone. “There is little pain, little blood, and so much good comes of it. No tears now… no tears…”

“Hodor!” His friend cried out again and made to move back but spears and mauls stopped him. One nicked his back and drew blood, causing the stableboy to whimper and Bran to shout.

“Stop it! Leave him alone!” His throat tore from disuse but he ignored it. “Leaf! Get away from Hodor! All of you!”

The children all stopped their advance and looked back to him, their slitted eyes narrowing. Whether in anger or fear he couldn’t tell. Tears made his vision blurry. He wiped them away and reached for Hodor, waving his friend over to his side.

“Come here Hodor. I won’t let anyone hurt you… no one is going to hurt you… I can protect you.”

“You would lie to him?”

Bloodraven’s voice was as dry and rough as the sound of Hodor’s scrambling across the ground to tremble at the foot of Bran’s throne.

“Have you not seen the truth of that lie yet young Brandon? Do you still believe your power can spare the pain that must be? The lives that must be lost?”

Those questions forced Bran to think on what he saw in Winterfell’s heart tree. He’d gone there often lately, to make sure that Jon was rescued and his family reunited. When they were all together again he’d planned on speaking with all of them. For some reason, speaking through the weirwoods came easier when his family was about. The more of them that were near, the stronger he was.

His heart had brimmed with excitement when he sensed Sansa and Jon approaching. Everytime he’d seen them together in this way they were always sad. This time it was supposed to be different. He was sure of it.

Then as things became clearer, his world shattered.

At first he’d ignored Sansa’s terrible grief. Her words had to be lies, her tears brought on by a filthy dress or an insult from Arya. Sansa had cried about those things before. He could accept that.

When Jon came to her side he couldn’t pretend anymore. For Jon wasn’t Jon anymore. He came before the gods as a wounded, limping Ghost. Even then Bran could feel Jon’s spirit fading, losing more of itself to the wolf.

His brother was becoming a shade, a forgotten man, a beastling.

Like Varaymr had been.

“No…” Bran shook his head, both at the memory and the children approaching once more. “No! Stay back! What were you doing to Hodor?”

“The cold one is gone.” Leaf answered. “There are no others close enough. The greenseers have a need for the paste, as they always have… and this one has the blood. Only blood can give us what is needed…”

Bran wished that he was more surprised to hear this but some part of him had always known the truth. Worse, the truth of his weirwood paste didn’t bother him nearly as much as he would have hoped. Maybe he had developed a taste for it when slipping into Summer’s skin during hunts or perhaps after all the times he tasted blood offered to the weirwood trees. Either way, a part of him wanted more of it.

But not if it meant hurting his friends. They were going to cut simple, peaceful Hodor in his name. They were going to feed him Hodor’s blood.

That thought disgusted him.

“I wouldn’t drink it. Never! You can’t have him, he’s my friend! He’s mine!” He cried out, taking holding of Hodor’s hand gently. Then he turned his rage on Bloodraven. “You were going to just watch!? You really are a monster! How could you let that happen to Hodor?  _How could you let Jon die!?”_

“Sacrifices must be made.” Bloodraven answered, his red eye gleaming in the weak light. “That is a truth you must accept. Your childish need to save everyone can have a terrible cost. Some must suffer in the night so others can live to see the dawn. Blood must be shed to fuel the light that holds back the darkness… Joramun knew this. The Builder knew this. Even your beloved knight, our shared kin, he understood this in the end.”

“Let others sacrifice then!” He yelled. “Why is it always the ones I love? The ones I care for?”

“I imagine it must feel that way… your family has suffered dearly during this pivotal time and worse is still to come.” Bloodraven closed his eye, grunting some. “The love you feel for them… for others… it holds you back. Each time you hesitate to do what must be done, you forge a link in a chain. That chain weighs you down and keeps you from flying my winged wolf. It binds you from taking action. Nonetheless, your power is great and only growing stronger… when you almost succeeded in keeping the knight away from the Wall, I knew my faith in you was sound. Just as I guided our kin and that crannogman to the Wall, you will soon go forth to usher in the Dawn.”

“Guided him to the Wall?” Bran asked, tensing at the words. “You made Jon go to the Wall… after I warned him to stay away?”

“He heard no such warning. I was able to twist the words as necessary… he heard his brother warning of the Wall’s fall… not of his fate if he journeyed to it. I knew that he would be driven to set it to rights after that.”

“You bastard!” Bran raged, pounding his arms against the sides of his chair. Without even thinking about it, he slipped Hodor’s skin to do the same. The stableboy’s blow against the chair almost unsteadied him.

“You killed Jon!” He arched forward in the chair as Hodor climbed to his feet, fists clenched. “I could’ve saved him… you-you wouldn’t let me…”

“Don’t be a fool. I told you before, there was no saving him. This death or another, it would’ve come eventually. In this way his loss serves a purpose. Like Joramun’s death did against the Night’s King.”

“Joramun hated what he became! What they did to his son!”

The trees had shown him the truth of Joramun. After rising again, the dead man never revealed himself. The cold body wandered the woods, following the trail of a great army marching south. Through weirwoods and familiars, Bran was shown young Joramun at the head of a great host. The boy King Beyond the Wall had aged some from the child who wept to see his father blow the Horn.

Thousands of wildlings followed him, shouting the name Joramun as other creatures joined their march. Giants upon mammoths and children of the forest wearing strange wooden armor that made their bodies disappear into the wilds around them. The grandness of living giants was nothing compared to the terrible power Joramun commanded himself. Great dark beasts, covered in hoarfrost and as dead as the man that followed far behind the army. At first Bran thought them merely wights, but these great monsters moved about under the light of day and their eyes were dark and empty instead of blue.

_‘To raise the dead, to bind them to your will, this was a power only the Others wielded.’ Bloodraven had told him. ‘This was a power that Brandon the Builder coveted… a power his blood sorcerers and the singers gifted him through the Horn of Winter. For him, it was not enough to harness of the strength of giants for all of living time. He wanted their strength eternal…’_

It was that strength that young Joramun used to bring battle against the dark army that the Night’s King sent against him at the Wall. The frost giants went first, lumbering across the field and wreaking terrible carnage against the living men. Fire brought some low, but it took great amounts of it to set the frozen, rotted flesh of the frost giants to burning. A third of them were destroyed but by that time the Night’s King’s forces were dead by the thousands. The living army of wildlings that followed drove the defeated Night’s Watch back through the Wall.

Afterwards, young Joramun’s army had set camp and waited, holding firm in a lengthy, uneventful siege. By night the Others and wights attacked their rear but in such few numbers, the army was never truly threatened. Through the familiars, Bran heard savage tribal leaders urging young Joramun to sound his horn again but the young king refused.

“My father woke the giants from the earth yet he wanted the Wall to go on standing. So I will do as he wished. We will wait for the wolves. Like King Joramun wanted.”

Bran had wondered if Joramun ever knew that his son spoke so lovingly of him. He knew the undead ranger kept watch from the edges of the dark woods. Bearing witness to his son’s great feats yet never daring to reveal himself to him.

_‘What father would wish his son to see him as a monster?’ Bloodraven had asked. ‘Just as the giants are bound to the Horn, so was Joramun raised up by it. All magic comes with a price… all true victories are won at a cost…’_

The victory had come later when young Joramun’s patience had won out. Flashes of fire and the faint sounds of battle were all that reached Beyond-the-Wall. Yet the raven’s eyes glimpsed a northern army attacking the Nightfort from the south. The Night’s King had lost much of his strength against the frost giants yet held the walls around the Nightfort for a full night before Stark men breeched them.

To Bran this looked like a happy ending for the sad tale of Joramun. He watched as a party of Starks rode through the Wall. A King of Winter whose name he did not know laughed and clapped a hand onto the back of young Joramun. He presented a young, beautiful maiden girl who blushed when the young king smiled at her. Things had only soured when the Stark king looked to the frost giants and shook his head.

_‘This King Brandon Stark… just one of the many to share this mighty name. He speaks of uniting free folk and northmen. He offers his daughter in marriage to young Joramun. To help build a grand kingdom Beyond-the-Wall… yet he fears the power of the Horn. For the young king to have such power is a threat and friendship cannot be borne of threats.’_

That sounded fair but Bran couldn’t remember ever hearing of a Joramun wedding a Stark. Nor had he ever heard of what came next. Young Joramun held the horn high above his head and with a loud voice, commanded his slave army to destroy themselves. In a cold, sickening way, they had obeyed. Giants tore each other limb from limb, doing what the Night’s King or hundreds of years of frozen imprisonment couldn’t. All save one. The last frost giant was given the Horn and one final command before marching out into the Haunted Forest, disappearing from history.

The field had been littered with frozen corpses and King Brandon marched his men out to help the wildlings burn away this battle from sight and memory. The King of Winter and the King Beyond the Wall had stood side by side to watch this done. When Brandon offered his hand to Joramun, Bran predicted the beginning of a great pact. Joramun accepted The King in the North’s hand with a smile.

Bran’s ancestor nodded before drawing his sword and cleaving Joramun’s arm off in one sure, swift strike.

As their king fell screaming, his wildling army endured much the same. The northmen who’d marched to help them now drew blades and bows, slaughtering hundreds of men, women, and giants. Northern cavalry poured out from the gates of the Wall as more northmen erupted from the trees around, screaming with markings on their faces and waving weapons of iron and bronze. The army that had defeated the Night’s King on behalf of the North now fell to its blades.

_‘Why!?’ Bran had screamed soundlessly. ‘Why are they doing this?’_

_‘For fear... power… perhaps duty… the Starks of this time war with other northern kingdoms as well. The Boltons and Dustins are common foes. The Night’s King was an uncommon one. Uniting the Night’s Watch as an army cost the North dearly. Now Brandon finds the warriors Beyond-the-Wall uniting as well…’_

_‘It’s wrong!’ He’d argued as the slaughter of the wildlings went on. ‘This isn’t honorable! It’s a crime!’_

_‘Right or wrong there are no laws in the lands north of the Wall. The Night’s King’s terrible acts and abominable practices are being wiped away from history. Even his name shall be lost, for there is power in a name young Brandon. Word of this massacre will also be forgotten over time. The hatred borne here will be kept alive by the wildlings but the reasons for it muddled over time. The tale of how Brandon the Breaker defeated Joramun the younger will merge with the one told of Joramun sounding the horn… none remembered as they should be…’_

As Bran reeled from all he was learning of his namesakes the battle continued, until the wildlings were thrown back into their dark lands and the Starks stood victorious. When the bloody deed was done, the Stark men returned back through the gate and rode south, leaving the bodies of the dead behind. This army that had saved the realm of men was buried by the falling snows and forgotten.

That was when Joramun had emerged from the forest, a lone dark figure moving through the butchered landscape. When he found what was left of his son’s body, a cry devoid of all warmth screeched from his dead lips. The children came for him not long after that, gathering around the dead man who could not weep for the boy in his arms.

“It wasn’t worth it.” Bran’s fury made Hodor take a step toward Bloodraven. “That wasn’t worth Joramun’s son and the dawn you’re talking about isn’t worth Jon!”

“Of course it was worth it!” For the first time, Bran could see the living man that Bloodraven had once been, filled with anger. “Two lives. Ten. A thousand. If it saves ten times that number a slow death from a night without end then it is worth it! To save the realm of men from a winter as brutal and cold as our foe is a task that must be done! Should it spare a generation such a dread fate I would let young Joramun die again. A thousand times over. Your white dragon as well.”

The anger seemed to leave Bloodraven then and he sighed wearily, pressing his gnarled, claw-like fingers to his forehead.

“I have known many men in my lifetime and many were as kind and good as you. I respected many of those men and I loved fewer, but I also pitied them all. They were weak, and their weakness put thousands of lives at risk, just as you threaten to do now.” He stared frighteningly toward Bran then. “Your friend knew what had to be done and he did not balk. He sacrificed his strength so that yours could grow. His father at Castle Black would be proud, his sister should be proud…”

_No… no… he can’t mean him._

_They wouldn’t have used him… they couldn’t have bled him…_

_He was so weak…_

“Jojen.” He felt the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Hodor even staggered some as Bran’s hold upon his mind weakened.

“You bled Jojen… you bled him when he was so weak… he died.” Bran’s dismay was soon replaced by anger once more. “You killed Jojen!”

“He knew his fate. His dreams showed him the horror that his home would soon endure. I told him that I saw how he could keep his people safe, just as I saw the price I would pay for using his sacrifice. We cannot stop what is meant to be. I have a thousand eyes and one but I see no way to escape my fate...”

“You’re right. There is no escape for you.” He retook control of Hodor’s massive body again. “Murderer! Traitor!”

“Hodor!” Hodor growled as he charged forward to take hold of Bloodraven’s leathery throat in his mighty hands.

Dust and filth shook free from the corpse-like body as wood creaked from its settled state. Bloodraven did not gasp, nor did he struggle, save to wince as the root growing in his eye shifted some. A thick red tear fell free from the hole and whether it was weirwood sap or blood, Bran didn’t know or care.

All he cared about was what Bloodraven had done to his friends and family. Everything that Bran and his friends had endured to get here, only to find out that his power was one of death and destruction. As he tightened his hold about the man’s neck, he felt how easy it would be to crush his throat.

The children must have feared such a thing. They began to move towards Hodor with their weapons raised. Bran was about to turn and face them when another voice echoed through the cavern.

“Don’t move!” Meera shouted furiously as she emerged from the dark passageway she’d been hiding within. She raised a bow up and placed an arrow at the ready. “If any of you little monsters take one more step then I’ll make you bleed. Like you bled my brother.”

“We wish you no harm girl.” Leaf raised up a hand to calm the others. “Your life is protected, as is the simple one’s. We are only doing what the fates demand of us-”

“Shut up!” Meera strode forward, her hands shaking in rage as she trained her bow on Leaf. “Shut up with fates! I’m tired of dreams! Of fucking trees! None of it was worth my brother!”

“It wasn’t worth my brother either.” Bran snarled as he forced Bloodraven back. Despite the threat of Hodor’s strength and Meera’s bow, Bloodraven scorned looking at either of them. His red eye was only for Bran.

“You call me a murderer and traitor. I have supped on such names before and I did so proudly then as I do now. That was how I came to be at the Wall in the first place. I believed it to be the end of my tale but it was only the beginning… going to the Wall brought me here… where my true tale and purpose was laid bare…”

“I don’t care!”

“You will soon.” Bloodraven smiled, looking upwards at the roots above. “Almost ready… you are almost strong enough to see… your third eye is open but still you do not  _see_ … a thousand eyes and one… a thousand lives and more are kept within these trees. The seers of the past… man and singer… they will welcome me…”

“Stop it.” He warned.

“They call to me… to take my pace among them.” Bloodraven flinched as Hodor squeezed harder.

_Kill him… everything he’s saying… everything he’s done… he deserves to die._

_You should kill him._

_He wants you to kill him._

“You want me to kill you.” Bran suddenly realized it. “You’re trying to make me kill you.”

The ancient greenseer had terrible knowledge, sight of things that were and what was to come. Surely he would have known when Bran would wake, that he would see what they were doing to Hodor. He had to know that Bran wouldn’t accept the cost of his weirwood paste. If that wasn’t enough, Bloodraven was admitting to things he didn’t have to. There was no way he could have believed that Bran would forgive him for the deaths of Jojen and Jon.

_He wants me to kill… he’s trying to force me to kill him._

Bloodraven smiled an ugly, proud smile as he watched his student come to terms with all this.

“It would be good if you killed me. Better for all of us, I promise.”

“He’s right.” Meera whispered. “He deserves to die.”

“We deserve answers first.” Bran argued. “Why are you trying to make me a killer?”

“Not a killer… strong. I am making you stronger. Like the Builder you so admire-”

“Not anymore! He enslaved the giants! He was a monster!”

“He was a savior.” Bloodraven shook his head slightly in Hodor’s grasp. “Without him, the realm of men would’ve fallen thousands of years ago. Without the Wall, the Others would’ve returned long ago. Without the sorcery protecting it, their dark magics would have raised thralls south of the Wall already... enchantments fueled by sacrifice, from deaths of the most powerful army he commanded…”

“Don’t talk about sacrifices!” Meera screamed, keeping her bow aimed at the children while glaring at Bloodraven through tears.

“But we must… we must… many have given their lives to spare us another Long Night… many thousands more will die before the dawn can come again.”

Bloodraven put a rough hand against Hodor’s cheek as he reached out feebly towards Bran.

“Your brothers were not the first. They will not be the last. When the Wall falls, you must prepare yourself for the journey ahead. It is a hard road and a harder task. Especially for one as young and true as you Brandon… a pure heart…”

“I don’t want to be a monster.” He shook his head, looking to Meera but she was too lost to her grief and fury. “I want to save people. I don’t want to kill anyone, not even you. I don’t want this, any of it. I want to be able to walk… to run and climb and be with my family. I just want to be Bran again… not a killer.”

_I want Jon to be alive… I want to go home to Winterfell and find him there._

_To see Sansa and Arya. To play with Rickon. To see Meera far away from this place._

_I want them to be safe and free from all the evils I’ve seen._

_I could be happy then._

“Kill the boy and let the man be born.” Bloodraven rasped. “A wise man I knew once spoke such words to a king...”

“I won’t let you hurt him.” Meera warned before Leaf made a strange sound like laughter.

“It is not the winged wolf you need to fear for child.”

“Be quiet or I’ll-”

“See this Brandon.” Bloodraven gestured to Meera and Leaf’s standoff and Hodor’s hands upon his neck. “Look at all I’ve wrought in this cave alone. Look at what your indecision and weakness has led to. Your brother lies dead… I had the dreaming boy bled until he passed… do what needs to be done… do justice like a Stark would.”

“No… kill yourself if you want to die so badly.” Bran shook his head, trying to fight against the anger he felt.

Deep within Hodor, the stableboy cried out against all this violence. His friend didn’t want to kill. He wanted to be free. In his own simple way, Hodor cried out for home. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

“My death is not meant to be at my own hands!” Bloodraven roared as his fingers dug into Hodor’s cheek. His grip was strong and vice-like and blood began running down his cheek.

“Stop it!” Bran shouted as Hodor grappled at the thing’s body and tore him up from his roots and off of his throne.

“This cannot stop! It cannot end! Not before the dawn!” Bloodraven choked out as he brought a second hand out to claw at Hodor’s eyes. “The Wall will fall! The journey ahead must be a return! Ice and fire! There must be ice and fire! Hope from death!”

Hodor’s mind screamed with pain as Bran shook and struggled to keep Bloodraven’s talons away from his eyes and face. Feeling his friend in such pain pushed Bran’s anger to new levels. He felt as if his own face was being clawed at.

He saw Brandon the Builder bringing the giants to their knees. Young Joramun’s death at the at the hands of Brandon the Breaker. His father killing the Night’s Watch deserter. Maester Luwin dying in the godswood. Meera weeping over Jojen’s body. Sansa grieving before the heart tree.

_“How could you!” Sansa had beat at the tree with a white gown clutched in her hands. “How could you give us hope?!”_

“They deserve hope.” He whispered. “And you deserve to die.”

The words came from his own mouth even as Bran stared at Bloodraven’s face through Hodor’s eyes. He ignored Hodor’s cries within his mind and felt the ancient man’s throat begin to cave beneath the stableboy’s powerful grip. Bloodraven gasped and choked. His hands fell away as his red eye widened in pain or perhaps fear. He managed to gurgle out some words as Bran continued on this path that would damn him forever.

“That’s it… be… be who they need… slip the chains… bring them… bring them light.”

Somewhere far away, Jon was dead and cold. His family was scared and mourning.

Hodor was crying and beating within the cage of his mind. Bloodraven was accepting the fate that Bran dealt him with Hodor’s gentle hands.

Amidst all of that, the bright red eye watched him.

With its terrible knowledge.

Bran knew then who he was. Who he was meant to be. What he could be.

He could almost feel the chains rattling around him.

 

**THEON**

Theon raised his head to look towards the doorway. That small effort alone took what little strength his frozen, battered body had left in it.

_Please… enough…_

_Let this be enough… let this be the end… just let it end…_

His shivering set the manacles binding his hands high above his head to clanking some. Days he’d spent like this, hanging against the wall of this dark, cold room. No fire burnt in the hearth and there was little to protect his body against the merciless cold.

They’d stripped him down to his small clothes before tearing a hole in a captured banner and sticking his head through it. The makeshift tunic, made from a banner of House Greyjoy, was torn and here and there, its golden kraken stained and faded.

Just like he was.

When men would come they mocked Theon as lord or prince at times. Turncloak or murderer more often. None of the titles were ever spoken without some sort of blow or cut to follow.

The words bothered him more than the beatings.

“Theon…” He’d rasp or cry out. “My name is Theon!”

He had to know his name. The one his parents had given him. The one Ramsay had stolen from him. The one the Old Gods used to call to him.

The name the raven had screamed.

Its cry still echoed through his mind. He’d been dragged to Stannis’s solar to be beaten before the king once more. Godry was a thug and knew little of true torture but Clayton was a different sort. That man would have surely made Theon scream in agony like Ramsay used to had Stannis not sent the knights away.

Off to kill Jon Snow.

 _Poor Jon… he thought giving Stannis my life would help…_  
  
_He should’ve known my life isn’t worth shit…_

Theon had been struggling to find his wits again after their beatings when he’d heard it.

 _‘Theon_.’  
  
The call had come out a caw more than anything else. He might not have believed it real save for how the guards had jumped at the sound. One even cursed as they all looked to the window to behold the raven there. The one staring at them and flapping its wings.

The raven that knew his name.

_‘Theon!’_

“Theon!” He cried out now, his teeth chattering horribly. “Theon Greyjoy… ”

The feeble cry echoed off the bare walls of the room they’d dragged him to the night of the raven. His prison was no true dungeon cell, only an empty bedchamber abandoned for weeks now. They’d chained him above a hearth, only bringing him down for the scattered beatings his guards would give him night and day.

He welcomed those times.

They’d throw his frail body down on the stone floor to rain blows upon him, the whole time his tired arms and wrists sang in relief. Sometimes they wouldn’t wear gloves and the heat from their rough hands and fists made his flesh feel alive again.

For Theon was a dead man in truth. There was no denying that.

He’d been condemned for years now and he deserved it. Theon had accepted that long ago.

_I’ve done so much wrong I must account for._

_The miller’s boys. Septon Chayle. Mikken._  
  
_Betraying Robb… betraying the brother who loved me… that crime more than any._

He sobbed then. Half a sound of sorrow, half of laughter. Despite all he’d done to earn death he would soon be held account for a murder he had no part in.

 _The Onion Knight was my friend_ , he thought,  _he deserved better but I named him a friend anyways._

_Likely that’s what cursed his life but it was not I who took it…_

His claims of innocence had been for naught, for whoever wanted Davos dead wanted Theon dead as well. Someone had slipped something in the wine his guards had shared and they’d slept the whole night. A trail of blood had led straight from the Hand’s room to his own chambers. A bloodstained dagger found stashed along the way.

After all that Theon’s fate had been sealed. The murder of Stannis’s beloved Hand of the King laid at his feet.

Proof of that murder lay below his dangling feet, where the floor was stained dark with the blood of his friend. They’d imprisoned him in Davos’s former chambers, per Stannis’s orders. Hung above the very spot where they’d found the poor man stabbed to death.

Stabbed a hundred times over claimed some.

Patchface would sing about it.

In some ways the fool’s visits were the worst. Patchface never made to hurt Theon, only mock him in a terrible way. He’d sing songs and tell rhymes of all the dreadful things befalling the Nightfort. Of Davos’s murder, Princess Shireen’s death, Theon’s fate, ugly things all.

None of those tortures were as bad as when Patchface sung. Despite his ugly mottled face and simple ways, the fool sung with the voice of a heavenly creature. For hours he would sit in the shadows of the dead man’s chambers, singing to Theon in a soft, beautiful voice.

The song he chose was one Theon’s mother had sung to him as a little boy. He remembered how her singing drove away his fears whenever a fierce storm rattled their castle. How his mother’s loving arms held him so tightly and her lips upon his brow made him feel as if all would be well.

Her singing had filled the child he was with hope.

Patchface’s filled his heart with pain and terror.

“Stop! Gods stop!” Theon would scream and sob, his tears freezing upon his cheeks.

“No more! Don’t take that from me! Stop… please… not that… not her!”

Still the singing would come from the shadows. Turning his mother’s memory into something horrible. Patchface would sing until Theon would beg for it to end. Not just the singing, but his miserable life itself. He prayed for death to come for him. For it to wrap its cold grasp around his throat and bring him the relief his mother’s embrace had.

So terrible were Patchface’s visits over the weeks that the mere sound of his jingling bells coming down the corridor could set him to trembling.

Just as they did now.

When the door to the chamber opened with a creak he saw Patchface standing there, wearing his crown of antlers and a horrible grin upon his face.

“Mercy.” He begged, kicking feebly in the air. “Just kill me. Let me die…”

“Release him.”

Stannis’s iron tones came forth from behind Patchface, where the gaunt form of the king stood staring at him. The man had lost so much weight and grown so pale Theon imagined light could pass right through the king and never know he was there.

This was a change from the usual, Stannis never came to witness his tortures. Stranger still was who did the king’s bidding. The man who came to unshackle him did not wear a tunic or cloak loyal to Stannis.

Only the black cloak of the Night’s Watch.

“Stay still Turncloak.” Ser Alliser Thorne growled at him. “I’ve no more desire to touch you then to spend another moment a prisoner in this fucking castle.”

“I will fall.” He warned the bearded, haggard looking knight who set to unlocking the chain about his manacles. “I cannot stop that.”

“Nor will I.” Thorne spat.

As soon as the chain was unhooked the two men proved true to their word. Theon immediately fell onto his useless legs and Thorne stood aside as he pitched forward to land brutally upon the floor.

His lip had burst open in his fall, his mouth filling with blood even as the gasp of joy escaped him. It was a gift to feel his arms free once more. Thorne made it all the better when he bent down to unhook the manacles, freeing Theon’s bruised, raw wrists from their imprisonment.

“Thank the gods.” He whispered, rubbing at his wrists. “Oh thank the gods.”

“Bring him.” Stannis commanded from the corridor.

That set the sworn brother to roughly hefting him up to his feet, scowling to hear Theon still offering his thanks to be free of the wall.

“Shut the hell up. You’ll have plenty of time with the gods soon enough.”

_Oh thank the gods._

Next to being free those words were the best things to happen to him in a long time. They set him to imagining a block and headman awaiting him wherever they led. Or possibly a noose.

_Even to burn now would be a release… or to freeze and never wake again._

_Anything to be free of this life and all its pain._

When Throne finally succeeded in getting Theon to shamble into the corridor he was surprised to see it empty save for Stannis and Patchface. There were no guards to be seen, no others of any kind. He did not think Stannis was one to act so reckless. Despite his reputation Theon was no true threat but the knight beside him had threatened to kill half the castle in his demands to be free of the Nightfort.

While the man wore no sword Theon still considered Thorne a risk for Stannis to walk around with unguarded. That was when he took notice that the king was not exactly without protection himself. Upon Stannis’s swordbelt hung his famed shimmering sword, Lightbringer. It remained sheathed and the corridor dark because of it.

Then there was the loaded crossbow in Patchface’s hands, lowered before but now raised and trained upon the pair of prisoners. The fool grinned widely while his eyes did anything but. They chilled Theon as much as the cold wind which crept down the corridor from some open door.

Stannis jerked his head to the side then, staring down at his side as if there was something to be seen there.

“Come. We are late.” The king spoke firmly, moving as if in a trance down the corridor. “They are waiting.”

No one bothered to tell Theon who ‘they’ were. Patchface jerked the crossbow in Stannis’s direction and Thorne shoved Theon along to the follow the king. The armed fool coming in behind them.

His legs moved stiffly but he pressed on, not willing to wait to extend this miserable life one moment longer. As they moved through the passages of the Nightfort Theon took note of just how empty the castle appeared. Only once or twice did he spot a person besides their party and even then they were in a hurry to be elsewhere.

“Where is everyone?” He dared to ask.

Thorne scowled to hear the question yet the man shocked him by answering.

“Stannis has ordered every man standing at the Nightfort to array themselves outside the castle walls. To witness some grand spectacle. I’m sure you’ll be the guest of honor.”

“Nothing grand about me.” He answered back, clutching at his banner coverings and gazing at the faded kraken there. “Not anymore.”

“You’ve got that right. I’m going to do my best to be out of here before they finish you off. Your death’s not worth my time but if leading you to it has me marching away from this castle I’ll count my blessings.”

_Fuck getting away, death is the only true escape from this damned castle._

As their journeys led them down from the towers and out into the courtyard he shivered at the terrible depth of the chill without. Above them the moon was full and bright, its light causing the ice of the Wall to glitter some. That soon came to an end as the moon was shrouded behind the thick clouds passing overhead.

He would’ve liked to see the moon in all its glory once more before the end. It shone so brightly here in the North. Perhaps bright enough to guide his way.

Yet in the darkness they seemed to lose their way all of a sudden.

For Stannis did not lead them away from the Nightfort but deeper within it. Towards the castle’s kitchens, which were empty when they arrived within and unlit save for two weak torches. It was a strange place to visit and became stranger still when Stannis marched straight to the old well at the center the kitchens.

A gust of wind blew through the open door behind them and the settling of the Wall was carried upon it. The cracking of ice was a sound Theon had become accustomed to here, it often found him during his dreams. They were nightmares really but those were the only types of dreams he ever had. The ones of frozen loved ones crying out were but the freshest sort of horror.

While he thought little of the sounds Stannis was clearly effected by them. The king looked to be in wordless conversation, nodding some as the wind blew about him.

“We must go down to rise up.” Stannis spoke suddenly, pointing down at the well. “The ser shall lead the sacrifice first.”

“Down where?” Thorne asked incredulously. “Down the fucking well? Are you mad?”

“Mind your tongue in the presence of the heir to Iron Throne.” Stannis whipped about, gesturing to the empty air beside him. Theon feared the man had truly gone mad then.

“Bring the turncloak here. Or you shall never leave this castle.”

After a moment’s hesitation Thorne shoved at his back until they both came to gaze down the pitch black well. Squinting as hard as he could he spotted what looked to be footholds in the sides of the stone walls, leading down into the darkness below.

“I won’t see a step in front of me.” Thorne pointed out.

A giggle erupted from behind them and Patchface grabbed up one of the torches. He began to toss it up in the air, spinning it about before suddenly sending it flying end over end at Thorne.

The man cursed as he tried to catch it, the burning bit striking his face and singing his hair.

“Fucking fool!” The knight reached for a blade that wasn’t there.

“Pick it up and dally no longer.” Stannis moved his hand to his sword as his jaw clenched. “I can wait no longer.”

With a curse Alliser picked up the torch and grabbed at Theon, yanking him over the side of the well to join him in their slow descent. Stannis and Patchface followed behind, the fool humming his mother’s song again. That combined with the weak light of the torch made this climb down a terrifying ordeal. 

_You survived the Dreadfort you can climb down a bloody well._

_What are you afraid of? Falling? Surely death would await you at the bottom._

The uncertainty of what lay below is what kept him from throwing himself down into its depths. The last time he’d taken such a leap of faith he’d had poor Jeyne Poole at his side.

He wondered now if she had given him the strength to do so and hoped wherever Jeyne was, she was warm and happy.

That she’d forgotten about him and remembered her name.

The torch had begun to flicker as they neared the bottom. Then it went out entirely which set Theon to join Thorne in cursing. As it turned out they had no need for the torchlight then, for the four were now bathed in a strange white glow. 

“That can’t be…” Thorne’s choked gasp came as he gazed as what lay ahead. “What the seven hells is this?”

“The way forward.” Stannis answered.

There, set deep within the wall of the well, was a giant weirwood door with an ancient face carved upon it. In its glow he could make out Thorne clearly enough but was startled to find they were not alone here at the bottom of the well. Two shrouded forms lay before the door, still and silent, with no warm breath rising from either of them.

One was far smaller than the other. A child’s form he could name it.

_And I know of only one child here are the Nightfort…_

The carved eyes of the large face opened then, wide, blind and unseeing. A voice booming soon after.

_‘Who are you?’_

“Answer it ser.” The king commanded, pushing Thorne forward himself. “Speak your vows.”

“What?”

“Speak your vows!”

 _‘Who are you?’_ The door asked again and this time Thorne answered.

“I am the watcher on the walls…” The man began shakily. “I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers…”

As Thorne continued to recite his vows Stannis moved towards the bodies, bending down to lift the smallest one up. As stiff as it was it lay almost perfectly straight in his arms. He swore the king smiled down upon the body yet he believed it likely the shadows playing tricks. Stannis did not smile, nor was this an occasion to do so.

When Thorne completed his vows there was a moment of silence in the dark well. Until the door once again spoke.

_‘Then pass.’_

The large mouth of the face grew wider and wider until it was large enough for men to pass through. A cold, freezing wind blew through it and Theon shivered violently.

“My Hand cannot make this journey alone.” Stannis held his chin high as he stood above the last corpse. “You two will carry him with the honor he deserves.”

“Your Hand?” He asked as Thorne backed away.

“You said I’d be freed. What dark sorcery are you playing at? I’m done with this!”

“Do it.” Patchface’s voice came out in a deep, menacing tone. “Do as they command or die here and now.”

The fool looked to Theon and winked.

“Or live many days more.”

Thorne and he looked to each other then, the knight glancing then from Patchface’s crossbow back to the body. He shook his head and snarled.

“Let’s get to it then Turncloak. You take the feet.”

When Theon wrapped his ruined hands around the man’s ankles they were so cold and hard he believed this body frozen solid. Even Thorne strained to lift it and when they faltered some in their efforts it caused the shroud about the corpse’s face to fall away.

So that now he could look upon the face of his murdered friend again.

_Soon Davos, whatever rest you enjoy I hope to share the same soon._

_Jon Snow’s likely dead too now… I do not deserve to live while good men die._

Despite his weakened and battered state, Theon did his best to carry the lord in his arms with care. Stannis marched ahead, as straight and stiff as the body he held. He would be barely visible in the deep darkness if not for the faraway dot of light he led them towards. The cold winds grew more intense the closer they came.

They were so powerful at the end it felt like a storm was raging without the exit ahead.

Yet when they travelled out and into the night beyond there was little breeze to be felt at all. Looking up he saw they’d passed beneath the Wall itself, its frozen sides looming up behind them.

“We can’t be out here.” Thorne rasped, looking about at the dark wilderness fearfully. “Not with bodies. Not without flames…”

If Stannis heard any of that he did not listen, for he began to press on and away from the Wall. Forcing his way forward through snows that reached to his thighs at least. The flimsy coverings on Theon’s feet offered him little shelter to the elements but when Patchface forced Thorne onward he followed. If only to save Davos from being left in the snow.

Somehow he summoned the strength to press on through the snows, stumbling and floundering in Stannis’s wake. Their trek lasted quite some time until he believed them halfway between the forest and the Wall. With the clouds blocking the moonlight he was blind to what lay ahead of them.

Until the clouds passed by and the moon laid bare the lands before them.

And the monsters that awaited their coming.

“Fuck!” Thorne shouted as he let go of Davos’s body in terror. “You idiots! You’ve led us to our deaths!”

Even Theon could not be glad to hear that. For ahead of them stood pale, strange creatures he had only ever heard of in tales told by Old Nan. There was no doubt in his mind these were the Others she had terrorized the young Starks with. The old woman’s stories had spoken of them as frozen demons yet Theon saw a type of terrible beauty in their tall lithe forms.

Their eyes shone a bright blue that froze his heart to match his feet.

The ten or so closest to them grew ever closer, gliding over the snow covered fields to surround the small group. Beyond them Theon saw that these monsters had not come alone.

Leaving the shadows of the forest marched many more of the White Walkers. First in small numbers, then by tens, then more until Theon believed hundreds were spilling out into the empty expanse in front of the Wall. Stannis had finally stopped his march yet he made no move to pull his sword. If he did anything it was to whisper softly at the bundle in his arms.

Theon was more interested in what lay in the hands of the White Walkers encircling them. There were nine of them, he was sure of that. Eight held razor thin blades before them, ready to strike if need be. The ninth was the one closest to Stannis, and it held an ancient looking horn. One banded with bronze and long worn passed magnificence.

“Give me that!” Thorne roared, leaping at Patchface and knocking the fool down into the snow.

The battle there was short and when the black brother rose up again he had the crossbow in his hands. To the man’s credit, he aimed and loosed the quarrel with a speed even the White Walker’s couldn’t match. The bolt shot straight and powerfully into the chest of the nearest Other.

Where it struck its mark a slight cracking sound rang out. Then the bolt fell idly into the snow.

Thorne followed soon after. The Other behind the knight moved quickly, the man only turning in time to face his killer before he was impaled upon its frozen blade.

“Fucking bastard cunts…” Thorne coughed blood upon the creature. “I deserved better than this… I was a knight…”

With a swift, graceful movement the Other gutted Thorne and pulled his blade clean. The sworn brother falling backwards into the snow where Patchface laughed and began to play with the dead man’s face.

When Theon turned away he found himself staring at another dead man’s face. For rising from the ground before him, shrugging off his shroud, was the dead body of his friend.

“Davos?” He asked, not believing his eyes. “Davos… how can you-”

His question caught in his throat as Davos opened his eyes, the eerie blue of them a shock. These were not the lord’s eyes as he knew them. As the shroud fell away the scores of bloody stab wounds adorning his body were there for all to see.

Dark, bloody wounds that had not healed. Wounds that did not bleed.

“My girl.”

Stannis’s voice caused Theon to turn and behold a second corpse coming to life. The king had fallen to a knee, gazing into the now standing form of the young Princess Shireen. Like Davos, her eyes shone blue, her skin a ghostly white and her braided hair was decorated with patches of ice.

“My princess… I told you I would find them.” Stannis reached up to cup his daughter’s dead cheek. “Our true army. The one that will see justice done and order restored to our realm. One realm. One god. One king…”

A strange cracking sound came from the Other holding the horn and it broke Stannis’s attention away for a moment. The Davos wight came to the king’s side and Stannis pulled upon his stiff arm to rise. To Theon’s shock Stannis smiled as he laid a hand upon the corpse’s shoulder and smiled.

“My Onion Knight. You were right. My friend was right.” Stannis patted the dead man’s shoulder then. “Just as I needed this grand new army, an alliance needed to be forged. One we shall both march with… one that must be bound to us now… with a sacrifice.”

Two White Walkers came to join Stannis, one holding the horn and the other offering the blade of its sword before the king. With a stiff nod towards his silent daughter Stannis laid palm against the otherworldly blade. The air filled with a sizzling sound and the king grimaced some before dragging his hand down the sword’s length, opening his palm and bleeding upon it.

When he pulled his hand away the Other with the horn was waiting, holding it up so Stannis could rub his bleeding palm all about the ancient thing.

Afterwards, Stannis reached out to take Shireen’s hand, joining the wights and Others in gazing upon Theon. Behind them the hundreds of Others had been followed by darker shapes coming from the woods but he could not spare the time to focus on them.

For the White Walker with the horn was coming to him.

“Please just kill me.” Theon backed away. “I’ve had enough… whatever you want from me just let me die… please…”

As the air filled with the strange cracking again his retreat came to a sudden, shuttering halt. For he had backed straight into Thorne. The knight standing once more, his sour gaze oddly at peace, his blue eyes cold.

 _“He wants to die, his life for naught! Oh ho ho!”_  Patchface pranced about them, his bells jingling.  _“For death to be sewn, the horn must be blown! I know! I know!”_  

The Other with the horn stood almost chest-to-chest with Theon now. Suddenly it knelt down in the snow, offering the bloodied thing up to him. Like it was some great honor.

_I don’t want to be honored. I don’t want to be scared anymore._

_Hurt anymore. Just let it end._

Patchface’s manic jingles and dancing helped him see what they wanted of him.

_“In life you are bound, winter must now sound! I know oh ho ho!”_

The Others all stared at him with a fierce intensity, as if waiting for him to take the horn. If he blew their horn this would all end.

He’d be free of it all.

All the pain. All the fear. Life itself.

So he took the horn from the Other, surprised by how light it felt for a thing its size.  The White Walker rose and joined his companions in pointing towards the Wall, bidding him to face it. As he did so the sound of flapping wings beat above him and his face suddenly screamed in pain.

The raven had pecked into his cheek before the Other to his left had cut the bird in two. The bird hadn’t come alone though, indeed a whole flock had appeared and began to dive low, attacking Theon.

“No!” He cried as their beaks pecked all about him, his frozen body once again racked by pain. “No more!”

The White Walkers sliced left and right, dropping raven after raven, but still more pecked at his hands and face.

“Blow it!” Patchface screamed in a terrifying voice. “Blow it now!”

The pain and terror were so great Theon actually found himself listening to the fool.

Then he heard his name.

 _‘Theon!’_  A raven cawed just above him.  _‘Theon! No!’_

The bird wasn’t alone in calling to him. Scores of the things did the same as they dived and pecked at him.

_‘No!’_

_‘Theon! No!”_

_‘Theon!’_

“I know my name!” Theon Greyjoy screamed, holding the horn high before him as the ravens screeched. “I know my name!”

_‘No! Theon!’_

“No more!”

_‘No! No!’_

“Let it end!”

_‘Theon!’_

“Let it end!”

His last breath was a deep one, the cold searing against his lungs. He thought of Jeyne as he put his lips to the horn.

He wished she was the last thing he felt.

Instead of this dead wood. And the cold. The horrible cold.

_Let it end._

 

 **MANCE**  

Mance reached to adjust his cloak, a difficult thing to do while in irons. The hassle was worth it, with the wind biting at his face he knew better than to leave it exposed for too long.

Yet before he covered his mouth fully, he managed to send a grin the Greatjon’s way.

“You have to admit he looks a lot like you.”

 

“That wildling is no kin of mine!” The Greatjon roared before he drank deeply of a wine skin. The lord found the drink warmed him here atop the Wall, which they continued to march along below the dark night sky.

“The Umbers are lords and warriors!” The lord continued. “Not savage thieves! Or turncloaks.”

_Oh you wound me good man._

The Umber did not care for Mance’s theory that somehow Tormund Giantsbane and he were relatives. Mance himself thought it likely, for Tormund had told a tale of his spearwife mother climbing the Wall to raid the Umber lands only to be captured. Some time later she’d escaped, returning Beyond the Wall with a swollen belly. He hadn’t brought that up to the Greatjon yet. It amused him much more just to stick to the similarities between Tormund and the Greatjon.

The lord was clearly much less amused by this than him yet he kept on. Arguing with the man helped passed the time on this long cold march.

“Tormund’s a fine man. At least when he’s not trying to steal your women. Imagine if you two were related! It would be something for a song!” He laughed before he began to sing cheerily. “ _The Umber giant breaks his chain, see their cousin Giantsbane!”_

“Shut it!” The lord ended his singing with a hard cuff upside his head.

Even with such abuse the man made for good company and Mance was thankful for him on the rare occasion.  The Greatjon still swore if the new Lord-Commander allowed it he would be the one who took Mance’s head. That didn’t bother Mance so much, some of his closest friends had sworn the same once.

_A beheading might be preferable to this._

_Marching along the Wall, in the dead of night, during winter._

_All to visit Stannis Baratheon of all people… I’d almost be willing to face Roose Bolton instead…_

They weren’t truly meant to visit Stannis but he was being dragged across the Wall all the same. The Weeper and his lot had become so desperate they’d captured a party of rangers out of the Shadowtower and were holding them hostage. Apparently wishing to parley their safe travel through the Wall.

_The Weeper’s a fool to think the Night’s Watch would ever let him through the Wall._

_That or he’s being forced to seek this trade by the men and women he leads…_

When Howland Reed had told him of the Weeper’s demands Mance had said those very words and now cursed himself for them. Such was why he was being sent on to the Shadowtower, not to negotiate with the Weeper, but to convince his underlings to betray the raider and come over on their own terms.

The prospect of stretching his legs after months of being cooped up and scorned at Castle Black had appealed to him. That was until he was told of the route they were to take. Mance figured they’d head to the Shadowtower by going south through the Gift and clan lands.

Instead, the Greatjon and a few hundred men were to escort him along the fucking Wall itself. Straight at the Nightfort and the man who’d once thought to burn him.

“It’s about time we sort out what the hell Stannis thinks he is doing.” The Greatjon had grumbled in the crannogman’s solar. It sounded to Mance that the Umber would prefer to be doing something else to Stannis altogether. “The southron flower holds the largest castle on the Wall yet refuses to answer us or send word of their goings on. We can’t hold a line like that.”

“Give me the men and I’ll hold it for you.” Mance had offered and the Greatjon had cuffed him and sworn a half dozen curses.

“I doubt that would go well for any of us.” The new Lord Commander had said, staring at him with his strange crannog eyes.

_Blood of the First Men is strong in that one._

_As strong as some of the woods witches beyond the Wall._

“Didn’t the Starks sign a little pact with Stannis? Doesn’t sound like that’s been going well for you lot.” His words had earned more cursing from the Greatjon, which told him all he needed on that account. “I’m a prisoner of the Watch. Why get me involved?”

“The Night’s Watch takes no part in the dealings of the realm…” The short man had prattled on as if Mance had not grown up in the Watch. “Yet we need every man we have to hold the Wall. With Lord Umber being insistent on his route and you needing to get to the Shadowtower, I am left with little choice in the manner. Should Stannis bear the lord any ill will during his approach… well it would be best if the northern forces were not harmed. Since we take no part I can send none of my men to aid him in such a task. You were a sworn brother once so I’d have you use your knowledge to help the Greatjon.”

“You mean if Stannis tries to kill them I am to help Lord Loud Arse here avoid dying.”

The Greatjon had laughed at that but the Lord Commander only stared at him before speaking.

“I’d suggest you see it more as avoiding your own death as well.”

With the alternative being to lose his head sooner than he liked Mance had suddenly found the march much more appealing. Besides, if it got him in the good graces of Lord-Commander Reed it was a step in the right direction.

_A direction towards getting some sort of reprieve or clemency…_

_Gaining some sort of freedom to see my son again. To care for him and raise him right._

_Like his dear mother wanted._

So he’d helped the Greatjon come up with a plan for going forth to poke Stannis Baratheon. It was a simple plan really, at least from his perspective. If Lord Umber wished to march upon the Nightfort with no possibility of ambush then using the Wall itself was the best way. They could travel atop it at a quick pace and in such a confined space it would be hard to overwhelm the Umber party.

The Greatjon and the Lord-Commander had both seen the wisdom of Mance’s plan. Which of course didn’t stop them from clapping irons on him for his march alongside the burly Umber men.

In some ways it reminded him of his early days as King-Beyond the Wall. Marching with men larger and more threatening than himself. Men who valued him for his wits.

He missed the walking little. Three days of marching and now a full night of it. The Greatjon had wanted to rest yet heeded Mance’s begrudging counsel that they press on.

“If Stannis means you harm it be best to arrive there by night or by dawn at least. Gives you time to march back to Deep Lake so we’re not stuck camping on the bloody Wall during winter.”

He knew the Wall saved lives just as easily as it could take them. If they kept moving, bundled and covered in furs as they were, they’d stay warm enough. Yet if they stopped for any long period the cold would claim half their number before the sun rose.

It was the moon Mance gazed up at now, for it was a beautiful thing this night.

Full as it could be the moon reminded him of the night Dalla and he had laid down together for the first time. The brightness of that moment was darkened by the memory of her loss, just as the moon itself was quickly blocked out by the clouds above. This was a welcome development for the Greatjon’s party, for they’d begun the final leg of their trek to the Nightfort. They could move upon the castle largely unseen in such conditions.

Yet if the moon broke free at the wrong time it could hardly be called a surprise attack.

Any scout would spot them a league away.

_If there are any scouts… hell we don’t even know if Stannis is still there…_

The Greatjon had done his best to hide his worries throughout their journey yet Mance believed the lord was bothered by what they had heard of the Nightfort. The men of Deep Lake had seen no sign of patrols coming from the castle in days. They had not dared approach the Nightfort though. Most of those who travelled to seek Stannis had not returned.

Those that did had never went within the castle itself.

_Knowing Stannis they were all overwhelmed by his warm welcome and hospitality._

The thought of hospitality caused him to reflect on something he’d been meaning to ask the Greatjon for some time.

“How well do you know Lady Karstark?” He asked, fidgeting with his bindings again.

“Eh? Little Alys? Knew her by sight when she was a small girl. Barely recognized her at Castle Black. Didn’t have much to talk about at the time, what with her being Lady Thenn and all.”

“Do you think her the type to hurt children? Those of an enemy’s?”

“Her father surely was! Fucking fool killed two Lannister welps with nothing to protect them but the bars of their cells. I’ve seen boys murdered before but them two was butchered all on account of… oh.”

Whether the Greatjon had spotted his expression falling in the darkness or the lord was suddenly struck by some sort of wisdom wasn’t clear. Yet he feared he understood what kind of family now had control of his son.

_The kind that murders little boys._

“She’s got your boy.” The lord nodded then. “The Karstarks have as little love for you wildlings as us Umbers but I can’t rightly see Lady Alys wanting to hurt a babe. Heard she even asked to care for him… figured it was a favor to that husband of hers…”

“Sigorn has no reason to love me.” He sighed, watching his breath disappear in the air. “I defeated his people again and again. Sent his father over the Wall to his death. The Thenns would kill a child of a rival to spite him… it’s a hard thing to think on.”

He looked to the Greatjon then, finding the lord gazing at him queerly.

“I’ve barely seen my son since he was born. First I was sent off to Winterfell while he stayed behind, now he’s off at Karhold while I’m here with you lot. Having him away from the Wall and the horrors beyond is what I always wanted for my son but… well it’s a fearful thing to be a father…”

“That it is.” The Greatjon answered, stroking at his beard in a thoughtful way. “First sons are born and you’re afraid they’re too weak and fragile to make it. Then they grow and you’re afraid you’re not making them strong enough to survive this harsh world. Then you take them into battle… watch them become men and still you’re afraid but so damned proud… at least I was. My boy did me proud.”

The lord’s words died away at the end as he drank deeply of his wine. The wind blew between them and the two men at the head of the march walked in silence for a bit.

“My boy took after his mother.” Mance said then. “If he grows up to be half as brave as her… I’ll be proud too.”

“Can’t say my son took after anyone but me.” The Greatjon laughed. “For better or worse, he was an Umber through and through. Courage. Strength. Looks.”

“Umber looks? The poor lad.”

The smack he’d gotten upside his head was a love pat compared to what the Greatjon could have given him. Still it stung as a man whistled from behind them, pointing over the side of the Wall at something in distance.

Even as the dark structures of the Nightfort became clearer and closer upon the southside of the Wall Mance knew something was wrong. Few if any lights shined at the castle despite there being over a thousand men supposedly garrisoned there. Stranger still, it looked like most of those men were now arrayed outside the castle.

_Why have your men standing outside your castle in the cold?_

_If he spotted us they can’t do shit from down there…_

“I like this not.” The Greatjon said. “He’s built walls around his castle and his men are ready for a fight.”

With that the lord reached for his monstrous greatsword and pulled it free from its sheath. His men were following suit and he saw many shivering in the cold. Their breath growing into a thicker mist than what had come moments before. Rubbing his head Mance realized the Greatjon’s blow had blinded him to something he should have felt a while ago.

The bone freezing chill in the air that always foretold when his true enemies were on the move. With the Greatjon and everyone else’s attention drawn to the south of the Wall he began to stride to the northern side. The gods must have laid this path down before him for a cloud passed away from the moon when he reached the edge.

Soon the north side of the Wall was bathed in moonlight.

And Mance’s heart froze in his chest.

“Three blasts.” He choked out. “Someone… three blasts of a horn…”

“Gods save us!” A man cried out from behind and Mance begged the same in his silent way.

Just as silently as the White Walkers stood beyond the Wall.

Mance had seen the Others more times than he’d liked over the last three years. He’d fought them in small pitched battles, fights he always thanked the gods to have survived. The wights came most often but when the White Walkers did come, they usually did so alone. The worse nights was when a few banded together for an attack. One dark, terrifying night when they’d camped in the Frostfangs he’d seen a score spread out across a field. That night haunted him still.

So what he saw now was the stuff of nightmares.

For he had never seen the White Walkers come in the numbers he saw now.

Hundreds of the pale creatures glimmered in the moonlight, standing still as trees in the open lands below. They all faced the Wall, staring towards the Nightfort, ignoring the frantic lighting of torches and arrows by Umber men.

“Fall back.” The Greatjon rasped. The man was no coward, the fact he did not scream and run in terror made that plain. “We have only two obsidian blades and a quiver of dragonglass arrows. If they march we cannot…”

His words were cut off by movement coming from behind the lines of pale creatures. Thousands of wights from all manner of man and beast now marched forward from the woods. Among their number came the great ice spiders Mance hated so. As they stood watching the thralls join their masters some men muttered curses, others prayers.

Mance thanked the gods his son was so far away then.

“What is that?” The Greatjon shoved him then, moving forward to point down below. “What the fuck is going on?!”

His eyes followed the lord’s pointing to a strange sight indeed. At the farthest end of the White Walker army, closest to the Wall, stood a small group of Others and what looked to be some wights. Squinting and moving along the Wall Mance dared to try and make out exactly what he was seeing. His eyes were sharp but without the moonlight or the stark white snow he might never have seen the truth of what went on out there.

“That’s no wight…he’s alive.” Mance said as he spotted a dishelleved, white haired man stumbling about between group of wights and Others. “Alive for now at least.”

Yet none moved to finish the poor soul. None moved at all save the Other who placed something into the man’s hands.

“What in Cersei Lannister’s cunt is he doing down there?” The Greatjon bellowed as Mance hurried his pace to see all he could. “Hey! Rayder! Get back here!”

_Come on you bloody fool you know I’m not trying to escape._

_I’m on the Wall and in bloody irons, how would I go about escaping your grasp?_

His thoughts were interrupted by their foul tongue drifting up to him on the wind. It sounded as if ice cracked but it was softer and more sinister than that. He was close enough now to see the white haired man far more clearly. The ice cracking came again and the man raised something up.

It looked to be a horn.

_Does he think to warn the castle?_

_He looks familiar but he’s not a man of the Watch…_

Out of the corner of his eye something else breaking free of the woods. A dark cloud swooping over the horde of wights and White Walkers. A large flock of ravens all seeking the man with the horn.

All diving down to attack him.

“Mance! You fucker! Get back here now!”

The Greatjon’s voice boomed but the night was quiet besides that. So silent Mance heard the man’s cries of pain. They were cries he had heard before. Those of a man he’d once shared a kennel with as prisoners. A tortured ruin who would wake up screaming from horrible dreams. A man Stannis had taken with him on his march.

“Turncloak!” The Greatjon roared. “Mance! You bloody turncloak!”

_No, not Turncloak._

_His name is Theon Greyjoy. He knows his name._

As he watched Theon being attacked by the ravens and defended by the Others his shuffling had almost become a run. The Nightfort had grown closer than ever. The horn in Theon’s hands even closer to his mouth.

_What hell Theon? Why you are there? Why are you with the Others?_

_Why are they getting you to blow a horn…_

_A horn… a horn before the Wall…_

_No… no it can’t be… NO!_

“No!” Mance yelled down from the Wall. “Theon! No!”

The cold wind rose around him and he feared his voice caught and pulled away by it. He yelled again but Theon raised the horn to his lips anyways.

Then he heard it.

A sound heard not as much with his ears as felt in his bones. The whole Wall seemed to vibrate with the blowing of the horn and Mance gripped the side of it in fear. A deep, mournful sound, like a thousand voices crying out in sorrow, drowned out all other things. It lasted for but a few more moments before stopping suddenly.

North of the Wall Theon had let the horn fall from his hands as the ruined man fell as well. Collapsing upon his knees Mance watched as a pure white cloud of mist burst forth from Theon’s mouth. The ice and snow flew up and into the air even as Theon fell face first into the snow.

Surrounded by scores of dead ravens and circled by those flying overhead, Theon Greyjoy moved no more.

Something else moved instead. The whole Wall itself shifted as a resounding boom echoed up from far below. The power of the impact was so great it almost threw  Mance over the side of the Wall. When it came again his teeth chattered from the force of it. The third time he fell to a knee. The fourth was when he heard the massive cracking of ice.

This time it wasn’t the White Walkers speaking in their evil tongue.

He’d heard this sound many times before during his days as a ranger. When he’d patrolled the Wall and witnessed great sheets of ice giving way and falling down from the Wall.

Though he’d never heard it so loud or come so often.

The cracking of the Wall almost drowned out the remorseless pounding coming from within it. He couldn’t even gain his feet it was so powerful. Getting away was all he thought about now, for he saw what was happening to the ice in front of him.

In the gap between Mance and the Nightfort giant cracks were forming across top of the Wall. Whatever force was beating within it was tearing the Wall apart from the inside out. He managed to pull himself up the ledge and watched the enormity of the destruction being wreaked over the side.

Giant sheets of ice fell away in waves, sweeping down into the empty lands yet none of it reaching the Others. The cracks in the Wall grew into chasms before his eyes, and widened further as more and more ice was thrown free. He lurched towards the other side to watch as ice rained down near the Nightfort and flowed like a river outwards.

The pounding grew more intense and Mance gripped the ice firmly as more of the ancient barrier crumbled before him. Suddenly two great sheers opened up at far ends from one another, a third cleaving lengthwise up the middle of the Wall. He had to cup his hands to his ears at the crashing sound of thousands of tons of ice were forced apart. One great sheet falling north, the other falling south,  a geyser of ice shards and frost exploding upwards from the gap between.

Even as Mance fell backwards he thought he saw something moving through that great cloud. A pale, snake-like creature with wide wings that beat powerfully. A shrill screech filled the air as the beast shot up and away from the frozen eruption, disappearing into the night sky.

           

His eyes couldn’t follow its flight any longer, for they were drawn to the massive chasm that now divided the Wall before him. For a hundred feet across the Wall had fallen. In its wake now stood a low-lying mountain of ice, a tenth the height of what it had been.

A mountain that continued to crumble before his eyes.

He was so close to the edge of the growing chasm he saw them clearly as they burst through the bottom of the Wall.

Massive, dark creatures, forcing their way through the remnants of the Wall with sheer force. As the ice sloughed away from them, their bodies were shown to be coated with a layer of hoarfrost so thick Mance had a hard time recognizing what manner of beast they were.

He had known giants. Treated with them. Rode beside them. Made war against them. Yet the hundreds upon hundreds of the creatures that rose from the Wall’s remains were a breed of giant he had never seen before. Their massive bodies dwarfed Mag the Mighty as the Greatjon dwarfed him.

As the frost giants freed themselves from their icy prison he felt the cold winds blowing hard against him. It was as if all the cold of the north now pushed through the jagged tear in the Wall.

 With all the evil from beyond following quickly behind.

The army of Others were making towards the breech in one long, grim line. Behind them came an endless stream of dead men and beasts with their glowing eyes and the tall, white spiders following after them.

Trumpets were being blown from down below, the frantic alarm being raised as the frost giants moved upon the southron army outside the Nightfort. Someone among their number had some sense and a volley of a hundred fiery arrows lanced up into the sky and down onto the frozen monsters.

The targets were large, their aim was good.

Yet their weapons proved useless. While most of the arrows found a mark in a giant, Mance could count on one hand how many remained burning afterwards. Perhaps it was because of the deep rot of their flesh. Or the cold wafting off their bodies in a mist.

All he knew for sure was a thousand of these things were now loose in the North.

_My son… we have to get back… I have to get back…_

_Get to Karhold. Find my boy. Get the hell across the Narrow Sea!_

His thoughts were torn asunder by a familiar sound coming again. Of more ice shearing away from the Wall. A sound which echoed loudly in his ears as cracks appeared all around him. This was a moment every raider who climbed the Wall feared.

It was the only warning Mance had before his entire section of the Wall gave way and he was falling. The edges of the breech were angled on a sharp incline so his sheet slid down the sides in a rapid descent. Mance screamed in terror from atop the ice as it raced downwards, the bottom flying up far too quickly.

The crash was terrible. He was thrown through the air, across shards of ice which tore his flesh and broke his bones in a hundred different ways. When his tumbling finally stopped Mance found himself laying half upright against a great pile of ice.

His one eye wasn’t seeing anymore. His arms and legs were mangled heaps. He was in so much pain it became a dull white noise in the back of his head.

Death was near and as scared as he felt to realize that, the army that marched by him terrified him far worse. The ranks of White Walkers scaling the breech were so thick their cold froze the blood dripping from his wounds in mid air. Loud screaming and the sounds of battle came from the direction of the Nightfort yet he could not turn his head to watch as the frost giants laid waste to the men there.

With all this happening around him, Mance feared, but not for himself.

_This is it… not long now… I’ll see you soon Qhorin, you old bastard…_

_Oh Dalla, to be with you again… I’m so sorry… our boy… he’ll be coming too…_

_They all will… men… women… even the little children…_

That was when a child stepped forward to stand above Mance. A wight he recognized from his time at Castle Black. A lonely scared princess who gazed down at him with a familiar glow to her eyes.

Beside her stood her father, his fiery crown coated in frost. His stern face cold and unforgiving. His eyes far too blue.

When Stannis drew his sword a bright light blinded Mance. For a moment he hoped to be warm one last time. One final comfort before the end.

Except this blade gave no heat. Just like Stannis’s eyes, the blade burned brightly but stayed cold.

Ands its kiss against his neck was as cold as ice.

 


	41. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great fire at Winterfell and the coming of the white dragon.

**SANSA**

 

A gentle wind blew snow through the stone markers about the First Keep. When they’d been little Sansa and Robb would run between these very stones, bringing laughter and joy to this place of solemn rest.

Each stone bore the name of someone who had died in service to House Stark, from a time long before even her grandfather’s grandfather was lord of Winterfell.

Jory Cassel and Lady had died in the south but her father had made sure their bones were brought home, both buried in this hallowed ground. Nearby were fresher stones that Sansa and Jon had erected when Winterfell was returned to them. They had made sure to honor those who had gone too long without proper respect.

Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrik Cassel. Hallis Mollen.

All good men who had admirably served her family. Names that Sansa wanted people to remember, just like those they’d laid to rest in the last couple of days.

Ser Kyle Condon. Marlen, son of the Derren.

Ser Willem Royce.

 _Too many_ , she thought, _too many have been added to this lichyard…_

She could barely bring herself to look upon the marker besides Willem’s. One placed there just this morning, in Rickon’s name but by her order. The name she had put all her hopes and dreams upon. A man whom she’d loved with all her heart.

Lord Jon Whitefyre.

“Oh Jon…” She whispered, pulling back the hood of her cloak with trembling hands. “I rather like that name, Whitefyre, it’s quite regal. I think I could have learned to love that name. For you I would’ve taken it happily… Sansa Whitefyre, lady wife to Jon Whitefyre, lord of the… oh Jon… I love you so much…”

“He knew that Sansa.”

Arya’s voice broke in as she walked to stand beside Sansa, pressing a gentle hand upon her back. Her sister wore a dark grey dress that matched her own, save for the sword worn proudly about her waist. The slim bronze crown upon Arya’s brow made her a striking sight, but that beauty was marred by the dark circles under her eyes and the deep sadness that welled in those grey pools.

“He said your name just before he- I heard him say it. Before he fell, I heard him. He loved you.”

“I love you too.” Rickon spoke up to her other side, grasping Sansa’s hand and looking up at her. He wore his too-large crown and white cloak. “You and Arya and Jon, I love all of you… I’m going to miss Jon. I don’t want this to happen.”

Rickon turned back from the markers to gaze at the great wooden pyre she had ordered be raised. A shrouded body lay on the platform, just at her eye level. It was covered with the black banner that Myranda had helped make half a year ago, the white dragon gazing back at her with its red eyes.

She didn’t want to look into those eyes. She wanted Jon’s gentle grey ones but he refused to wake. It hurt terribly to see his face so lifeless and pale but she couldn’t bring herself to cover it yet.

For it was a face that she loved so much. A handsome one, no matter how solemn it would appear to others. She thought of the look that he had given her in the Vale, when he promised to keep her safe. The blushing frown he would make whenever she stole kisses from him. The beautiful face of desire he would make when they were pressed together in gentle lovemaking.

Never to do so again, for her love was dead.

That truth hurt so much that she had to lower her eyes away from Jon, to seek anything else but his body.

_Weakling, you were the one who wouldn’t let them cover it…_

_As if that makes it any easier to say goodbye._

The pyre was built tall and wide and Rodwell swore that it would burn large, bright enough for a king. They would perform this grim service here, to spare the risk of open flames elsewhere in the castle. The grounds about the First Keep were wide and open, large enough to hold the funeral fire while still having room for the great audience that this spectacle had garnered.

Most of the castle had turned out for Jon’s funeral, with people crowding around the grounds and filling the battlements. The highborn of Rickon’s court stood the closest to the unlit pyre. Bronze Royce and his retinue sharing a place beside Wyman and Wylla. Larence stood to his secret love’s side while Tristifer Botley stood next to the woman he had yet to admit feelings for.

Mya and the Iron Island lordling did not touch, yet their bodies were intimately close and their fingers brushed lightly against one another. As she gazed to Mya, her friend looked down upon her, giving her a nod of strength in this time of great need and Sansa was grateful for it.

Edric Dayne and Ser Gendry stood side by side, both armored as splendidly as the Lady Brienne, who held her helm under her arm. Jon’s two sworn men were not dressed nearly so well yet stood just as tall. Aldred Hilgard was still obviously wounded, blood seeping through his bandages. Nonetheless, he scorned the help of young Coll Lothien at his side.

It shamed her some to see that. From what Lady Brienne and their surviving Stark men had reported, Aldred had nearly died trying to protect Jon from Stannis’s treachery yet now he stood without any help. Whereas she, a girl who had pranced about Winterfell trying on bridal gowns as Jon was murdered, needed her two younger siblings to see her through this moment.

_I’m not strong… I never have been…_

_Jon always said that I was and for him I believed that, but without him…_

_I need him… how am I supposed to face all this without him?_

Rickon squeezed her hand then, apparently needing answers as well.

“Why don’t we put Jon with father and Robb?” Rickon asked, wiping at his eyes. “I don’t like the crypts, they’re too dark… but I don’t want to burn him either.”

“We talked about this.” Arya spared her from saying. “There’s no more burying people now that the Others are back. Jon warned us about it. We can bury his bones or his ashes…”

“I don’t want Jon to be bone and ash.” Rickon lowered his eyes, beginning to sniffle again. “He loved father and Robb too… he’d want to be with them.”

“The crypts are for the Kings and Lords of Winterfell... for the Starks.” She answered as if in a daze. “Jon was not a Stark. He was of our blood but he was not a Stark. He chose his own name and his father was a Targaryen. This is how their house paid their respects to the dead… this is how dragons are sent on to the afterlife, my king.”

Arya reached over to lift Rickon’s chin, so he would look at the Jon’s marker again.

“This is where House Stark honors the truest of the true. After this fire, that’s where Jon will really be. That’s where we can come visit him.”

Sansa looked to the cold stone again and realized just how little she ever wished to do that. No rock could ever represent what Jon was to her. No amount of honor could ever do their love justice.

When she caught a glimpse of Podrick Payne moving through the crowd, clad in mail and holding a torch, she thought of justice again.

It was only yesterday that Rickon had sat upon the great chair of the Starks while Sansa and Arya stood to either side. The royal family had stared down at a man in judgment, surrounded by an audience of lords, notable guests, and loyal men.

“I’m no traitor!” Maester Henly had protested, shouting to everyone else but the Starks, as if the crowd might understand his plight. “I was acting to protect King Rickon! To defend him from a usurper and threats to his crown!”

“Liar!” Arya had snapped as Sansa stepped forward with a bit of parchment that she held dearly to her heart.

“This was found in your chambers after it was searched at the urging of Lady Brienne. A letter from Lord Jon to the royal family, sent just before his great victory at Castle Black. A letter you stole from the rookery and kept hidden from your king and regent!”

“I saw the veiled threats within it.” Henly shook his head at her, as if she was some naïve little girl that didn’t know better. “Behind his words of love, I saw ambition. Through the false cloud of praise and honor, I saw greed and treachery. My teachings at the Citadel made me wise to such things that young maidens cannot see. I was going to bring the letter to your attention after I heard from my former lord at Blackpool on how to proceed. I did not act a traitor-”

“You did! For you did not act as a maester!” Maester Medrick stepped forward to Sansa’s surprise, as well as Arya’s who’d been about to protest. “We serve, we do not dictate! We guide, we do not steer! We teach, we do not spread ignorance!”

“That’s a very naïve way of seeing things.”

“Naïve?” Medrick hacked in shock and anger, just before his hand flung out to slap Henly full across his face.

“Now there’s a maester.” Bronze Yohn had nodded as Ulroy and Ser Evan guided Medrick back from beating Henly again.

“King Rickon.” Sansa had said, gazing up at her brother who glared down at Henly. “This maester was meant to serve us, yet he acted of his own accord. I do not trust him to serve here anymore. Do you?”

“No.” Rickon snarled, forming little fists atop his throne. “Not one bit.”

“Your grace.” Henly shook his head before looking to Wyman. “Please my lord, help them see reason. I swear I was going to seek you out on this matter. I know you distrust up-jumped bastard-born as much as I-”

“Avert your eyes from me.” Wyman glowered. “House Manderly has had its fill of two-faced maesters. You will find no champion in this loyal lord.”

Henly’s shoulders slumped as Sansa looked to Arya, who had begged the right to see to the maester’s punishment herself.

“Dear brother.” Arya had bowed to Rickon with grace. “Since this man wanted to speak with his former lords, rather than share this news with us, I say we send him back to House Slate. Today. If he’s so much smarter than us simple children, he can find his way there without any help.”

“Arya’s right!” Rickon nodded. “Be gone Maester Traitor!”

“You’d have me travel back to Blackpool during winter?” Henly had paled at the prospect of a long, most likely doomed journey. “I’d never survive it…”

“Weighed down as you are? Most certainly not.” Arya’s face had darkened as she looked to her friends nearby. “Help ease his journey Podrick.”

The squire had moved quickly from the side of the hall, drawing a dirk to the collective gasp from the crowd and Henly. The maester tried to scramble away but the squire easily caught him. Grabbing the maester’s chain Podrick yanked him forward and pressed the dirk beneath his neck. He paused then, glaring into Henly’s eyes as the maester quivered in fear.

“Please… release me… you must understand-”

“I begged the same of you once.” Podrick said softly before yanking hard on his dirk and breaking through Henly’s chain of many metals. The severed symbol of the maester’s service to the North hung limply in Podrick’s hands before he tossed it into the maester’s face with disgust. As Henly gaped, the squire left him and walked back to Lady Brienne’s side.

After the maester had been dragged from the hall, the next accused man was brought forward. A knight who had come forward once before for honors and cheers, to be recognized for bravery and service.

Now he came to be judged. He had fought once again in a great battle, one that had taken her love from her. It was time to determine whether he deserved to be held to account.

“Ser Richard Horpe… no charges have been laid against you, yet all know you serve Stannis Baratheon. A man who has betrayed his word to the Starks and done foul murder in the Kingdom of the North. You rode alongside Ser Jon’s party when it was attacked so we must ask, did you play a role in my betrothed’s death?”

“Yes.” The knight answered from beneath strands of limp, greasy hair. “Though I did not plot it, I knew of many who wished to and said nothing. I did not raise a blade against Ser Jon, but neither did I raise a blade to defend him until it was too late. I am a killer and I let a good man die. Hold me to account as you will. R’hllor will guide my way.”

Sansa had wanted to guide his way right to a block. He was one of Stannis’s  henchmen and if she couldn’t punish the traitorous king, she felt that this knight might sate her rage. She could have vengeance from his death.

Yet a glance to Arya had held her anger in check. She’d already heard a tale regarding Ser Richard earlier and couldn’t punish the man on a whim of selfish desire.

“Are there any who wish to add their testimony to the ser’s case?”

“I do your grace!” Brienne had stepped forward with a bow to Rickon. “I can only speak to what I saw during the betrayal, but if Ser Richard did any killing, it was against Stannis’s own men. Princess Arya would have been struck down had Ser Richard not intervened, I as well. I believe him to be a true knight in this matter.”

“I can speak to that as well.” Ser Calem grimaced to say so. “I saw him kill four of his own men before riding off to defend the princess. If he meant to help Stannis in that battle, he did a poor job of it.”

Aldred Hilgard and Coll Lothien had both pushed through the crowd to offer their testimonies as well.

“The ser tried to warn the ser, er, not that ser, I mean my ser, that is Ser Jon, of what was about to happen.” Coll shook his head sadly as Aldred clapped his hand upon the youth’s shoulder to steady himself.

“We did not heed him. I watched with my own eyes as Ser Richard tried to stop the attack. I think most southron to be untrustworthy oathbreakers that don’t belong in our lands… but he did not betray my lord.”

Sansa had numbed herself by that point and it fell to Rickon to deliver his own verdict on the matter. She did not trust herself to not act out of rage and grief, and Arya felt much the same. Rickon ran a hand along the armrest carved in the likeness of a direwolf while he gazed down at Ser Richard thoughtfully.

“You didn’t want to hurt Jon. You tried to help him and you saved my sister. Rise Ser Richard. I’m not angry with you… I thank you for trying.”

“Don’t thank me.” Ser Richard had said as he rose, his head still lowered as if in shame. “I’ve done nothing worthy of thanks.”

Nevertheless, the knight stepped back and the last accused party was led within the hall. While his appearance set the hall to a hostile murmuring, Bronze Yohn and Wyman joined Sansa and Arya in standing next to the throne. They had insisted on throwing their weight behind whatever decision was made.

“So the North will know unity.” Wyman had proclaimed.

“To do justice by a true knight.” Bronze Yohn had sworn.

Men swore and threatened Lyn Corbray as he was led forward and made to kneel before the dais. Upon hearing the harsh words people had for him, the cocksure knight actually found the gall to smile. Until he caught Sansa’s eye and his cheer fell away some.

“Lyn Corbray! Knight of Heart’s Home!” Wyman had bellowed, sounding louder than she’d ever heard him. “You stand accused in the murder of many Stark men and those under their care! Maester Medrick, please read the names of the dead!”

The Maester unrolled a parchment and began reciting the long list of dead from the betrayal. Beyond Ser Kyle and Marlen, they’d lost almost thirty brave fighting men from their ranks. More names to be added to the list of true Northmen they’d lost to  these desperate times of winter and war.

It wasn’t only Northmen to fall during this battle though. She’d made sure that Medrick did their wildling guests the courtesy of naming their fallen as well. Many reported that the wildlings had fought bravely alongside Jon.

“Gerda and Gunhilda Kingsblood, daughters to Gerrick Kingsblood.” The maester read as a red-haired man grimaced and a young girl at his side seethed in grief and anger. “Toregg the Tall, son to Tormund Giantsbane-”

“My son you southron bastard!” The massive wilding bellowed then, barely held back by Aldred and Coll’s words. “Let me tear him apart with mine own hands! These hands that carried my boy to the pyre! Let me end the shit!”

“Silence!” Bronze Yohn had bellowed, for it had come for the last victim to be named.

“Let this be done right! We must all see the truth of this! That for the promise of gold and titles, Lyn Corbray set forth and did knowingly murder Ser Jon Whitefyre! Lord of the Dreadfort! Knight of Winterfell! Betrothed to our royal regent, Princess Sansa!”

“Lies.” Ser Lyn had shrugged. “I didn’t know the bastard had wormed his way into the lady’s bed when I was ordered away by my king. Dwarves, Littlefinger, bastard-mummers… who will be next Lady Lannister? That whale of a merman? Perhaps your king. Are you to bed the boy upon the throne next-”

“Shut your mouth!” Arya drew Needle and marched forward, blade pointing straight at the knight’s throat. Brienne grabbed it in mid-air with a mailed fist, clutching it tightly as she shook her head at Arya.

“Words are wind.” The lady said. “You saw him murder Ser Jon with your own eyes. Do not let him steal your honor like he took the knight’s life.”

Lyn had laughed at that.

“You’ve got the murderer of Renly Baratheon right here! With assassins, turncloaks, and pretenders in your ranks, how long would it be before they fell upon Stannis or even your boy king? That monster could not be trusted. We did everyone a favor by killing him. Perhaps even saved the realm itself.”

That was when Sansa had to speak, though it was hard with her mouth so dry.

“My love- my betrothed, was the truest knight to serve in our cause.” She glared hard into Lyn’s dismissive gaze. “Strong, loyal, and honorable, that’s who he was. Everything you’re not. Ser Gendry has gathered reports from boys in the Winter Town-”

“Tell me girl, do you still have your honor? Or did he steal that from you like he would have your king’s crown?”

Rodwell cuffed him hard against the side of the head after that. This didn’t stop Rickon’s tantrum though. Her brother had suddenly leapt up red-faced to stand on his chair, pointing down at Lyn.

“You don’t know honor!” Rickon yelled from his seat. “Father and Robb had honor! Jon had honor! You don’t know anything about honor!”

It was a tantrum akin to what they had seen in the courtyard when Jon was first brought to them. Save that this time Shaggydog appeared from behind the throne and stalked forward, growling and snapping. Nymeria followed soon after, doing much the same, both wolves bearing down on Ser Lyn.

“He’s guilty.” Arya had proclaimed and Rickon shouted his agreement, which was greeted warmly by the crowd. “Let him die the same way that Walder Frey did. He killed one of us so let-”

“Arya, no.” Sansa had gone to block the wolves’ path then. Shaggydog obeyed quickly but Nymeria glowered at her much as Arya did.

“Fine, not here. Outside somewhere. Give him a running start if you want.”

“No. We shall not use the wolves.” She leaned in to whisper in her sister’s ear. “I do not want Rickon to do such a thing… nor you… I could not bear it.”

“We’ve killed before.” Her sister hissed back, wary of people whispering in the crowd and straining to hear them. “Please Sansa, don’t let some stranger do this for Jon. We loved him. We’re his family. We should avenge him. No one has better claim to justice than us…”

“You’re wrong.” She’d felt cold all over as she gave voice to a plot that she’d been thinking of since before this audience began. “Not about us loving Jon though, nor will we do nothing to help avenge him…”

Sansa had turned to look upon Ser Lyn again, who seemed confident that his sentence would be merciful. He’d even smiled slightly at their arguing.

_He thinks us weak. Easily cowed._

_I am no Alayne Stone and Arya is no victim._

_We are she-wolves._

“Then who is going to get justice for Jon?” Arya had asked desperately. Sansa took her sister’s hand in her own to comfort her

“The same man who helped us bring justice to the North.” She’d smiled at Lyn then. “Ser Jon himself.”

There was no smile on her lips now though as she glanced upon Jon’s pyre. The snow was falling all around his body but she doubted it would keep the pitch and oil from igniting. Seeing Podrick arrive ready with the torch signaled Sansa into leading her siblings toward the funeral pyre, where Nymeria and Shaggydog waited patiently. When they arrived at their place at the head of the crowd, Sansa nodded at Podrick before looking around for her captain of the guards.

When their eyes met, Rodwell turned and bellowed to his men. Soon shouting and cursing could be heard as Duncan Snow and Rossett Locke dragged the prisoner forward. Lyn Corbray was garbed once more in the armor that he’d worn to kill Jon and there were fresh bruises along his face.

Morgan Liddle followed behind with what looked to be a black eye and bloodied knuckles. Few paid it any mind though. The knight’s struggles made such a spectacle that all eyes were on him. Sansa saw one person watching more intently than many others, the wildling woman who had given her this idea in the first place.

With no silent sisters here so far North, Mya and Jeyne had done Sansa the kindness of bathing and preparing Jon for his final rest. She didn’t want to remember him as the bloodied and filthy corpse that Arya had brought back to the castle. Her friends had cleaned Jon’s body and face with soft cloths before dressing him in white linens, finer clothing than her love enjoyed wearing in life.

Begging leave to join Mya and Jeyne in this task was a young woman named Gilly. Apparently Jon had meant for Gilly and her child to find a home here at Winterfell and Sansa took charge of them. She accepted the woman’s kind offer, especially after she spoke so warmly of Jon’s last days in this world.

“The ser loved you very much m’lady.” Gilly had said. “Speaking of you around the fires, dreaming of being worthy of you, he was excited to hear of your wedding.”

“He knew?” She’d held back her tears. “He was happy for it? I feared he’d be wroth…”

“Not at all. He saw the truth of nothing else, save his love for you.” Gilly had rubbed at her neck before continuing. “It’s sad… so sad. Them men came to burn Ser Jon, and now he ends up in the flames anyway. The knight was supposed to be a dragon and dragons burn their enemies, don’t they? That’s what he did during the battle against the Others. Such great fires…”

Her eyes had shone at those words, and the light had caught them queerly so that they shone almost red.

“If things was fair, it be that traitor knight burning and not Ser Jon. It be the true knight doing the killing. The dragon doing the burning.”

Through her grief and feelings of loss amidst all these horrors, Sansa saw Stannis then. In her mind’s eye, she watched him as he burned men as a punishment, setting Ser Lyn to do such to Jon. They would have watched and laughed while it happened. She saw their joy as her love burned and she wanted it to turn to ash in their mouths, choking them all with black-colored bile and sickness.

To her shame, she cared little for justice then.

Sansa wanted vengeance. She wanted Jon to have vengeance.

The time was finally at hand.

“I demand to be ransomed! Ransomed!” Lyn shouted and struggled as they led him past the royal family, towards the pyre. “This is a crime! A crime I say!”

“Today we answer a crime!” Sansa called out but not to the knight. Instead she faced the crowd with Rickon and Arya to either side of her.

“Today we are to burn my betrothed. Not because of any love for the Red God of Stannis Baratheon, the Forsaken! No! House Stark will always hold true to the old gods!” She pointed back to the pyre. “We do this in heed to the dire warnings that Ser Jon sent us from the Wall! We burn the bodies of our fallen to deny the Others thralls to add to their army!”

“I’m not dead!” Lyn screamed as they dragged him within the stacks of wood. “This is murder!”

“This is justice!” She lied. “In the North, the man who brings the sentence should swing the sword! Well Jon Whitefyre was the lord murdered by this man and I will offer him the chance to have justice done for his murder.”

“Sansa…” Jeyne whispered, shaking her head. “He would not want-”

“In the name of Rickon Stark, King in the North, I sentence Ser Lyn Corbray to burn in the same fire that takes Ser Jon from this world!”

As the proclamation burst free, a feeling of dread swept over her body. Deep down she knew Jeyne was right. Jon would never want such a thing. This was too awful to be true justice.

_How ashamed father would be now._

Yet as Lyn roared against being bound to kindling, she spotted Jon’s body on the platform above him. She thought of Lyn’s life of treachery against the life she and Jon were going to have together.

_A life of honor and happiness…_

_If I’m to be left alone in this life of grief, let me at least have vengeance for my love…_

_I have to have something… anything…_

Some cheered at her announcement while others gasped in shock. The wildlings that had ridden with Jon hooted at Corbray in an undignified way, Princess Val spitting upon the ground and Tormund pounding his chest in rage. Aldred and Coll both cheered as well, their eyes full of vengeance like hers.

She searched among the faces and found Brienne to be one of those who clearly disapproved. She was joined by Maester Medrick and Beren Tallhart. Lord Royce nodded grimly and Ser Richard reacted not at all, save to watch in his own dark way.

None argued openly to spare the knight this fate, save for Lyn himself.

“You dare burn me? For a fucking bastard?!” Lyn screamed as they finished binding him to stakes beneath Jon’s body. “I am a trueborn son of a noble house! A knight! I would die with a sword in my hand!”

If any agreed to that she did not see. She gave Ser Rayland a nod and he strode towards Lyn with a bundle of black cloth in hand.

“Whatever your protests, I name you a false knight unworthy of anything you ask.” She hissed the words from her lips. “Yet you may have one wish. I will have your accursed sword returned to you and you may die with it in hand.”

“Wolf bitch! Cravens! I could kill any of you!”

His shouts became increasingly desperate as her men left him. Ser Rayland unfurled the bundle and laid bare House Corbray’s ancestral Valyrian steel blade, Lady Forlorn. Some may have called it fine yet Sansa would not. Arya had commanded that it not be cleaned following the battle. She’d wanted it as proof of what Lyn had done. Now Sansa flinched to see the entire length of steel stained red with Jon’s blood.

“Let the blood on his sword condemn him.” Arya spoke softly, squeezing her hand. “Let Jon win this last fight.”

Ser Rayland roughly placed Lady Forlorn in Ser Lyn’s hands, which were bound tightly within his lap. The doomed knight made feeble efforts to turn it to his ropes and Sansa imagined she might have pitied him once.

Rickon made a sound so she turned her attention to him. Having him at such a thing was not what she wanted for him yet he’d demanded to be there and Arya supported him.

“He loved Jon too.” She’d said. “And he’s our king Sansa.”

With the all the arguments she faced against this execution, Sansa was too tired to argue against her brother’s wishes. If nightmares came, Rickon could seek her bed as he had the last few nights. It was good to hold him. He was acting very brave though, making her quite proud.

“If you become scared, you must hide it. Kings must not show weakness.” She whispered down to her brother and he nodded, his young face determined.

“I won’t. Jon wouldn’t be.” Rickon planted a small kiss to her hand then. “I’ll keep you safe Sansa.”

Of all three of them, only Arya seemed to keep her composure. As she had through all of this. Sansa had never once thought to keep her away from this. Her sister had almost starved herself in grief and came to Sansa begging forgiveness for not saving Jon.

“If not for you, Jon would be lying dead in the snows. You brought him home.” Sansa had told her crying sister. “I love you for it Arya.”

To blame Arya would be horrible and she knew where the true blame lied. That burden would weigh on her for the rest of her days. It was Sansa who had forced Jon to reveal his truth that made him a target for many in the realm. Sansa who ordered him away from Castle Black and made him vulnerable to attack.

_I killed him… as surely as I killed father in King’s Landing._

As the guards moved to take their places, she saw Podrick approaching her. His face was solemn and his body was stiff as he brought the burning torch forward. Arya made to reach for it but Sansa stayed her hand and shook her head.

_This is my burden… I have condemned him… let me bear all the horrors that come from it._

As she grasped the torch, everything seemed to stop. Sansa stood with the means to wipe her beloved’s face from this world and ahead Jon waited for her to do. Above the pile of wood and pitch, two men waited for her to burn them, one yelling and struggling while the other laid still.

_He did sleep so peacefully… with me at least..._

The memory threatened to undo her so she pushed it away as she began the journey forward.

Each step reminded her of Jon’s last words, the ones that Henly had kept hidden from them. The one she’d only had the chance to read after Jon’s death.

_‘To the Starks of Winterfell,_

_I will meet the enemy soon and I have every confidence in our men and allies to serve bravely and honorably. I am proud to serve with them._

_Should any fall, I hope they know they do so for a just cause. A true cause. In service to a great family, a family that commands my sword and my heart._

_I ask King Rickon to keep his strength against whatever trials come. I pray that he never lacks for tales of brave and honorable men. Remind him that all heroes start off as children. Tell him that I am proud of my king._

_I imagine Princess Arya continues to impress with her needlework, and I know I will always love her for her determination. Her fearlessness and courage gives me heart before the battle ahead. Let her know that she inspires bravery in all who meet her._

_To her royal Regent, Princess Sansa, I offer my thanks. I had done no finer deeds in my life before I began serving the Queen in the North. She rules with a wisdom, kindness, and grace that I could never hope to have. In her care, the direwolves are sure to grow and prosper._

_To my beloved, you are with me always. No matter how far I have travelled, my love for you has not strained. I was not born in Winterfell yet my heart will always be there. It is in your keeping, now and forever._

_Ser Jon,_

_Lord of the Dreadfort.’_

The tear slid down her cheek as she clenched one hand tightly. Jon’s heart was not there, it was not in her keeping, it lay unmoving within his cold chest. All Sansa had in her keeping was the torch that she carried within the pyre. While Lyn raged and spat at her, others began to call out, clearly fearful of why she strayed atop the pitch and oil.

_I have to… Jon once wandered about the Neck to deliver me a crown…_

_All I have to offer him is this…_

“I found this for you…” Sansa whispered as she reached within her cloak to pull out a Winter Rose. “They’ve begun to bloom, from the glass gardens we rebuilt. Take this favor Jon… I beg of you…”

As she placed it next to his face, she bent forward to press a final kiss upon his lips. She sobbed to find them cold and stiff despite her wildest hopes. She broke away from him then, standing over the timber.

“Don’t do this!” Lyn begged. “I’m begging you! I’ll serve you! My sword is yours!”

A strong wind blew the snow across the yard then, beckoning her to leave and rejoin her siblings. With a trembling hand, she somehow found the strength to do what needed to be done.

“I love you.” She rasped. “My true knight.”

She dropped the torch upon the tinder and backed away as the flames started. A quick fire spread throughout the oil-soaked wood until a wide ring of flames formed around the pyre. The kindling caught soon after that and the fire began to burn inward and she turned from the heat.

Ser Lyn had no choice but to face it.

Sansa felt the fires beating at her back as she came to her family’s side. When Ser Lyn began to scream, Rickon and Arya both reached for her and their hands intertwined. With the flames burning tall and bright now, the knight’s death became a horrid, loud affair. She looked to Rickon and saw that he showed no fear. His fierce blue eyes only stared ahead as the flames grew taller.

The fire seemed to dance around Jon, bright tendrils snaking up about him like bright fingers. The flames were cruel though. They rose so quickly that she was given only moments before they took Jon for themselves. Soon he was lost behind the smoke and flames and her eyes could no longer find his sweet face.

_He is lost to me… even though it snows… he will not come for me again…_

Lyn’s screams were soon lost as well while the fire climbed higher and higher towards the grey sky above.

_His eyes had been so grey._

_But warm, they were always warm for me._

She forced herself to watch the fire she had created then, she could not balk now. To do so hurt her eyes terribly but the tears would come no matter where she looked. Arya was crying openly at her side, Rickon doing the same with a quivering lip. Like her though, they fought to continue watching the burning pyre ahead.

Yet it soon became a losing battle. The flames were becoming too bright for any to endure. Sansa had to hold a hand before her eyes to even see the breadth of the inferno that Jon’s pyre had become.

_Too much wood… Rodwell used too much…_

Others had taken notice of this as well. People in the crowd were whispering, pointing at the fire and backing away. Their faces had curious expressions, some even looked scared.

That confused her until she realized just how well she could see them all despite the darkness of night. The courtyard had become bright as a summer’s day in the south. Even with evening upon them, she’d never seen this part of the castle so well lit.

The line of ravens which had perched around the battlements watched the fire with an odd intensity but it was another beast that caught her eye then.

She might have missed Ghost’s approach if it wasn’t for the great light. The wounded direwolf was greatly hobbled by his ordeals. He limped with great difficulty towards them, and it made her wince to remember how sad he’d sounded when she’d unfairly taken her anger out on the wolf.

She was about to stop Ghost, to spare him the hurt of walking anymore, when Rickon’s hand gripped hers painfully. Arya’s did the same soon after and she saw then that Nymeria and Shaggydog were on their feet, acting scared.

Their ears perked up, fur standing on end, eyes fixed on the fire.

_The fire… how is it so hot?_

_Why is it so bright?_

The flames now burnt taller and brighter than she thought possible. People were pointing at how they seemed to reach towards the sky. Men along the battlements actually fell back as the flames began to flicker towards them. The middle of the blaze was pulsing with a strange heartbeat of its own making.

A moment later, a great flash erupted and a sudden wave of heat burst across the yard. They were at least twenty paces back, yet it felt like they were standing right next to the pyre. The crowd cried out and began to run away as the sounds of logs cracking and splitting within the blaze filled the air.

While most backed away, others strode forward. Ser Gendry and Lord Edric came up alongside the royal family while Ser Richard and Gilly followed closely behind. All gazing at the fire with a strange sort of reverence.

“Sansa…” Arya whispered. “By the gods, look.”

She returned her gaze to the flames and saw that the fire burned a fierce white color at the center of the pyre.

Growing brighter and more intense with each passing moment.

More wood cracked, sending sparks and embers flying forth in a stream. The force of the small explosions was so great that flaming logs burst outward from the pyre, rolling toward the crowd. Grown men began to flee and others screamed for Sansa and the others to follow, yet her eyes would not move from the painfully beautiful sight.

Until someone else moved closer.

“Ghost?” She asked, watching the direwolf limp by his siblings. “Ghost stop!”

Ghost did not heed her warnings, instead limping so close to the pyre that she expected his fur to catch flame. The direwolf had become a silhouette in its brightness and she thought the wolf made to sit before it.

_Too close… he’s much too close… I can’t lose him too… Jon would never forgive me…_

“Sansa look!”

Arya’s words were lost to her fear for the wolf. Ghost was all she had left of Jon.

“Ghost! To me!” She called but the direwolf did not come to her.

The direwolf began to howl then, in a different way than she’d expected. Not the mournful sounds he’d been making since his return. It was like he was calling to the flames and something about the sound was familiar to her.

“Sansa!” Arya yanked on her arm, bidding her to look beyond Ghost and into the flames.

She saw then what Arya had. Why Nymeria and Shaggydog stared so intently. Why her guards were shouting and drawing weapons.

Something was moving within the flames. Despite all reason, despite the laws of men and gods, something was moving in the white flames. Wood and embers fell forward as whatever it was came closer to the edge of the fires.

Yells and shouts erupted from what sounded like the entire castle. Many screamed for the gods. Others cried out for dragonglass weapons. All feared some sort of monster coming forth from the fires but she couldn’t see what it was. All Sansa saw was the flames, dancing and moving with a life of their own.

She couldn’t focus on any of that, all that mattered was Ghost. For the wolf had stopped howling and began to pace in to and fro before the flames.

That was when she saw the shadow.

A dark shape moving amongst the flames, growing larger as it came closer to them. Pushing through the fire the shadow became a figure in the shape of a man. A man who did not burn despite the heat of the inferno around him. A man who endured hell itself as he carried something in his hand.

_It is a dream… the smoke is in your eyes… you are blind with grief…_

In a trance, she shook free of her siblings and stepped forward. The heat was still powerful yet she barely felt it.

For the shadow had emerged from flames. The man was walking and stumbling towards them.

Towards her.

His clothing had burned away and his body was covered in soot and ash. His hair was gone to the flames as well, his head left bare. His skin smoked all over, wafting off his graceful naked body like steam off the hot springs. He looked half a god, half a demon then.

But the filth and smoke on his body did not hide the many scars adorning his chest, those made by many blades and arrows over the years.

They were wounds she knew well. She looked to his chest where an empty, red hole was supposed to be. Instead Sansa saw just another scar. A thick line that glowed like metal lifted freshly from Ser Gendry’s forge.

That fading glow of his scar and the fire beyond were nothing compared to the brightness of the sword in his scarred hand.

She thought the blade was glowing from the heat of the fires at first. Yet it did not dim. Nor did it just glow or shine brightly.

_It burns._

_By the gods, the sword burns._

That was mad to think of yet she watched the blade burning with her very eyes. It gave off a strange white light as soft, ghost like flames teased the air around it. The sword looked as if it carried the power of the inferno with it even now.  

The terrible beauty of the weapon, the newly made scar in his chest, they were all distractions from what she truly sought. Sanas feared what she would see if she looked into this shadow’s face.

Terrified to think of what color eyes would be waiting to gaze back at her. For he’d warned her about the blue eyes.

The dead blue eyes of their enemy.

Yet when she finally met this shadow’s gaze, she saw not the blue she feared. Only grey, like the winter sky above.

Eyes that she loved.

His eyes.

“Jon?” She asked, taking a fearful step forward. “Jon is that-”

“A monster!” Ser Evan roared, rushing forward with his blade in hand.

“Away children!” Brienne choked out with Oathkeeper at the ready.

Arya had fallen upon the ground, her legs failing her as she stared up at the smoking image of Jon before her. Rickon was entranced by the sight, his mouth open in a gape while his crown slowly slid out of place over his wild hair.

As more rushed forward to join the defense of Sansa, the direwolves sprang to Jon’s. Ghost bared his teeth in threat while Nymeria and Shaggydog began snapping and biting at those threatening Jon’s slow trek towards his family.

“Jon? Please let it be you.” She begged, praying that this was not some evil thing wearing her beloved’s visage. “Jon it’s me… Jon…”

Even with men yelling and the women screaming, even with the direwolves snarling and her guards shouting, she sought one sound above all others. The one voice that mattered.

Then she heard it. As the snows fell around them and terror ruled in Winterfell, his voice came to her and made her heart beat truly for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

“Sansa?” Jon spoke, the sword lowering and his eyes squinting towards her. “Sansa…”

_He’s not a dream… he’s not a demon… he’s my knight…_

_Coming for me out of the snows-_

“Azor Ahai!” Ser Richard called out before kneeling as Gilly prostrated herself.

“He has risen!”

Sansa did not kneel. Or fall to the ground. Or yell.

She ran to him.

Through the snows, as the direwolves howled all around and the flames burned brightly at his back.

Sansa ran to him.

When she embraced Jon, he smelt of ash and fire yet she felt his warmth. Before she knew what she was doing her lips pressed against his. His were no longer stiff and cold, they softened against hers and burned with the heat she had prayed they would. His free hand touched her face, tracing warm lines across her cheek and she knew in her heart the man she loved dearly was returned to her.

This was not the touch of a monster. His words were not those of a demon.

“Sansa…”

“Sansa… I’m naked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long, maddening journey but this is where A Knight's Watch was always supposed to end.
> 
> A mix of horror and hope, and of course, Jon and Sansa together.
> 
> This is the time for any confused or intrigued by the ending or other parts of the story to ask away. Also to let me know what they thought. 
> 
> I've said so before but I'll remind all now, this is the end of only one story, not the larger tale. The sequel is already in the works. 
> 
> Hope you stick around for Knight Fall.


	42. Notes

I had originally planned to start posting the continuation of this story not long after it finished and made grandiose claims about starting it within weeks.  
  
Now I'm pulling a GRRM and saying the wait will probably be quite a bit longer.  
  
I kind of fell in love with two other projects and intend to see them through to the end. I want to give KW my undivided attention when it comes time to finishing it so rest assured, that will be happening.  
  
When it starts I'll update it right here with a link.  
  
Until then curse my name.  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A_Cold_Wind_Blows betas this work and he's awesome. I usually post snippets or previews on Tumblr. DolorousEdditor is the name so let me have it.


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